6:33 am, and I am awakened by David, announcing in a loud voice: “It’s a thistle!”
“A What?” I blurrily respond.
“A THISTLE! A dried thistle!”
“Ah, so it’s a thistle, is it…?” I am now playing a doctor humouring a patient in the grip of malarial fever…
“Yes!” replies David in exasperation. “Read the notice: ‘See Above’! There’s the picture…”
And with that he rolls back into the arms of Morpheus.
In two weeks and one day, we will have been sleeping together for sixteen years and I still don’t have the faintest idea what he gets up in Slumberland… I mean, dried thistles?