'The Worm Turns' by Ruth Warnett
“Hi Jamie, are we going to Glastonbury this year?” I asked, jamming the phone between my right ear and shoulder, hauling up big pants and pyjama bottoms.
“D’ya think we can climb over the fence? If not, I’m not going”
“Not sure. They’ve toughened things up a bit. How about Stonehenge tomorrow night? We can see in Midsummer morning like we did last year”. I’m starting to think he doesn’t want to see me.
“Sure. Pick me up about ten tomorrow night”.
Midsummer Eve saw me waking up stroking my legs. Omigod! Where are my pyjama bottoms?!
One sticky eye opened and I spied the pyjama bottoms on the other side of the room. I forced both eyelids open. I crept (why the hell was I creeping in my own bedroom? Fool!), to where the pyjama bottoms crouched, griffin-like, as if their owner had catapulted out of them. Two perfect pillars of inside-out pyjamas, squatting on my bedroom floor.
I telephoned everyone in my Winnie the Pooh address book, “How do you think they got there?”
Replies ranged from amnesia to Rohypnol.
The last call was to Jamie.
“That’s it. I’m not going to Stonehenge , Glastonbury or anywhere else with you. You’re barking you are”.
Ouch. That hurt. I fought back, “Whether it was sleepwalking or alien abduction, I have no idea. Nothing that wonderful has ever happened to me before; not even sex with you”. I hung up on Jamie for the first time and it felt amazing.