At 7 Reasons (.org) we like to think of ourselves as lifestyle writers; authors of a self-help guide to modern living. But occasionally, something so calamitous occurs in one of our personal lives that we can think of nothing other than that event and are compelled to write about it, even though we’d rather be thinking and writing about something (anything) else. Such an event has occurred. In the past week, my wife purchased a new duvet. It is one of the worst things that could have happened. Here are 7 reasons why.
1. Light. It’s dark under the new duvet. Whether it’s actually dark or not. It’s so dark that the exterior of the duvet could be next to the sun, or next to something as dark as the sun is light (the unsun? The un? ). It wouldn’t matter. Because underneath the duvet, it is always pitch black: Unless I was to take a torch under there. Though possibly even then. There is nothing darker than being under the duvet, except for being inside Piers Morgan’s soul wearing a black hat, a bin liner and a pair of sunglasses. Though how you would find yourself in such a situation, I don’t know. It would be quite unfortunate.
2. Weight. The duvet is heavy. It’s heavier than…well…everything; and it’s definitely the heaviest thing I’ve ever been pinned to a bed by. It’s like an enormous weight is pressing down on me all the time I’m beneath it (which may be slimming, who knows?). When I tried to complain, what I said came out as gibberish because of the heavy weight pressing down on my face. But that didn’t matter, because…
3. Under The Duvet, No One Can Hear You Scream. There is no sound under the duvet. This is bad, as I like to listen to the radio while in bed – it prevents me from thinking, which is what usually gets me into trouble, so it’s quite essential – but the moment I put my head under the duvet, all sound stops. All of it. Which would be handy if I were in a room with James Blunt, but I’m not, I’m trapped in a room with my own thoughts. Which is much like being back in Piers Morgan’s soul again but I can wear what I like and there’s tiramisu.
4. Heat. It’s hot under the duvet. Hotter than anything. I have no idea exactly how many togs the thing contains, but I know this: Togs are hot, and the new duvet has bloody loads of them. I have actually broken into a sweat just by lying under the thing, not moving, in a cold, draughty house in the winter, when the temperature outside was -13. It was then that I decided the remedy to my overheating would be to lift the duvet to let some air underneath.
5. AAaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh!!!!! And that turned out to be a sensation like being punched in the solar-plexus by an angry ‘roid-enhanced snowman. Twice. It turns out that there was at least a thirty degree difference between the temperature in the room and the micro-climate beneath the duvet. Still, at least my screams didn’t wake my wife, as my head was beneath the duvet and her head was above it, so she couldn’t hear them.
6. Time. Under the duvet, you have no inkling of what time it is. None, whatsoever. There’s just no way of telling. I can’t hear the radio, and there’s no way of telling that it’s time to get up (alarms, bin-men, toasters, a hungry cat etc), nor is there any daylight or any climactic indicators (it’s just always the temperature of boiling stuff). I could take a timepiece with me, but who wants to roll over on a clock in the bed, or get the bracelet of their watch caught in their hair and have to cut it loose? I don’t want to make that mistake again, thank you very much. Because doing that for a third time would make me look foolish.
7. Air. It is impossible to breathe under the duvet, which is a shame, as it’s something of a hobby of mine. No air penetrates the dense, heavy material that the duvet is constructed from (some sort of downy molten concrete?) and all air that was originally there is forced out by the sheer weight of the thing pressing down on the bed. I’m not sure if this lack of air counts as a vacuum, but the new duvet certainly sucks.*
*7 Reasons (.org) will return tomorrow but may not be back the following day as I may die a hideous death under the duvet of doom.
