The bed, it was, that broke

For some reason, the phrase in the title of this posting is stuck in my head.  I have a feeling that I read it somewhere, in a Thurber-esque story, or on a latter-day Twain's blog.  But the google doesn't find the phrase as is, and so I must be imagining it.

But there's a reason to imagine it.  We had a very successful potluck this evening, celebrating Chinese New Year: we made cold sesame noodles, pickled cucumber, and soy/garlic/ginger chicken.  Others brought fried rice, stir fried vegetables, and many other delicious dishes.

The children repaired to LOML and my bedroom after dinner, to watch TV away from the grownups.  And later, we discovered that somehow the head of the bed has been cracked, in a way that we don't see how to repair.  Such is life: and we can live with the damage for a few days: hopefully the company we bought the bed from can replace the piece at a reasonable cost.

Yours, thinking I should have entitled this post "And that's when the bed broke, as the actress said to the bishop",
N.