IT'S CURTAINS FOR THIS POST...

You'll no doubt find this a strange one.  Yes, I'm afraid it's yet another entirely self-indulgent post, so feel free to skip it if such features are usually more than you can bear.

When I lived in the previous house to the one in which I now reside (the first previous house, not the second - regulars will understand), my bedroom window was in the wall behind my bed's headboard.  (As was my brother's on the other side of the room.)  In my next (and current) house (in which I had/have a room of my own), the window was in the wall beside the left-hand side of my bed.  However, despite the difference, because of the varied ways people tend to lie in repose (myself included), when I was in bed, the curtained window always captured my attention in either house, and often seemed to be the dominant feature.

For instance, if the window's at the back of the bed and you're lying on your side, it's in your field of vision, and if the window is at the side of the bed and your lying on your back, it's still in your field of vision.  And because, in the mornings, with the light seeping through the curtains or blinds, it's pretty prominent and tends to capture your attention.  In fact, regardless of whether you're lying on your side or your back, you can still see the window in either scenario depending on which way your head is 'pointing'.  Which is probably an extremely convoluted way of setting up what I'm about to say next.  Which is...

Because of the situation I've just gone to great pains (yours, I'm afraid) to describe, there was a continuity between the two rooms which helped ease me into adjusting to my new environs.  In fact, nowadays, when casting my mind back to when I read certain books and comics in bed over the years, I sometimes have to think about exactly which house I was in at the time, because it almost seems like the same bedroom in nearly every instance - due, mainly, to the window and curtains being uppermost in my recollections. 

Basically, what I'm trying to say (and doing so clumsily) is that, in memory, the two rooms often almost seem like the same one, which, ultimately, I'm thankful for, because if the difference between the two had been jarring, I might not have settled in so smoothly when I first moved here in 1972.  Waking in the mornings and seeing the daylight breaking through the curtains offers a sense of familiarity in new surroundings, which can be a comforting thing, whether one is consciously aware of it at the time or not.

So what's that got to do with anything?  Nothing much really, but my mind was mulling it over and I thought I'd share it with you here.  (Hey, you've gotta take the bad as well as the good you know.)  So if this strikes a chord with anyone, and you can relate to it (however tenuously), feel free to comment so that I don't think I'm the only inmate in the asylum.  (Now if only they'd remove these tie-at-the-back, long-sleeved pyjamas, I might get a better sleep.)