Bunk beds. I think I've mentioned them before somewhere, or maybe I do have a life and have talked about them with some friend or others. Hmmm.
Well, folks, we were sleeping in bunk beds in the gîte (like bed without breakfast) this week-end.
So what do you do when you're sleeping in the bottom one and someone has just mentioned that a psychopathic murderer might be getting in through the window that (all of, the eight of) you've left open because man was it hot there? No, you don't think of the psychopathic murderer. Matter of fact, you don't really believe a psychopathic murderer might be loose in Cahors, or Luzech to be precise, this time of year. Even psychopathic murderers know when it's too hot.
No, what you do is think that hopefully, the guy who's sleeping in the top bed is not too heavy, because what, just what exactly would happen if he is too heavy and the structure, being old and wooden, doesn't hold up and, well, breaks down, and you end up either crushed to death by both the guy and the structure or impaled, to death as well probably, into your own bed by one of the bed posts?
You'd be dead, that's what would happen. And then that would definitely justify and even vindicate your not liking weddings in the first place, wouldn't it? Because you'd not be dead, would you, if you hadn't come to the wedding, hadn't slept (insisted on sleeping, even, which shows what a self-sacrificing soul you are, you saint) in the bottom bed, and hadn't died.
But then, the structure held up, or the guy wasn't too heavy, and no psychopathic murderer got in through the window, and so you didn't die.
So really, you didn't have much of a choice other than to attend the wedding, did you.
In retrospect (I was a bit too tense on the spot), it was lovely, the village was lovely, the church was lovely, the bride was fantastically lovely, the groom was handsomely lovely, the people were lovely, the castle (castle!) was lovely, the dinner was lovely, and the dancing. My, the dancing.