How to ruin sympathy fast
My bedroom is very small. It’s pokey. Like a deluxe room at a Japanese pod hotel. Everything has to be very tidy and in its place to make it look like I don’t sleep in a charity shop store room, where they keep all surplus stock not good enough to have out on the racks.
I sleep on a top bunk bed because I stripped the bottom bunk out to make space for my piano and cupboards. Total walking space in my bedroom – a modest 3m². Ideal for moments of circular contemplation.
I was telling my boss about all this recently. She’s a lovely woman. Very thoughtful and accommodating, appreciative, caring and happy. And she likes to enjoy a nice craft beer at the end of the day.
I was telling her about the miserly amount of sleeping space I get in my bunk bed, because it’s made of metal and has a headboard and feetboard(?) which locks my 6’4″ body inside a 6’3″ frame. So most nights I sleep like an unmotivated starfish. If its proper baltic and the metal feetboard feels like ice on my toes then I will sleep fetal – but I prefer not be scrunched up.
My boss listened attentively to my tales of woe, which must have been very boring for her.
I moaned about the unsatisfactory dimensions of UK bunk beds, and how successive generations of kids are generally taller than the last, but bunk bed lengths hadn’t reflected this trend in child growth.
Then I instantly ruined all sympathy in the air by talking about the perfect length a mattress would have to be for me, by asserting to my boss – “If I want to feel completely relaxed in bed then I’d need at least 4 inches to play with”.