On my bed I have four pillows. Two I don’t really use, since they were bought more because I liked the look of them than for their comfort. I love IKEA. Two are proper pillows, one which has been perfectly shaped over time to fit my head just the way I like it. It’s flat if I’m on my stomach yet still puffy enough if I want to sleep on my side. The other one…well, is evil. For some inexplicable reason it is getting bigger. I don’t understand it, but I’m sure every time I go to put a new pillowcase on it has swelled again.
This would be fine if it were just me, but when Max is here we fight over the good pillow. I keep an eye on it when we go to bed to make sure he hasn’t sneakily switched it in the hopes I won’t notice. But I notice, I always notice. You cannot have my pillow! I’ll give you a kidney if you need one, but back off this man! Last night as Max threw the other pillows off the bed in exasperation, he said ‘I don’t understand. You’ve got nothing in this room, no pictures up, your TV is ancient, and yet you’ve got sodding display pillows! And this, THIS!’ shaking the evil one, ‘Stupid, FAT, useless pillow!’
I couldn’t say anything then, for one thing he was right, and also because I was curled up laughing my head off unable to stop. Perhaps you had to be there, but even now his cry of ‘FAT PILLOW’ can make me giggle. Some might say that love means giving up the good pillow, but they’ve probably never seen me in a morning after having a crap night’s sleep. I think love is not subjecting him to that. Or it might be going out and buying a new one. But where’s the fun in that?
We didn’t fight over the good pillow! I’m always lumbered with the fat,useless, bloated excuse for bedding that you call a pillow.
The defining moment in our pillow relationship came many years ago when I had back pains and swapped the pillows around when you had one of your many 2am pee breaks. The instant you lay back down I heard the sigh come from you that told me that I, Max D Rees, was in deep shit. And that trading pillows steathily was not allowed. I live in fear.
Why you can’t buy two pillows fit for purpose is beyond me.
Carrie has just told me I need to buy MY OWN BLOODY PILLOW.
Can you imagine turning up to work with a pillow under my arm, like a fucking hobo, and saying to your boss “yeah I’m staying at my girlfriends tonight but she won’t let me have a pillow.” He’d look at me in disgust. Like, “grow a spine man. Take what is yours.”