When we were much younger in our old house, my sister and I shared a bedroom, very much like now, really. Our beds were also beside each other on the floor, with no bed frames whatsoever. For some reason, I always got the bigger bed. Probably coz I'm a hazard in bed - literally. I toss, I turn, I
kick, whilst my sister stays still like a baby. Or so goes the anecdotes in family gatherings anyway.
Every night, after I had built my bolster fortress around my bed and all lights were out, the street lamps would shine in from our window, streaking the walls with its soft yellow light. My sister and I would lie in the dark, our vulnerable toes wrapped safely inside our blankets, staring up at the swinging fan. I never liked switching the fan any further than a measly level 2, mostly because the fan would creak and move precariously, planting horribly mutilated faces and severed limbs in my sister's young mind and mine too.
One night, after discovering each other's worries about the menacing fan in hushed tones, we decided to do something about it. Shrewdly (and quietly, since our parents were a mere 7 feet away from us), we deviced a plan that was immaculate in the eyes of a six and seven year old - we would train ourselves up, like soldiers preparing for the possibility of war. We had to be fit, agile and smart enough to detect any imminent signs of the Fan Attack.
So we learnt to roll. Quickly. Smoothly. First we would still as a log right underneath the fan; at my sister's soft whisper 'Go!', I would roll as fast as I could to the edge of my bed, nearest to the wall, thus avoiding the catastropic crashing of the Fan.
We did this for quite a few weeks, taking turns to train each other up to be experts of the Fan Attack Prevention Program, to the lulling sounds of my dad's snores next door.
Eventually we stopped - I was getting headaches from rolling too fast. But for a couple of year my worries were appeased - my sis and I professionally trained, afterall.
