Thursday, 14 April 2011

Do I have an addictive personality? Let's obsess on that for a while and decide.

My bedroom is currently full of feathers. I woke up in the middle of the night last night to the tickle of one that had decided to lodge itself halfway up my nose... that was a bizarre feeling.

It's no one's fault but my own alas. You see two nights ago I changed my bed covers (I can actually hear my mother's cries of joy). I have two feather pillows on my bed. My reason for buying these feather pillows was not for comfort sake, nor because I find them to be superior pillows. No, my reason for buying them is a simple one, one that I have had since I was 8 years old and first set my sights on my Grandma's feather pillow.

I remember that day very well, I had sat down on the sofa in her back room and that dark brown velvet cushion just sat there, watching me, inviting me into it's featherness joy.

The reason for why it was so intriguing to me was due to one small white speck in the middle of it's rich brown colour. On closer inspection I discovered this white speck to be the pointy end of a feather.

An urge came over me then, so large that I knew I would never be able to resist it. I had to pull that feather out.

I practically pounced on the cushion in my hastiness to fulfill my child desire. I pulled the cushion close, placed my index finger and thumb around the small stalk and pulled.

The sheer satisfaction behind pulling that feather out to my young 8 year old brain, was immense.

I immediately wanted more. I wanted to feel that satisfaction again. I placed my palm down on the cushion surface and searched for any more feathers poking out, To my delight there were more... and then more still... and then even more. Once I had exhausted the cushion of all it's protruding feathers, I went on the hunt for more cushions like it, and boy did I find them.

To my utmost joy my Grandma was a complete lover of all cushions feathery. I set to work on all the cushions in the room until there were none left to pluck and the clock on the wall told me that three hours had gone by.

The room looked like 100 chickens had been brutally murdered.

I'd like to say to you that I behaved that way because I was a child who didn't know any better. Alas, if that was the case then I wouldn't be writing this post.

It's the most bizarre urge that I have never been able to explain but at the same time, has never desisted.

Every time I see a feather pillow I just have to pluck away until the pain goes away.

As the years progressed, I learnt to be ashamed of it, only plucking a cushion or a pillow when I was alone so as not to attract judgement or gossip.

But this unfortunate habit does tend to leave a trail. When I lived with Rachael I can't tell you the amount of times she would come home perplexed and ask me whether I had been having cushion fights in her living room. I would usually mumble something about a stray goose who had got in and swiftly make my exit.

I've found that to take the edge off, it's good to have my own feathered bedding. I don't think cushions for the living room would be a wise idea because then I would never leave my feather carpeted house. But pillows are a happy compromise.

You see, I have discovered I don't usually have the urge to pluck a pillow if it has a cover over it, which is most of the time. So my plucking is limited to the day I change the bedding.

And that, dear friends, is why my bedroom is full of feathers.

It is also why I don't do drugs.

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