In Bed with Bach

Our old bed in the new spare bedroom - 'Bonnie's room' - her art and photos remain on the walls.

This long weekend when many of our countrymen and women were absorbed in the Rugby World Cup semi-finals and captain Richie McCaw's potentially career-ending elbow, I was in bed with Bach and his rather less edgy, more elegant elbows - as was my husband...

You see, this was a bed-delivery-moving weekend for us in preparation for the arrival of an important house guest who may one day become a permanent member of the family, and in the process of making room for her, we discovered Bach abandoned in a long unused portable CD player. Why we abandoned Bach in this rather shabby way neither of us could recall.

Never mind. We hastened to make amends and got back into bed with Bach in a big way, playing him loudly over and over on the kick-ass stereo downstairs to be heard upstairs as we carried, cleaned and carted two big beds and sundry bedly matter hither and thither.

At one point we were joined by a couple of burly tattooed removalists who delivered the queen - our first queen indeed, if my husband is to be believed on that subject, that is - and hauled it upstairs in the midst of all that not so burly Bach. They didn't seem to mind; their tattoos did not melt.

And I must say, it was all really rather conducive, so much so that I would recommend Bach for all bed-related business. Well perhaps not quite all; piano is possibly a touch too light for the heaviest of liftings.