Messages and nightmares

Since I got some alphabet magnets for Partner for Christmas we've been leaving each other messages on the fridge. As there is only one copy of each letter, though two of each number, it can make for interesting spelling. This is a joint message: one from me, one from him, and one first by me then altered by him. If it doesn't make sense to you, don't worry about it. I don't get it either (and I wrote it).

It seems the Olympics are back again. I don't know how I missed that one; I haven't seen any preview material or build-up for it. Really strange. I have half an eye on the men's ski jump as I type this. Although I've been here in England for several Olympics now, I'm still not used to the style of commentators. From what I understand, the channel which covers it has a team of "sports commentators" who may or may not know anything about the event they comment on. For instance, one is a former Olympian: in dressage. Every so often they make a comment which is just so asinine--it's obvious Britain doesn't have a heritage of winter sports.

Partner wanted me to take a picture of his injury--I think he must be proud of it. At about 12.30AM the other night, I was in the other room reading when I heard Partner start yelling, like really making some serious noise, and then I heard some struggling. I threw down my book and listened, because my first thought was that he was being attacked, and if so, I would need a weapon (the iron was close to hand). But I quickly realized that if there was someone else in the house, I would have heard them come in, and I could only hear Partner.

By now he'd been shouting for about thirty seconds. I turned on all the lights as I rushed over to the bedroom, but before bursting in, I called out, "Honey, I'm turning on the light." He stopped making noise. I opened the door and turned on the light, to find him stood up in bed: there was a picture off the wall in his hand and another one smashed at his feet on the bed. Somehow, he gave himself a huge welt and bruise on his thigh; we surmise it was from the corner table next to the bed. How he managed to smash the picture, I don't know, but there were shards of glass everywhere in the bed; at least he didn't cut himself. He told me he was having a nightmare about being trapped in a tunnel with a train coming at him.

Myself, I was mostly amused, after the initial moment of panic. I picked up what glass I could see, ushered him out, and made him a warm milk. We both slept in the other bedroom that night.