H and I argued last night (a pointless, fruitless, miserable sort of argument – ‘how could you do this to us? To me?’ ‘I don’t know.’). Actually, I was fighting because I am so very, very sad and no one can hug me or make it better. Well, H could, if he found a spare TARDIS and nipped back a few years and told his younger self not to be such an appalling bell-end, but the BBC is very careful about not leaving evidence of alien technology about, and it’s not really going to have happened.
After said stupid exhausting business, at about two am, H went to bed, and I went to the bathroom to ablute. And of course, because it was two am and I was doolally with tired crying, the lavatory blocked. And I looked at it, and seriously contemplated leaving it and maybe burning the flat down on my way out, and then I went to get the rubber gloves.
Because it was now 2:10 am and I was doolally with tired crying and the stupid thing was thoroughly blocked, the rubber glove turned out not to be long enough and in a moment of comedy nauseating horror, the contents of the bowl flowed down inside it.
After unblocking the toilet, throwing the glove out with extreme prejudice, and scrubbing my arm and hand down with soap and water so hot it turned me scarlet three times in a row, I got into my own bed.
H, in one of his regular fits of benevolence, had put a hot-water-bottle in it earlier, before the stupid row. I stretched out my cold feet to embrace it and tried to relax. And, the water being warm, it took me several minutes to realise my feet were in a puddle.
I scrambled out of bed, flung the punctured and widdling hot-water-bottle in the kitchen sink, and rushed back with armfuls of clean towels. The water had soaked right into the mattress. Of course it had. It was 2:30 am and I was tired and miserable and had just had my unwillingly naked arm up a u-bend.
I found the spare hot-water-bottle in the bathroom, covered in dust and fluff, and remembered belatedly that it was spare because the stopper was broken and needed to be screwed and unscrewed with pliers and/or brute manly force. I subdued it eventually, scrubbed the dust off, filled it, and re-retired to bed, freezing cold and stiff as a freshly excavated mammoth calf, at 3 am.
I slept on what had been H’s side of the bed, which was weird. I say slept. I dozed, irritably, on H’s side of the bed. When I woke at 7 am (why 7 am, you bastard internal body clock? WHY?), I was lying right on the edge of the mattress, as if aware that I was in someone else’s space. Even though H was safely ensconced on the futon in the study.
And it dawned on me, again (this sort of thing is always dawning on me these days) that this was it, now. Any sort of stupid middle-of-the-night problem was entirely mine and mine alone to deal with. No more unblocking the loo while H dealt with the wet bed. No more having someone to whine to about it all and then cuddle up against. The only reason I needed a hot-water-bottle in the first place is because the backs of H’s knees are no longer available for feet-warming duties.
And I had a little cry before I dozed off again.