After 4 months sleeping on a plastic sofabed, I’ve finally gotten myself a real thick springy mattress – effectively graduating myself from Temporary Coach Surfer (in my own flat) to Poor College Graduate Who Can’t Afford a Proper Bed (although I am admittedly many years post-college). Maybe I should call myself the Wan Chai Office Rat Who Sleeps on a Mattress on the Floor.
Actually, I quite like not having a bed frame. Not having one means I can just about squeeze the mattress against the back wall (meaning the width of my room is just slightly longer than the length of my mattress, that’ll give you an idea of size), effectively opening up the rest of the room to SO MUCH MORE space, which I try not to think is still the size of 5-star hotel bathrooms.
I constantly dream of owning an airy spacious flat in Happy Valley, overlooking the race course. I don’t care for horse racing, but I like the greenery, and I like all the sports that go on in the middle. It’s a near-impossible dream (I say near because I just might marry a multi-billionaire or win the lottery one day), and most days I can only sit and wonder.
But I get a reality check every time I come home when my neighbours have their front door wide open. There’s four of them squeezed into a flat half the size of mine. Every single time, it doesn’t fail to make me feel like I’m living too extravagantly. It’s like a slap in the face going, “Quite whinging you ungrateful bitch. At least you’ve got your own room.”
Bed frame or not, I’m quite happy with my mattress.