Don’t Tell My Wife I’ve Written This

They are legion. Breeding. Multiplying. Every time I turn my back, more of them appear. Cloning. Driving me to the depths of despair and the heights of frustration. Are they a hallucination? A figment of my overworked imagination? Is there a medical term for such a psychosis? Do I require medication, counselling, a lie down in a darkened room? No, for they are real and I am, therefore, doomed.

Cushions….

It all started innocently enough. Almost as an afterthought, Fionnuala mentioned one day last month that she had her eye on a new set of cushions for the living room. I thought nothing of it, as I leave all such interior design matters to her refined eye. I struggle to match my socks in the morning so this was a whole new world to me. A world I had no intention of setting foot upon.

I had my side of the sofa, and Fionnuala had hers. We had a cushion each, with one in the middle to act as a security buffer or sterile corridor in the event of any unwanted infractions by either party. The United Nations were on speed dial in the unlikely event that this occurred. Unlikely, but you can never be too careful where such matters are concerned. All was well with the world.

Now we have three cushions. Each. With a Great Wall further separating us. Woe betide me, if I attempt to dislodge any of them even a fraction of an inch. I used to recline and relax on our leather settee. Now I teeter on the edge of it, scared to breathe. Nothing, but nothing can be found, in this forest of fabric. Phones, Kindles, remote controls, even Rebecca disappeared for several hours over the festive period.

I thought there was a glimmer of hope as one set featured some elegant swans within a wintry backdrop. Perhaps they will be gone by Easter. But what seasonal horrors will replace them? Chicks? Bunny rabbits? The mind boggles. Either way, I am fighting a losing battle for the one domain where I thought I was safe. If a man’s home is his castle, then surely the sofa is his throne.

And there’s more. Oh, so much more. The madness has spread. To the bedroom. Never one to rest on her laurels, Fionnuala has started spring cleaning a full two months early. The cushion invasion has spread to the bedroom. I returned home yesterday to be greeted by an impenetrable barrier of the abominable objects. A Grand National winner would have struggled to hurdle them.

I have estimated that if I want to go to bed at 10:30 p.m. I will actually need to commence operations at around 9:45 p.m. in order to complete a successful excavation and reach my mattress. Any less time, will result in abject failure. There are also a myriad of Health and Safety ramifications. Do I now need to wear a hard hat when on site? Perhaps a hi-vis vest, clipboard and whistle?

If you are talking to my wife, for she occasionally blogs herself, deny all knowledge of this post. It can be our little secret, okay? For I fear the consequences if my concerns are divulged to her. Suffocated under an avalanche of cushions or battered to an unrecognisable pulp by them. Neither modus operandi particularly appeals to me. Instead, I will grit my teeth, smile, and continue to teeter.

On the brink….

Are you a lover of multiple cushions?

Or do they strike dread into your heart?

What household habits within your home drive you insane?

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