At the Mamos, I slept in Lauren's beautifully refurbished blue bedroom while she shared her sister's bed.
My only companions in the room were a goldfish - unnamed - who made the loudest smacking noises, and dropped small stones back onto the bottom of the bowl with a CLANK; and a hermit crab. When I went to bed, I didn't know where Hermi was, or even what he looked like.
When I woke at five, there were scratching sounds, tiny taptaptapping, persistent and even. When I swung my feet onto the floor, the sounds stopped. But I wasn't in any shape to move quickly, and as I sat there, still, for minutes, it started again.
Hermi lives inside an almost completely smooth, rounded white shell. His uncoordinated, yet strangely rhythmic legs poke out shyly at the side, and are retracted with lightning speed when the floor creaks, or when he senses movement.
That's how I have felt for the last few days: like retracting everything tightly into a shell and hiding. Hiding from B when he is at home, hiding from sympathy from everywhere else.
Paul had the right idea on Sunday. Sandy went to bed at a sensible hour, and with a (reasonably) sensible amount of wine consumed. Paul and I finished the bottle - because it was there. And, although it may not have been due to a joke, I had the best, longest most hysterical giggle-fest I have had in ages.