A Bottle at Bedtime.

When I was a young boy, languishing among the labouring class in a northern English industrial city, the prospect of ever having an electric blanket to warm my bed on cold winter nights was too distant to be countenanced. A person had to own their home and be firmly convinced of their status as petit bourgeoisie to have one of those, or so it seemed to me. But I did have the benefit of the next best thing – a hot water bottle.

At this point I find myself unsure as to whether the concept of the hot water bottle is known beyond the bounds of Britannia. In case it isn’t, I suppose I should offer a simple description:

A pouch-like rubber receptacle about 12 inches tall and 9 inches wide with a screw-in rubber stopper at the top surrounded by a small lip. It was half filled with very hot – but not boiling – water and tightly sealed with the stopper to preclude leakage. And such an article was my only solace when going to bed in an unheated bedroom and an unheated bed. And I had a system (Jeffrey had a system for everything and still does.)

First I would place the bottle straddling the pillow and the area of mattress immediately in front of it while I was changing into my pyjamas. That was for the benefit of my head and neck. When I got into the bed I would force the bottle to the far end to take care of my bare feet (going to bed with socks on was simply not done for some reason that was ever a mystery to me.) And when my feet and the bottom of the bed were deemed warm enough I would grip the rubber artefact between my feet, draw it up to my outstretched hands, and then cradle it to my chest ready for a now slightly more comfortable repose. And then go to sleep.

I suppose you could say that my hot water bottle was my first partner (although I probably wouldn’t), but we never discussed the affairs of the day, what we should have for breakfast in the morning, or how on earth we managed to arrive in this God-forsaken world in the first place. That came later.

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And I’ll tell you something else about my childhood bedtime habits. I often used to attempt to climb down the bed head first with the intention of coming out at the bottom end, but I could never do it. After only a couple of feet I was gripped by strong claustrophobic anxiety and came back. I suspect that might have had something to do with a past life memory because my rational mind saw no danger or difficulty in the exercise at all. We never know, do we?

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My ex, Mel, is a big fan of hot water bottles. She tells me that she still takes one to bed even though she has an electric blanket and a cat. I have an electric blanket too. I just switched it on.