I’m not sure there’s any such thing as a second childhood. It’s more a matter of a continuous childhood with a bit of a break somewhere in the middle. Leastways, that’s how I comfort myself when I’m plainly exhibiting the symptoms of increasing simplicity.
That and reminding myself that Thoreau, among others, urged us all to simplify.
So, anyway, I’ve learned that that moment of panic when waking in a darkened room, collecting the shadows of the night together until I remember where I am is nothing new, and certainly nothing unique. For as long as I can remember, when I stay in a hotel room I leave the light on in the bathroom, pulling the door almost but not entirely closed. Makes waking less of a panicky moment, I’ve always found.
Now, though, when I wake, there are still streamers of my dreams hanging in the dark, and I am liable to experience a short but painful moment of ‘where the hellami’? The answer comes soon enough but if there’s a bit of light in the room, it’s short and relatively sweet.
So, since we moved here, I’ve taken to leaving an ultra-low voltage light on by the side of the bed. It helps but does nothing for the aesthetics of the room.
“Surely you can come up with a less ugly way of tackling it than that,” Graham said a few weeks back.
“Well, I could go for a kid’s nightlight, I suppose. Something cute, perhaps?”
“That’s a great idea. Something vintage. Something retro-chic. What sort of thing?”
“Oh, a lighthouse, perhaps. Or a little house with lighted windows. Or something out of Disney.”
“Leave it with me.”
And so I did. Thought nothing more of it, to be honest.
Then, this morning, a large pre-loved postal box turned up and, on opening it I discovered a wonderful lamp from the early 50s (I think) in the form of Donald Duck. It’s a bit battered and worn, like me, and needs rewiring, and heaven knows I could do with that, too. But I do believe I’ve fallen in love with it already.
Hey ho. Something else to dust before the business of the day.
A friendly face in the dark
