Pants. You gotta love ‘em

In the early hours of Saturday morning, I woke Terry with a prod to the back.

"I’ve done pants for you," I informed him importantly as he turned round, blearily.

"Pants? Eh?" Terry rubbed his eyes, and stared at me, confused.

"Yes, pants. I’ve done them for you," I said again, clearly expecting praise of some kind.

"What do you mean you’ve ‘done pants’, though," asked Terry, carefully. "I mean, how do you ‘do’ pants? Have you made them? Is that what you’re trying to say?"

"I’ve done them!" I repeated, irritated. "Remember how we were just talking about them?"

"Er, no."

"GOD!" I said, now very annoyed. "Well, it’s far too complicated to explain now. Just… I’ve done pants."

Then I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Mental, no? And actually, this kind of thing has been happening more and more often. Why, just last week I woke Terry to thank him for the large balloon that was floating around the room, and which he had obviously bought for me. (Note: he hadn’t. And there was no balloon.) The week before that? I woke him by screaming that OMG! There were crabs in the bed! AGAIN!

Yeah, our bedroom is way too warm at night. Either that or I? Done lost my mind, people…