I occasionally have reason to sleep downstairs these days. Yes, there are times when I surrender the bed to a fussy baby and a wonderful mama who is better able to cope with his untimely needs. There is a problem with fleeing to the couch, however, and it's not lack of comfort; the futon is plenty soft for me. No, it is the clocks. Since Alan fixed the big one we now have three clocks downstairs that make noise: the grandfather clock, the kitchen clock (of great antiquity), and the telltale clock. They all tick, and for some reason they choose to sound much louder at night. Also the grandfather clock has chimes that I have to remember to shut off: they're loud at all hours. But even the ticking is not the thing that most concerns me. No, the problem is that even with all those clocks—with the constant sound of clocks all around me—I have no idea what time it is when I'm downstairs at night.
Really, how did people ever survive in the pre-digital era? Anyone have a good source for some radium paint?