I'm ready to sleep. Come on, sleep! My book is down, the wardrobe door is closed against the dark shadows. The light is off, the door is shut. Sleep, I'm waiting.
What's that? My ear picks up the hum of a violin. BBC Radio 3, it must be. What's the song? La la la la... I know that tune. I worry at the song in my head, trying to place it. In comes another instrument -- that's a piano. La la la la... maybe it's Shostakovich. Yes, that's it.
I open my eyes and push the puffy goose-down-smelling duvet away. I wrench open the door. It scrapes the side of the wardrobe. Why have we never fixed that?
'Can you turn that down!' Without my contacts, The Man is lumpified.
'But it's Shostakovich. He wrote it when his wife was dying.'
'Yeah, well I'm dying to get some sleep,' I grumble.
I storm back into the room and scrape the door closed again.
La la la la... violin music finds a way under the door and straight to my ears.
Bloody wife. I wish she'd die already.