BED
Bed - what a wonderful invention! To say that I love mine would be to reduce my feelings for this all-ensconcing piece of furniture to the level of human affection: people disappoint, betray and snap; my bed always welcomes me with a smile and a cosy embrace, rain or shine.
I owe my beautiful bed to two gays - my former tenants, to be precise. For if it wasn't for their debunking of the "aren't-gay-men-tidy" stereotype, I would never have been forced to get rid of my 1990s cream-coloured, gold-embroidered divan with matching mattress (I put in on eBay for £1. And someonee obligingly paid me £9.50 for the thing. They picked it up too, saving me the £30 I would have had to pay the council to do the same).
You see, my tenants were not very nice people. They put my computer table on the terrace, where it was destroyed by the elements; stained the carpet; put up lights that looked like sea-urchins; and installed a Sky satellite dish without my permission. They also left deep, crimson marks on my bed. I didn't care to sleep on it any more.
After a few weeks' searching, I opted for an overpriced Habitat bed. It's made of luxuriant, mahogany-coloured Italian leather. The mattress lies on slats. But - and this is the best bit - the mattress and slats are attached to a hydraulic mechanism. I can lift them right up, revealing, underneath, enough storage space to fit my ironing board, vacuum cleaner and summer wardrobe. It cost me £1400, but I wouldn't change it for the world.
"I've yet to christen my bed yet," I tell my female friends. As they wince in disgust, I suggest that "Bob" might be a good name. Still, a shag wouldn't go amiss either!
Alas, "Bob" and I won't be happy bedfellows this evening. I'm on another night shift. And when I get home tomorrow morning I have to finish packing, pick up my ticket and head to the airport. Elat is just a few hours away.
Bed - what a wonderful invention! To say that I love mine would be to reduce my feelings for this all-ensconcing piece of furniture to the level of human affection: people disappoint, betray and snap; my bed always welcomes me with a smile and a cosy embrace, rain or shine.
I owe my beautiful bed to two gays - my former tenants, to be precise. For if it wasn't for their debunking of the "aren't-gay-men-tidy" stereotype, I would never have been forced to get rid of my 1990s cream-coloured, gold-embroidered divan with matching mattress (I put in on eBay for £1. And someonee obligingly paid me £9.50 for the thing. They picked it up too, saving me the £30 I would have had to pay the council to do the same).
You see, my tenants were not very nice people. They put my computer table on the terrace, where it was destroyed by the elements; stained the carpet; put up lights that looked like sea-urchins; and installed a Sky satellite dish without my permission. They also left deep, crimson marks on my bed. I didn't care to sleep on it any more.
After a few weeks' searching, I opted for an overpriced Habitat bed. It's made of luxuriant, mahogany-coloured Italian leather. The mattress lies on slats. But - and this is the best bit - the mattress and slats are attached to a hydraulic mechanism. I can lift them right up, revealing, underneath, enough storage space to fit my ironing board, vacuum cleaner and summer wardrobe. It cost me £1400, but I wouldn't change it for the world.
"I've yet to christen my bed yet," I tell my female friends. As they wince in disgust, I suggest that "Bob" might be a good name. Still, a shag wouldn't go amiss either!
Alas, "Bob" and I won't be happy bedfellows this evening. I'm on another night shift. And when I get home tomorrow morning I have to finish packing, pick up my ticket and head to the airport. Elat is just a few hours away.
posted by David Cohen at 12:49 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home