Two Fonzes

My son and I sleep in the garage. Two Fonzes. This is the window where the night air and noises from the street come in. It's not much, and is netted against wee bitey things, but it does give some respite from the big jelly pudding of heat plopped atop our attempted slumber.
A fan works the night air into breeze. It cuts and scallops it around. Its blades are sharp lethal looking things and are well caged against soft flesh.



(Years ago, when the children were babies, we were here on holiday at the bar owned by my sister and brother-in-law. I was throwing their youngest into the air. His arms opened like a skydiver and he giggled infectiously, so much so that as I caught him I tossed him a little higher, and higher, and higher....


"STOP!!!!!", my sister shouted as she appeared from the kitchen.


I caught him giggling and smiling as usual. What I hadn't noticed was the ceiling fan just beside where I was tossing him. It had sharp metal blades, much like the floor fan in my room, which weren't caged for safety but bare and would have surely sliced him open if I had accidently thrown him into its gyration.
Even now I imagine the horror of him landing bloody (in my real nightmares he drops headless into my arms). I don't think my life would have ever been the same.
But it was fine and is only a family story now of disaster averted. He towers above me now and is working as a waiter for the summer and is studying IT.)


With the fan in the garage we manage to sleep well enough. We're not quite as cool as Arthur Fonzarelli but manage to emerge rested enough to meet the happy days ahead.