The Fan

I have a fabulous bedside fan.

Daniel bought it for me when menopause and a heatwave joined forces. It is rechargeable, which is important. I am not tethered to a plug socket. I can take my own personal weather system wherever I choose.

It also provides white noise, which may, in fact, be its most important function. There is something deeply reassuring about lying in bed with the fan going:

ffffffffffffffff

The world disappears. Outside noises disappear. House noises disappear.

Daniel noises disappear.

I love it.

It also tilts. Not merely up and down in some crude binary fashion. You can gently adjust it this way and that until the air is moving across precisely the bit of you that requires moving air.

I have spent some considerable time perfecting this.

Anyway.

The spaniel shared my bed the other night. It was not an agreeable arrangement. It was approximately ninety degrees outside and she is essentially a furry hot-water bottle with ears.

She was clearly hot, so, because I am a kind and thoughtful dog owner, I repositioned the fan. Rather than pointing it at my head, I angled it so the breeze travelled across the bed.

For her.

I had given the spaniel air conditioning.

We settled down.

ffffffffffffffff

And then something tickled my arse.

I swiped at it. Nothing. Half asleep, I settled again.

ffffffffffffffff

Something tickled my leg.

Swipe. Nothing.

Back to sleep.

ffffffffffffffff

Arse again.

At this point my brain reluctantly came online.

Oh fuck. She's got fleas.

This was obviously the answer. There was a dog in my bed and something was moving around on my bare skin. There was no duvet because it was ninety fucking degrees, so I was essentially laid out as an all-you-can-eat flea buffet.

I investigated the spaniel.

No fleas.

I investigated the bed.

Nothing. No spider. No daddy fucking long legs. No visible insect of any kind.

Eventually, satisfied that we were not infested, we settled down again.

The fan continued.

ffffffffffffffff

Tickle.

Bastard.

Tickle.

Up my arse.

By this point I had abandoned all rational thought and assumed some previously undocumented nocturnal insect had taken up potholing. I was fully awake. The spaniel was blameless. There were no marauding creatures. Nevertheless, something was repeatedly travelling across my leg and up my arse.

Then, on the next swipe, my hand made contact with something.

A hair.

I grabbed it and pulled.

It was mine.

Somehow, one of my own hairs had become trapped in my arse and, because I had so thoughtfully repositioned the fan to keep the spaniel cool, the other end was being gently wafted backwards and forwards across my naked body.

ffffffffffffffff

The fan.

The fucking fan.

My fabulous bedside fan had spent the night operating a wind-powered arse tickler made from my own hair.

The spaniel slept beautifully.