To sleep, perchance, on Dreams

The new mattress arrived yesterday, just after the bailiffs left a little note in the middle of the hallway – not for us or Ground Floor Girl – but for the annoying man who once owned and allegedly 'refurbished' the two flats that were once a large unkempt Victorian house. He owes thousands of pounds worth of council tax, receives penalty notices weekly and is a thoroughly unpleasant troll. I phoned GFG to warn her that they "intended to return tomorrow". She phoned the bailiffs, telling them they'd better not strip her almost bare flat of what it contained. Troll now has yet another person who automatically attaches expletives to his name.

Anyway, the mattress, bought from Dreams, is lovely, with its special pockety bits and internal supportive thingies. It seems much thicker than the old one, which was around 10 years old and a little bit saggy. Is it right to be excited about a new mattress? Oh, yes. This one holds the promise of sleep, which for me is like crack cocaine to a supermodel. I think I slept better but I can't say for certain as I'm still feeling the effects of weeks of poor-quality sleep, and consequently appear to have some kind of jet-lag (or am possibly in shock at not having to generate so much adrenalin to keep going today). With the priceless support of S throughout my insomnia plus the £400 (half price in the sale) support of the mattress, I am optimistic that I may conquer this dratted thing.

I ventured into the garden today, risking frostbite in my tiny socks + (medium) slippers combo, and marvelled at the plants again. They are still spreading, especially the clematis, which has produced the beginnings of fat buds. The white flowers that bloom will be scented, and there will be hundreds of them, unless the snow promised for this week has its wicked way.

To warm up, I went upstairs and did a bit of yoga and some ballet stretches I remembered from way, way back. Not much – just 10 minutes – but I feel rejuvenated. Perhaps I'm on to something...