THIS WEEK'S FEATURE ARTICLES

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A good night’s sleep
“Good night, sleep tight and don’t let the bugs bite.” This was a common saying even when I was a child. Where did that come from? Surely, people years ago slept more soundly, free from disruptions? Not quite, their nights were often itchy, crowded, cold, noisy, and occasionally dangerous.
Families centuries ago often carried out a nightly hunt for fleas, lice, and bedbugs, combing through straw mattresses and shared blankets. It rarely solved the problem, especially when dogs and livestock were sleeping nearby. And yes, livestock really did come indoors. In rural homes, chickens, goats, and sometimes cows were sheltered from predators and thieves. They brought warmth, but also noise, smells, and more bugs. Even animal-free rooms were hardly peaceful. Drafts slipped through walls, chimneys carried soot and smells, and chamber pots (there were no ensuites or even indoor loos) added their own contribution. Outside were dogs, frogs, and carts; inside, every cough, snore, and rustle from a bed mate was impossible to miss.
In a book called At Day’s Close – Night in Times Past, historian A. Roger Ekirch, writes: “Fear of crime, of fire, and of the supernatural; the importance of moonlight; the increased incidence of sickness and death at night; evening gatherings to spin wool and stories; masqued balls; inns, taverns, and brothels; the strategies of thieves, assassins, and conspirators; the protective uses of incantations, meditations, and prayers; this is the nature of our predecessors’ sleep and dreams”.
Privacy wasn’t really part of bedtime either. Beds were costly, so sleep was often communal. A whole family might squeeze into one bed, sometimes with guests.
At an inn, sharing with a stranger was completely normal. There were rules, at least in theory: women generally slept near the wall, men and visitors near the door, and everyone was expected to keep still and share the covers. Samuel Pepys even rated his bed mates on their conversation and behaviour, which feels surprisingly modern. Even famous figures joined in. In 1776, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin shared a bed at a packed inn and argued over an open window. Adams feared the cold; Franklin defended fresh air. Adams eventually fell asleep during Franklin’s lecture.
For many people, the bed itself wasn’t much of a bed. Straw pallets on dirt floors were common, and poorer households later used mattresses stuffed with straw or rags. In parts of Scotland and Ireland, families slept on floors covered with rushes or heather.
Winter made everything harder. With no central heating, people warmed beds using pans of hot coals or heated stones wrapped in cloth. Cosy, perhaps—but risky when rooms were full of wood, thatch, candles, and straw. Hot water bottles and electric blankets were a thing of the future.
Nor did everyone sleep for one uninterrupted eight-hour block. Many people rested in two phases: a “first sleep,” then an hour or two awake, followed by a “second sleep.” This wakeful spell, sometimes called “the watching,” wasn’t treated as insomnia as it is today. People prayed, chatted, reflected on dreams, did small chores, or visited neighbours. It was simply part of the night. A. Roger Ekirch has found hundreds of references to this pattern in diaries, literature, and court records. Similar habits have appeared elsewhere, including Madagascar, where brief midnight waking and daytime naps are common. Researchers debate how universal segmented sleep really was, but our bodies may still be capable of it. In a 1990s experiment with long periods of darkness, participants naturally settled into two sleeps with a calm waking interval between them.
So why did the pattern fade? From the 17th and 18th centuries onward, street lighting, coffee houses, policing, and evening entertainment made staying up later easier and safer. The Enlightenment also weakened old associations between darkness and evil. By the 20th century, waking at night had changed from an ordinary habit into something people worried about.
So now in the 21st century, however restless your nights feel, there’s good news: your mattress probably isn’t alive with lice, your bedroom doesn’t double as a barn, and you’re unlikely to wake beside a travelling stranger. Modern sleep may be imperfect, but compared with bedtime 300 years ago, it’s practically a dream.
If you still can’t sleep, there are even apps to help.
Marian Hearn

Anyone got a hanky?
Everyone’s nose drips sometimes, and the Bushman’s Hanky (a couple of fingers directing the drip downwards), or a handy sleeve, or even a good sniff will just not deal with those drips. Enter the handkerchief, or its 20th century convenient replacement, the paper tissue. The pretty little hanky I was ironing recently prompted some thoughts about that change from hanky to tissue, and a curiosity about nose hygiene and the hows, whys and wherefores of the ways we deal with it. It’s hard to believe that our ancestors did not find ways to wipe away tears, clean a runny nose or dry up splashes and spills of soup or sauce. Perhaps they used their aprons, or head scarves, even a dishcloth or other handy remnant of fabric; but it was not until the Middle Ages that we find anything specifically recorded as being designed, designated and fancily decorated for the nose. However, evidence from as long ago as 3000 BC shows people used small cloths for wiping away sweat on brow or hands. It seems hardly credible that any one person can be credited with first wiping his nose on one. And yet, it seems it was only when Richard II of England did just that, that a 16th century candle equivalent of a light-bulb moment encouraged others to do the same. There’s a little discrepancy here as the Dutch claim that their 15th century philosopher, Erasmus, was the first to publicly reject his sleeve in favour of the nice habit of the hanky. Even so, it was apparently only those of royal or wealthy lineage who adopted the trend. Handkerchiefs were a luxury and square cloths – in 1758 Louis XVI of France decreed what size and shape they should be – became a status symbol. Made out of fine fabrics – silk, fine linen and lace – they featured in dowries when a girl married and were left to people in wills.
A multi-purpose tool
Through the ages people have found handkerchiefs a great method of communication. To the Romans a drop of a hanky meant the chariot race had begun and the crowds cheered their favourite on by waving their hankies. A lady could show favour to a knight by giving him her hanky to tie to his helmet for good luck. Or, with a coy glance, she might hold her hanky in the middle. This was an invitation for him to visit her later, and if his hanky was waved back with a flourish, it meant he would be there. A lady might nonchalantly drop her hanky. A young man then signalled his interest by picking it up and putting it in his pocket. But if the handkerchief was returned, the romance was over. Shakespeare knew the significance of the handkerchief, and how easily signals could be misread: when Desdemona loses her handkerchief, and Othello mistakenly believes she has given it to another man, he is enraged. That story famously does not end well. The so-called Suffragette Handkerchief was signed by 66 imprisoned women and became a famous political statement. Queen Elizabeth I sent signals via her handkerchief to let her courtiers know, for example, when she needed a glass of wine, or when to relieve her of a tiresome visitor. The quality of one’s hanky always indicated status, and to this day men will show a corner of a (useless) ‘hanky’ in a top pocket when they’re in dressy mode.
Come the moment
Once the universal schoolchild’s badge (a hanky pinned to a jumper), a handy duster or even a tourniquet in an emergency, the hanky is not often seen now. The post-World War I global flu epidemic gave rise to the now ubiquitous paper tissue. “Don’t carry a cold in your pocket”, was a clever advertising slogan that took ‘facial tissues’ from their make-up removal task to nose-mopping. However, a little like cloth nappies, the hanky is making a bit of a come-back, with a few entrepreneurs making a business out of sustainability and promoting eco-friendly materials. Check out Hanky Books and hankygang.com if you’re interested. And as I ironed my little hanky last week I realised also that ironing itself is almost a past art, something our mothers and grandmothers, who laboured over heavy fabrics, would have cheered on no doubt. But there’s nothing like a smooth, crisply creased pillowcase on which to lay one’s head, and – so far – only ironing can do that.
Judy Redeker

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