I thought beds were supposed to be relaxing? Go and look at all your fluffy pillows and your B&M throw. If it isn’t the embodiment of peace and serenity then I don’t know what is.

I love my bed. Despite the fact that it’s missing a headboard and doubles up as a luxury diner, there is no place I’d rather be.

Over the years it’s seen a lot of action. No, definitely not that.

It’s been my hospital bed, my drunk-eating-a-takeaway bed, my talking-on-the-phone-for-hours bed and my best friend when I’ve needed somewhere to cry.

In fact, it’s been that good of a mate that when I’m moping about all I have to do is reach out my paw to find an old pizza crust.

My bed’s name is Pawel.

He was a budget bed that I got from Poland via eBay.

Best forty quid I ever spent.

Last week I was hiding from the kids under the covers.

I blocked out their cries with my Asda earmuffs and tried to relax.

I could hear bottles clanking downstairs but I reassured myself that it was just my seven-year-old preparing me a drink.

Next thing I could hear miniature feet heading up the stairs.

I knew he’d just be coming to annoy me with some mundane request, probably asking for a home-cooked meal, angry at the fact I keep directing him to the crisp cupboard.

Talk about ungrateful. I put the stuff in the bottom cupboard so he can reach it and he still complains about something called dyabeaties. Isn’t that a place in Scotland?

Anyway, in he comes, giant beaker of Vimto in hand and I watch as he’s swishing it about, obviously trying to induce cardiac arrest in his mother so that he can raid my purse and go for a big veggie and fruit shop.

Unsurprisingly, my bed became stained with Vimto – the mattress and the divan.

I think he’d tried to dilute the vimto with 15 parts juice to one part water.

It was as though my best friend had just dropped down dead in front of me.

I dived into the largest Vimto wound, trying to staunch the purple blood flow with my face.

Then I grabbed a bunch of towels and frantically began trying to soak up the stain.

My son, meanwhile, just stood shaking his head and looking genuinely disappointed in a mother that clearly was less emotionally developed than himself.

“Pawel!!!” I screamed, closing my eyes and holding up a fist like I was in a scene from Hamlet.

“Mam, just get some oxy or stain…” he started.

“You planned this!” I cut him off. “You… I know you’re of the Brexit persuasion!”

He just shook his head.

“Okay, Mam. I’m going to put a casserole on. I’ll leave the pizza menus out so you can choose one for your tea.”

I heard him mumble something about blood pressure as he tottered off with his Fitbit.

I spent all night scrubbing Pawel and going over him with the hairdryer.

He looks a little better. Nothing a good bargain throw and some pug scatter cushions won’t sort.

I know he appreciates it.

I reached out last night and felt some carrotsticks under the pillow. He must be keeping an eye on my health.

Oh Pawel, goodnight sweet prince.