I am a librocubicularist.
My trusty iPad thesaurus defines a librocubicularist as one who reads in bed.
Yep, that’s me.
Way back in the dark ages my mother, in her infinite wisdom, allowed me thirty extra minutes after bedtime to read or listen to the radio. She knew full well my tired body would never last a full half hour once I was in pajamas and cozy under the quilts.
I tried to listen to the Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy series, but Mother was right, I never got beyond his opening the box of Wheaties – Breakfast of Champions!
Much as I adored reading, it too succumbed to the night. At least twice with marginally disastrous results.
When I was about eight years old I peeled a banana, smuggled it and a book to bed with me, fully expecting to revel in a snack with my extra reading time. The next morning a very irritated mother tried to separate the thoroughly mashed banana from my hair, my pajamas, and the bedclothes. She was very cross, I recall, for several days. And I had to wear the now clean but badly stained nightwear until I eventually outgrew it and it was deposited in the ragbag.
The second disaster unfolded as one frosty night I secreted a flashlight from my father’s tool bench along with my book into bed with me. As you guessed, once more I fell soundly asleep. Thus did the un-attended flashlight burn a perfectly round, perfectly lovely Hole in the wool blanket.
Oh, dear does not begin to describe my mother’s wrath and dismay.
And it summarily with no nonsense or amnesty ended my early days (nights?) as a librocubicularist.
Sad, sad, sad.
Poor, poor Mum.