I write to you...

I've completely run out of things to blame.  And now, I'm adamant it must be my less-than-6-month-old pillow.  It simply can't be something else.  No, I'm sure it's not the programme on the free-to-air channels and their special hypnotic effects (and I thought 3D tv is the in thing...no?), nor is it the sleep-inducing weather in tropical Singapore.  I reckon it can't possibly be my squeaky bed of 10 years though I've only managed to clock 7 or less years with it or my newly painted odour-less (not odourless) bedroom in Lavender Charm.  So it has got to be the pillow!  And if I'm ever tempted to write a complaint letter, which I'm doing now in my head, it'll probably go like this:

Dear Sir,

I would like to extend my heartiest gratitude for the marvellous invention of the microgel pillow that has accompanied me well on many moons.  It has by far induced more dreams that I can wish for, the epitome of such dreams can briefly be described to include being chased after by angry homeless dust mites and gunny-sacked by the usually skeletal pillow protector because I made her look fat.  And now, the microgels are on strike because their demand for more days off has not been met.  I am more than thankful that you've delivered more than you'd promised - a stiff neck.

Yours sincerely,

Princess J
PS: And I thought the pea was bad...