Flesh and bone

 

There comes a time, in a man’s life, when the middle-of-the-night trip to pee has become a nightly occurrence. A necessary, ritual shuffle along the corridor. There will be a night-light on the landing, of course. He isn’t stupid. But so as not to break his sleep cycle, and especially if he does not sleep alone, he will not turn on a light in the bedroom. He isn’t stupid.

So it was that a friend of mine, just a few years older than me, recently broke his toe on the foot of the bed. I was commiserating this state of affairs with him only on Wednesday gone.

And so it also was that I did the same, last night.

My friend was at least on holiday, abroad; can blame an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar space. I was in my own home. Nor was it my first night misadventure (not stupid; but dyspraxic).

The stories of our lives are written in our flesh and bones. The body not only keeps the score; it is a librarian.