58 The phantom pisser

When it’s cold and frosty and the nights are long, bed is a good place to be. We had bought a merino under-blanket with thick bounce and soft, warm implants of mohair. In winter it is as tempting as the liqueur centres in dark chocolates. You give in, savour the pleasure and fall into deep sleep dreaming of squeezing the icing bag to add the on-top scrolls. Five hours later when the blazing manna gum logs in the wood heater have died it’s different. By then the hard stars poking through the blackness have already made half an inch of ice outside. The only bit of the bed that’s warm is occupied by someone else and your bit has hoar frost at the edges. You lie there quietly, thinking of the warmth of Darwin and camping with the 4 metre crocodiles at Kakadu. Why is there always a down side to night thoughts?

The Darwin thoughts don’t work. You don’t get any warmer even in the distant glow of that otherwise-occupied bit of the bed. You edge closer to the glow. It’s good for a while. At least until the glow morphs into sharpened elbows and telepathic annoyance and ice block feet. The only thing to do is back off, get up, and go for a pee for something to do. You know you are wide awake, as sharp as an upholstery tack, but standing up you can’t work out where you are. The toilet has moved into a different room, even a different house, because every door you aim for is a wall. Door jambs reach out to strike you but at least direct you into the right place.

You sit down because it’s not safe to guess direction and distance in the pitch dark. Shit, somebody left the seat up and the porcelain is freezing on your bare bum. Sitting down on the seat is relaxing and sleep tries to recapture you bringing with it floods of long-dead memories.

The phantom pisser we used to call him. There were 20 of us sharing a large house with one toilet. He used to spray everything every night; the floor, the wall, everywhere but the hole. We took it in turns to catch him but he was too smart. Night owls just accepted they would have soggy slippers or wet feet that needed drying on the hall carpet before getting back into bed. In fact, some of us suspected the others had joined the phantom. Why bother anyway?

Going back is worse. The walls have moved again but the electronic clock is cheerfully telling you it’s, no don’t look, 3:17 am. Too late you looked because knowing is enough to keep you awake for ever even though you are now warm.

Why should she sleep when I’m awake? A few bounces, a gentle flap of the sheet to let in some of that refreshing air. She gets up and throws the sheets, blankets, everything off. Then on returning after negotiating the moving walls without difficulty, she spends several hours sitting up tuning her radio, changing batteries, getting up again for tissues, a drink of water, and letting in draughts. It’s 3:39 am and the warmth starts to build. She says she can’t sleep. Now it’s OK to enter the warm zone and suddenly it’s 7am.