Once Upon A Mattress

Photo by nevermind her

Those with a quick eye will recall a scene from the 2004 season of Australian Idol in which family members, along with a camera crew, bust into Anthony Callea’s home bedroom to surprise him with the good news. As the burst in he’s asleep under the covers of his bed and someone presumtiously rips the doona away. Almost as quickly, someone who looks like Anthony’s sister rushes to cover him back up again just in case Anthony liked to sleep Al Fresco.

At the time I thought that this is a nightmare-esque scenario. While I do sleep clothed, in a military grade union suit with a few non descript stains thanks for asking, the thought of someone cutting my sleep short with a camera crew and surprise news has prevented me from entering deep sleep since the original air date of the clip.

The other night I got to thinking that perhaps this isn’t my only reason for a restless sleep. In fact, it’s more likely inspired by the state of my mattress rather than the image of Anthony Callea’s “I Love Bacon” boxer shorts.

In its later years, my previous mattress doubled as a corkscrew and torture device for caught double agents, and by the time I suggested to my parents they might like to buy me a new bed at some point, my skin was starting to callous nicely. My parents didn’t decide to act on the matter until one saturday morning paper brought news of “MATTRESS SALE. LOTS! MATTRESS! CHEAP!”.

It seems in an effort to capture global markets, Captain Snooze was bought out by a small Eastern European settlement and renamed “Schnooze El Capitan”. We knocked three times, gave them the password through the darkened slot before we were let in and led around the mattresses on display. It wasn’t long before we sniffed out the bargain basement models up the back of the store. I was told I had a choice of three beds for one low price, which would be waived if we agreed to sponsor a visa or agreed to witness a false matrimony.

I tried the first bed. “This bed is too hard.” I tried the second bed. “Um, this bed is too hard.” The third bed offered few surprises. These beds weren’t just firm. These beds were lacking in springs and foam of any variety, instead relying on an interesting amalgam of steel and coal to form the comfort layer of padding on top. “Umm, are these all the same bed?” At this point, our upper lip-haired sales assistant launched into a tyrade against me. “You should be grateful your parents are even considering buying you a bed!” I saw her stop before she continued with “In My Country…” Well, I’m not expert on human rights, but I’m sure that parents have *some* responsibility to satisfy their children’s needs on at least the first tier of Maslow’s pyramid.

I was young, red-headed and forced into shopping, so chucking a tantrum was an immediate natural reaction I considered, but I really wasn’t sure that I wasn’t going to be taken out into the backroom and shipped back to our assistant’s home country as a slave. I pretended to bounce on each of the mattresses once again (here I utilised my then famous skill of being able to sit and bounce on any surface without using my hands or feet), before pointing very unspecifically in their general direction and saying “That one.”

“Ah, very good choice!” the furry woman commended. After my parents arranged the payment, they were given the delivery instructions. “Bring large truck. Knock on the red door 3 times, wait, and another 2 times. Must be after dark. If a man named Henrick shows up at your house with a knife in the future, show him the mattress and he’ll know what to do. You may need sewing kit.” And with that, the mattress was mine.

They say people develop very intimate relationships with their mattress. I guess I have spent a lot of time with mine, and though we may not be the best of friends, I have a certain love for my adopted ethnic son. People often mistake it as a sitting bench, which lends a summery feel to my bedroom. As an added bonus, if I sleep without sheets on, I wake up ready to do my best Jolson impersonation.