My lovely man is prone to nightmares. I know, it’s awful, the poor bugger. Everyone in his dreams seems determined to beat him up.
It’s quite traumatic and involves a great deal of soothing and cuddles after a session of screaming and thrashing around. And that’s just for the pups on the bed.
We’ve got some help, so it’s much improved, but the occasional burst of terror sometimes means he throws himself off the bed.
So, to keep him safe, I ordered, (Takealot of course, is there anything you can’t get from them? I think not), a bed rail.
So, now he’s caged in on one side and is limited to throwing himself on top of me.
(Not sure I’ve properly thought this through).
He’s got quite adept at raising and lowering the rail, but before he does that, he follows his little ritual of sitting on the side of the bed and faffing with whatever we faff with before we turn in.
Darling, he says out of the blue, you need to get hold of these people about a potential design flaw of this contraption of mine.
Oh, I said, what’s that?
I’m in severe peril of clamping my ballsack everyday if I’m not careful, he shared.