So...

3:08 last Friday morning, I rolled over and the piece of wood the slats rest on self-destructed. Completely! My grandparents bought that bed when they got married in 1928. I guess 87 years isn't too shabby.

Yes, many bad words were said while I dismantled the rest of the bed and stashed it in another room. Once I got the hammer the cats decided attempting to "help" was not a good idea.

Only took 20 minutes to have everything rearranged but as you might guess there wasn't any more sleep to be had. And I discovered the most interesting bruises when I hopped in the shower. I'm not sure exactly how I managed it but the one on the inside of my leg has a line through it.  I guess that's where it hit although it really doesn't make much sense. As I said, the inside of my leg.

Three days later I've decided I really don't much like sleeping on the mattress on the floor even if it means my neighbor's dusk to dawn spotlight isn't shining directly in my face.  I know a carpenter.  I'll have to consult him about repairing the bed.  Perhaps he can fix it so it lasts another 87 years.

It's always something.