My wife likes cushions. My wife likes cushions a lot – or is that, my wife likes a lot of cushions. Spurred on by piles of Home Interior and Style magazines, which in themselves could provide a firm cushion, we have accumulated an arsenal of cushions (if you are into cushion fights, that is). We already had more than a full set but on buying our new house my wife energetically agreed to buy the cushions already with the house. They do, after all, match the decor.
On moving in, we scattered our existing array of cushions to the sofas, along with the newly purchased array. We had a scattering of arrays. People would visit us and try to sit elegantly, perched as they were, on the edge of their seats in a some expectation of needing to make a hasty exit or requiring some more practical seat in the house. Our sofas were covered in cushions.
Witnessing their distress as pains began to shoot up their legs as they maintained a semi-squat for as long as possible we would relent. “Just throw them on the floor, Mabel, if they are in the way.” The cushions lay, brooding, discarded. No longer scattered but strewn.
I figured I could remove a cushion or two without my lovely wife noticing. And I did, and people came to see us and sat down. And so I removed a few more, to the loft, until sofas could be found beneath. Flushed with success I removed a few more, and more people sat down. And once in a while I might hear “Where are those cushions which have ….”
And so I confessed. Like some guilty chat show host – “My darling, I confess, they are all bagged up in the loft awaiting their turn on the sofa.” Where, of course, the offending cushions provide first class insulation. Bags and bags of cushions. Keeping the heat in whilst our guests can visit us knowing that they can stay as long as they like without developing thigh strain. A win-win solution.