I like to personalise my dressing room, have a cover for the bed and, if it is a long run, a few cushions and a teapot - a little pot for one.
All we see is gym, tennis court, and bed.
I read most often in bed as part of my attempted sleep ritual. But I spend a lot of time reading on planes and in hotels, too.
As I grow older and older, And totter toward the tomb, I find that I care less and less, Who goes to bed with whom.
I have a king bed, one of those memory-foam mattresses that doesn't jiggle as you get in or out. Even if you cleaved it down the middle with a pickax, the thing wouldn't tremble. It's practically earthquake-proof.
I'm not comfortable leaving the apartment if the bed isn't made or a chair isn't tucked into the table.
I went to bed last night dreaming of tuna melts. I love food.
I've got a stack of the 'Walking Dead' comic books next to my bed here.
Home, more than anything, means warmth and bed.
Let me make this clear: my impairment is such that without a wheelchair, I can't do very much for myself. I can't get out of bed. I can't get myself to the toilet. I certainly can't get myself to work.
