I would like you all to know that Sir is doing his bit at great personal sacrifice toward the safety of our country, the furtherment of space exploration, the protection of our military and police personnel – all from the comfort of his own bed.
I know Kevlar is supposedly the best thing since sliced bread when it comes to chestal protection, but I can absolutely attest that Sir’s contribution to the cause will set the chemical industry ablaze with a plethora of possibilities.
I refer to his pillow. He has admitted that his pillow is older than my daughter by a teenagerhood and he will not give it up for love nor money.
Over the years – if you will pardon this over your morning Wheaties and cup of tea – his pillow has naturally absorbed an inordinate amount of drool, sweat, dead skin and the possible odd missing person.
I noticed the other day when I was changing the sheets, complete with my gas mask, that the covering on his pillow could rival denim for durability, and I’m sure if Levi Strauss had thought about it at the time, we could all be sporting jeans made of some incredibly strong albeit malodorous fabric.
I swear you could attack the pillow with machetes and AK-47s and no harm would come to the enormous colony of dust mites which I suspect live therein.
I know that children become attached to bedtime objects. My brother had his blankie, and would be seen out at the clothes line on wash day, one thumb planted firmly in his mouth, his other hand attached on high to his beloved bit of wool.
My darling daughter, my gorgeous Madam, became at one with a silk scarf, and it would accompany us everywhere. My mother tried to insist she would accept rayon, but no. Madam’s taste was firmly set upon the expensive output of silkworms and so I would have a spare supply of silk on hand.
But in both those cases, my mother managed weaning my brother from his blankie, and somehow I weaned madam from her scarves – both of which you understand were washable.
To become emotionally attached to a pillow should’ve rung his mother’s alarm bells, and knowing her – and Sir – she most likely did try to wrestle it from him, but his bellowing no doubt put paid to the whole separation issue.
I suspect the pillow might dissolve like the Wicked Witch of the West if I flung it in the washing machine – but frankly, I’ve grown quite attached to my washing machine and would hate to see it implode with the chore of cleaning it.
I believe I shall dub his pillow Gremlin – one not to feed after midnight – and one not to get wet.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at email@example.com.