Pillow Talk

In true - rather than half-hearted - househusband style, was dispatched by mrs househusbandnot on Saturday to buy new pillows. The brief was pretty straight forward: don't fuck it up. There was, I later discovered, a whole other agenda to this agenda about mrs hhn worrying that she is too directive about stuff around the house. But I didn't get that nice message until after the event. So I headed up into town desperately worried that I was going to buy the WRONG pillows.

So I wandered around the pillow department of John Lewis looking at pillows that varied wildly in price and design and construction, eventually - having not been able to get mrs hhn on the phone to check my pillow choices - picking out a couple of decently priced pillows that felt nice. I checked with the girl at the pay desk to see if I could take them back if the pillows were 'wrong'. She looked pityingly at me, and assured me that I was (probably) making the right choice pillow-wise. Exhausted, I left the shop, clutching said pillows to my thumping heart.

Actually, turns out the pillows were met with approval back at home, and we ended up having a really decent sleep, our weary heads snuggled up into our new bouncy pillows. Which got me thinking. Like those mad billionaires and tyrants who only wear new socks, and that rapper who never wears a t-shirt twice, and David Beckham only ever wearing football boots for one game, perhaps we could have new pillows every week? Every Saturday night, we could have a sleep like we had this Saturday? Don't think we are going to run to this extravagance, but it was a nice little fantasy there for a few hours.

Speaking of tyrants, we went to see that Idi Amin film this weekend. It was really excellent, although it did remind me that when I was about eleven my dad made me go to a fancy dress party dressed as Amin. So there was Rupert Bears, and pirates, and my mate Andrew Cashman dressed as a box of matches, and me dressed as a violent African tyrant. I don't think I won any prizes at the party, except for maybe maddest father. We - the contestants - had to do a parade around this pavilion where the judges, who were our teachers, checked us out taking notes and stuff on our costumes. On the third and final parade around, I realised the judges had realised who I was supposed to be, and were making separate notes about my social welfare at home. Great film though. I recommend it, although last 10 minutes is a bit of a facer when they show quite how violent and cruel Amin and his entourage could be.

Anyway off to Oxshott for a meeting about the website I am working on. (Website or web site? I never know.) Not sure I've spent Oxshott right either.