Great expectations


So I broke my bed.

I know what you’re thinking — all the rampant, wild, thrashing about in the throes of ecstasy; the poor bed didn’t stand a chance. But boringly, that’s not how it broke. I just… sat on it. And it went *crrrrrraaaaaaaack*. And I went “eeeeek!”

The boy was on hand to do a crafty makeshift repair job with bricks, books, magazines and a Penney’s bag. So now I’m lying tentatively in bed, praying it doesn’t give up on me in the middle of the night.

Most amusingly, my housemates were quite disappointed that the bed trauma had nothing to do with my sexual escapades. “What *were* you doing that you broke the bed?!” says one, followed by a disbelieving look as I recounted the shameful tale of merely placing my arse on the mattress.

Shame, really. It would have been extremely blogworthy to have wrecked a bed with my wild antics in just three weeks.

“No sex for you until I come back,” said the boy after he patched it and promised to bring his heavy duty tools next time he called over. Oh, and a hammer and stuff to fix the bed, too. After pointing out that having sex before he came back would be tricky, I lamented the fact that we hadn’t managed an afternoon romp while the bed was intact.

“We could always do it on the stairs…”

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