I have a crisis of confidence.

“Do you think,” I whisper, as we lay side by side in the warmth of our king size bed (Ikea), “that…”

“What?” she whispers back.

We stick to the convention that people whisper when it’s dark, despite the fact that we are both awake.

“Do you think that at my age I am a bit old to bring cuddly animals to bed?”

Every night, my side of the bed is shared by Honey Bear, Peter the Hanging Monkey and a furry glove-like-thing you’re meant to wear to polish your car, called Mr. Mitt.

There is a long diplomatic silence.

“I think,” she tentatively offers, “that it’s less the fact that they are animals, rather than the fact that they’re just nice and warm to have about you on a night like this.”

Another pause.

“Right,” I affirm.

“Don’t listen to her, Mr Mitt,” I hiss.

“Can I go to sleep now?” (that was the LTLP, not Mr. Mitt)

“I’m just worried that I’m a bit…”

“Well why don’t you write something on your fucking blog about it?”

“Because I’ll come across as sad.”

“You ARE sad.”

“I am not. I just write about things that happen in my life in a certain style that on the face of it makes me come across as sad for comic effect, whereas really showing readers that I am in fact not sad at all but really somebody who is quite youthful and dynamic and who they would look up to in many ways.”

“No. You just come across as sad.”

“Oh,” I say in a very small voice.

She turns over, and the conversation is closed. The five of us drift off to sleep.

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