This is our bed: the Malm bed from Ikea. Well, this isn’t our bed, but we have one just like it, except it’s dark brown. And unmade. It’s a cool-looking bed, with hidden storage (the side-drawer-things slide in and out from under the bed head) and a bed head wide enough for piles of books, and drinks and snacks and tissues. And photo frames, and candles. (Also dust, now that I think about it.)
It’s a pretty great bed. Occasionally the slats pop out when you flop down on it too hard, but I’m pretty sure that’s only because we bought the wrong ones and are holding everything in place with connector pens. So, why do I passionately regret choosing this particular bed back in 2007, you ask?
I’LL TELL YOU WHY.
This is a picture of our legs before we bought our bed:
And this is a picture of our legs today:
The coloured parts represent the bumps, scrapes, grazes and bruises in varying degrees of freshness that have been constant decorations on our lower limbs over the last six years.
The bed is a weapon, casually disguised as something you’d normally associate with rest and peace. And I can tell you that there is very little more disheartening than, on a horrible day, having to wonder if even your furniture is out to get you.