Scuffed Princess

I used to sleep in a princess bed.

It was all lace cream curtains, swirled, solid brass arabesques, beautifully swirled like the cursive, looped handwriting of a love letter. No-one could have nightmares in such a bed, made safe by the sturdiness of the structure, shielded from night spirits by the innocence and purity of the draped ivory lace.

It was a symbol, an image, a snapshot of who I was, or who, at least, I believed myself to be.

Now I have a scuffed and scratched black car which I park on the driveways of houses that should, and maybe have, featured in Ideal Home magazine. It is much mended, the black car; it tries not to let me down, in spite of its weaknesses. We have much in common, my car and I.

One would think I would be more enamoured of the princess bed, would choose that, were a choice to be made,

But I wouldn’t.

I am as much a shabby black car as I am a carefully polished four poster; and proud to be so.