I’m having issues with my bedding.
It’s not that we disagree on major political issues or anything, it’s just that it keeps attacking me. I do not think that “aggressive” is a adjective that should be applied to bedding. Soft, yes. Warm, certainly. But not aggressive. Or sharp, for that matter. I know I have gotten into fights with duvets in the past, as much earlier posts will testify. In those days, however, a duvet generally behaved itself once you eventually managed to get it inside the cover. Unfortunately, my Estonian-bought duvet has different ideas, and seems to believe that just because it has to lie there with me every night, doesn’t mean that it has to be happy about it.
And so it stabs me with feathers.
I don’t have any problems with the feathery end of feathers, you understand – the soft, fluffy, tickly part. No, my duvet is stuffed with thousands and thousands of perfectly soft, warm, feathery feathers which keep me all snug and cosy. It’s the other end of the feather that upsets me (and occasionally draws blood).
I can’t be sure, but what seems to have happened is that the duvet manufacturers, or the people who are employed to divest the unfortunate birds of their plumage, have spent obscene amounts of time carefully filing the ends of the feathers into needle-sharp points. Whether this is a result of boredom or a deep hatred of humanity, it is difficult to say; however, the evidence that this is how they while away the hours at the factory is right here in the most user-unfriendly duvet I have ever encountered.
It’s not just the duvet, either. Last night, as I lay in bed trying not to move lest I be stabbed to death, I counted no fewer than seven feather-ends sticking into various parts of my body. Then I realised that two of those were actually protruding from my equally disgruntled pillow, spearing me at either side of my head and essentially trapping me.
Pulling the feathers out makes no difference. It’s like when you pull out a grey hair and two more supposedly grow in its place. Getting angry and starting to pull out five feathers will, in a frighteningly short space of time, lead to you having pulled out 155 feathers and finding yourself now being stabbed by 160 (I did the maths), all the while choking and suffocating in an increasingly feather dominated room.
This would not be at all comfortable. Waging war on the duvet is not advisable.
Who ever thought that sleep could be such a perilous activity?