Margot came to visit my new apartment, admired this and that, strolled into my bedroom, saw the single bed and said “That’s quite a statement.” I laughed and then I wanted to cry. I certainly never intended my single status (and bed) to be a statement. It is rather the pathetic result of Fate’s evil machinations and poor financial planning. It has nothing to do with a paucity of romance. Everyone would prefer a double bed to roam around in, with company, or without. But when you can’t afford to splash out on a big bed, you are grateful for the comfortable single bed upon which you dream.

This is what happened: I divorced the pathological liar (read my novel LIAR) and left the double bed with him. I moved back to St. John’s to live with my Mom and nursed her through a back fracture as she nursed me through another failed romance. She died a year and a half later, just before LIAR was published and I inherited two single beds and other sundry antiques. I then moved back to Montreal, pushed the two single beds together and had a king-size bed. Although a few men passed my threshold, none were suitable and the king-size bed remained chaste. Twelve years later I moved into a smaller apartment and had to choose between the purchase of a new couch or a double bed. I have a new couch.

A double bed indicates that you are still interested in rolling around with company and there is a possibility, however remote, that a suitable man might could maybe be placing his shoes under it. A single bed says, I am not internet dating, have taken vows of chastity and redundancy. I am a nun.

I am presently saving for a double bed, possibly queen. Meanwhile, surely my erstwhile knight in shining armor has a king-size bed in his apartment???

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