A Sideline View: The case of the missing earplugs

Eyeing up the replacement earplugs...two naughty puppies.

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I changed my sheets yesterday. An unremarkable event on the surface. But it wasn't what was on the surface that bothered me, but what was no longer anywhere in sight.

I'm never in a great hurry to haul the bedraggled linen off the bed, mainly after going a bit modern and ditching the top sheet. It seemed like a grand idea to start with. All that would be needed each morning would be a quick smoothing of the bottom sheet and a flick of the duvet — job done.

Unfortunately, it didn't turn out quite like that. Aside from the fact the duvet cover would need pulling apart and washing, refitting, retying and re-fluffing, our new made-in-New Zealand woollen duvet inners didn't quite pad out the beautiful on-trend linen duvet cover. So each morning, instead of the quick flick, the duvet cover seams had to be realigned with the inner, and became a frustrating full arm stretch manoeuvre. It would have been quicker for me to crawl inside and straighten the thing up there and then.

After a good few months of shaking and rearranging, we decided to revert to using a top sheet. Thinking the sheet overlap would keep all the seams securely in line, we settled in for a cosy period before the next sheet changing day. All was well until bedtime that night. I noticed my book was lying on the floor instead of the bedside table. A little bemused, I put it back where it belongs. A few other items were a bit skew-whiff, enough to pique my unsettled radar. I presumed I'd knocked things sideways during the sheet change and thought no more of it until I went to perform the final task of the evening, bung in the earplugs.

Now these are no ordinary run-of-the-mill plugs but a few hundred dollars worth of custom-made beauties that almost block out what they were intended for. Expecting to find them in the same place as the book, I glanced floorward but couldn't see them, so got down on my hands and knees, arms swiping the floor in an increasingly desperate fashion. No earplugs.

Donning a headlamp and putting any creeping feelings of claustrophobia or arachnophobia to the side, I squished myself under the bed. I crawled commando style, shining a light on lost socks, paintings and a disturbing buildup of fluff. But no earplugs.

I backed out and fought the building panic. A night with no earplugs was unthinkable. I searched every drawer and surface for a spare set, but to no avail. And then it dawned on me. I was not the cause of the missing earplugs — or the fallen book for that matter. Those pesky puppies had done it again — snuck in when I had dared to turn my back and swiped my earplugs. The search resumed, this time in puppy places but again no luck. Off to the spare room for me.