I am spending white nights mentally building a box bed in the spare room. I loved the one in my grandmother’s house, curtained, and with mysterious spaces below, so cosy and enticing.
The space I have to play with is more than adequate, four feet by ten. There are some ground rules.
The bed must be quite high, and the mattress mustn’t be too thick.
You must be able to lean back against a bolster.
There must be handy shelves and cunning lights, marine cup holders and a special place to put your pen. There must be a spyhole. I suppose in this day and age you need a port for your iPhone, a hook for your headphones.
Though my box bed is designed for one, this is a rule which is easily broken, for it should welcome friends climbing in to join the fun. It should be so warm and comfortable that the open window is shocking and bracing: fresh air intensifies the pleasure.
It is perfectly normal to practice music in a box bed.
You really should not find ancient toffees down the side, but it is part of life.
Do you see the attraction?