Ok. Ridiculous night. (No, no, not for any of those kind of reasons...)

Couldn't sleep, husband flouncing about in bed as he was too hot because the radiator in our room was, for some reason, up on max and throwing out enough heat to cook a few entire wildebeest. So window open, draught coming in room.

Foot fiery for some reason best known to itself. Just sheer meanness I suspect. So foot doesn't want to be under covers. Oh no. Foot has to be out the side of the quilt. But then the draught moves a few tiny particles of air around it! Oh no! Foot must react to this insult as if plunged into arctic seawater and bitten by shark. Fun game of 'where might this thing actually be comfy?' begins.

Cat 1 (herein after known as Darn Cat for reasons of decency and rules of swearing on forums) decides tonight is the night he will finally catch that small rodent he has been pursuing for weeks, and bring it to our patio for the sole purpose of serenading it to death. Patio is directly under our window. Darn Cat Serenade floats into room on draught with all the beauty and forcefulness of a mighty soprano singing while her neck is beneath the heel of a sweating grunty Danish sailor of unknown and probably malicious intent.

Husband has been flouncy recently because of all the decorating and plastering and subsequent mess, juggling of work and home capers, and general sense (I suspect) of whole weight of world on shoulders. I know he's heard the Darn Cat and is deciding it is Not His Problem, but I've been improving recently and getting about better (wahey) so with a sigh I think 'well I'm awake anyway, I'll deal with the little ****).

Important note to readers who've got this far: our room is not that big. My husband sleeps on the far side of the bed, under the window, next to the radiator lol. He has this little dance he does every night where he gets undressed and sidles around the edges of our bed to his side, every night without fail stubbing his toe on something, hopping and cursing. I've suggested that perhaps he move the aptly-named dumb-bell from that corner, but no, it remains there chuckling maliciously. His toe must be the strongest human digit ever formed. He runs on it, rows on it, and just repeats ad infinitum.

I fling the covers back (I admit here that I flounced a little myself and sighed), and go carefully round the edge of the bed in the near pitch dark to the window. I draw the curtains, open the window and look out. I can see nothing for some reason, perhaps because the patio has no light on it, the full moon is prancing about out the front of the house and only casting mooney shadows this side, and it too is pitch black. Darn Cat appears not to notice me and continues his song of love to the poor expiring rodent presumably clutched in his claws.

Aha, I think. I recall chucking a glass of water his way on a similar occasion months ago and that shocked him sufficiently. I'll just do it again. My mug is on the landing, I'll use that. I turn to make my way gingerly back round the bed, quite looking forward to dousing the little ****. I stub my toe, and as a bonus for my idiocy, smack my left knee (had to be the left) really jolly hard into the bed post, which is nicely situated at knee-level.

All nocturnal attempts at subterfuge and stealth go out of the window as I fall onto husband's feet, clutching at knee, and expleting under breath (pretty loudly). He is instantly properly awake and thinks I've gone mad. I explain using the odd rational English word amongst the expletives, and he realises that the thing that was Not His Problem is now definitely his problem. I give him instructions involving the mug on the landing, water from the bathroom tap and the feline aria being executed outside our window. He obeys me without question (good decision) but, poised naked at the window, turns to declare that he can't see the Darn Cat at all and doesn't know where to fling it. I advise him calmly and slowly (well, perhaps there was a bit of swearing involved) to just throw the darn water out in the general direction of the noise/patio/garden and hope that some gets the little **** or that he is at least diverted from his grisly task. He does so.

The resounding splash and instant ceasing of the Darn Cat's singing is the best thing to happen in the whole night. He's either wet, or thoroughly surprised and cheesed off, or both. Suits us. Husband offers me his arm back round to my side, I give him some calm words of advice regarding the state of his side of the bed with regards to tidiness, things left lying around and reducing the available space for one's wife to walk through, and the flouncing or otherwise which lead to his decision not to deal with the Darn Cat himself. I enquiry as to whether he perhaps thought the DC would just stop of his own accord (he doesn't, he can go on for hours). He is feeling pretty guilty so I let it go at that lol.

I limp back to bed and proceed to completely fail to sleep well for the rest of the night, for all the previous reasons plus now my throbbing knee and stubbed toe, both on my cripsy side, both now very unhappy and muttering things to me of a cripsy nature.

This morning I am cross and scratchy, with another day of plastering ahead of me (I'm not doing it, but I'm the allegedly responsible adult in charge ha very ha, so I get no peace). My left knee has a smart purple bruise on the front, it is end-of-the-day fat already, and making some alarming grinding kind of noises when I move it. It also, of course, feels hot and sensitive. Pain levels aren't too bad considering, but it's not going to be happy as soon as I ask anything more of it than lying here and typing this...

So there you go. What a mare. The DC in question is now, if you please, sitting on the end of the bed, washing lazily. Evil thoughts are forming.

Bram.