I am intimidated by the new bed
The new bed arrived while I was at work today. Uncle B had to face the Horrors That Lay Under the Bed all by hisself. He phoned me up in an agony of embarrassment at the sheer quantity of old tissues, dust bunnies, dead batteries, reading glasses and a pair of my panties that were under there when the workmen lifted the old bed out.
Let the record show, it was not a pair of panties. It was one of these. I got it to keep my face warm riding my bike but soon discovered that I flip right the fuck out if you put a mask over my mouth and nose.
Oh, yes…the last two years have been fun for me.
But I digress. The new bed is hand made by elderly English hobgoblins. It has 1,476 springs hand stitched into muslin pockets and filled with horsehair, English wool and faery farts. Some of those statistics are even true.
They had Visprings in the luxury suites on the Titanic. Is that a recommendation? I guess it is. They obviously can’t be used as personal flotation devices, though.
We didn’t get one of the super fancy ones, which Uncle B tells me cost in the tens of thousands of pounds and are the province of movie stars, oil sheiks and royalty.
No indeed. It was dear enough, though.
You can read their origin story here.
I had a lie-down on it earlier and the whole bed went whizzing across the room on tiny casters. Whee!
I’m’on have to be on the right side of a couple of gins to face this.
February 8, 2022 — 8:31 pm
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