My bed at my dad's house has three functioning legs: it's a cross between a French Foreign Legion special, a cot from a New Orleans refugee camp, and a Benedictine monk's crash pad from Ealing abbey. It's kind of like the holy trinity that I learned about in mythology class which my teachers, the Holy Ghost fathers insisted on calling Catechism class. Whatever. Needless to say I can count on a reasonably sleepless night.
I keep a carafe of water by my side and a few books for late night reading. I just finished Barbara Kingsolvers' "The Poisonwood Bible," which I would recommend to anyone living in a cot.