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?