You know the ones.
Boxers that started as “going-out boxers”, then got demoted to “around-home boxers”, and finally reached their last stop on the long road to “rag”.
I am sure it was not always like this.
There was a time when a bed was a simple affair.
Sheets, a blanket, a couple of pillows, and that was enough.
Now it is an upholstered obstacle course.
What began as a few decorative touches has turned into something that requires a building consent.
Cushions have crept into our lives quietly, like rabbits.
One day, there is a neat pair, then a few newcomers to “add texture”, and suddenly they have multiplied into a full-blown colony.
I suspect most couples could chart the state of their relationship by their cushion count.
The more cushions, the less room for spontaneity.
Of course, it always starts with good intentions.
“It just looks so nice,” says your other half as another tasselled specimen joins the pile.
You nod, because this is not the hill, or the cushion mound, you want to die on.
At first, it seems harmless. But before long, your evening routine resembles moving day.
You spend 10 minutes removing soft furnishings before you can even see the bedspread.
And in the morning, you reverse the process, carefully reconstructing the display so it looks like no human ever actually sleeps there.
That is the thing about cushions. They are purely decorative. They do not want to be sat on, leaned against, or squashed.
They exist for admiration only, like art that occasionally falls on your face at two in the morning.
I once made the mistake of using a decorative cushion under my head.
Apparently, this is like washing a cashmere jumper in the farm trough. Completely unacceptable.
“That one is for looking at,” I was told.
Which begs the question: why are we buying things for a room in which we spend most of the time asleep?
None of them offers any actual comfort, either. The softer they look, the lumpier they feel.
I have tried to stage a cushion intervention, suggesting maybe we just keep a couple of the good ones.
The reaction was as if I had proposed burning the Mona Lisa.
Cushions, it turns out, have sentimental value.
Each one, I am told, has memories stitched into it - mostly memories of me saying, “Do we really need another cushion?” only to be hit with the retort, “It’s on sale.”
But here is the real problem. Where do they all go at night?
You cannot just throw them on the floor because, apparently, that is disrespectful.
So they get stacked, carefully, into a sort of holding pen.
Every morning, you have to reinstate the decorative arrangement, which no one can quite remember.
It is like trying to reassemble a complicated flat-pack wardrobe without instructions.
I long for the simplicity of the past. A bed you could recognise instantly.
Sheets, blanket, pillows … nothing excessive.
A place you could flop into without it turning into a scene from The Castle.
Poor Daryl is asking if he can move the decorative throw cushion to get to the firm Euro cushion to move the body-supporting lumbar cushion so he can get under the doona. This would never happen in the pool room.
So here is my proposal: a cushion amnesty.
Once a year, every household must lay out its cushions and justify their existence.
If they are faded, unnecessary or shaped like an animal, they go. And not into storage either. They go for good.
No attic exile, no “just in case” cupboard. Straight to cushion heaven, where they can finally rest in decorative peace.
But for now, I will just climb the mountain each night and plant my flag in the one square foot of pillow that remains mine.
Because when you think about it, maybe Hillary had it easy.
At least his mountain did not have sequins.
Which, by the way, look fabulous and really make the room pop.
