You know when, at last, you make it to the sofa for a bit of TV, and you wrap yourself in the blanket, and take a deep cleansing breath, and –
ew. What is that smell?
Yes, it was the living room blanket’s biannual wash night the other day, and I got to thinking. My sister bought me that blanket, just after I had moved out from home. At first I didn’t think I liked the colour.
But it was huge and comfy and I brought it – and four boxes of books – to Mr HB’s house. I have a photo of his daughter, now 21, asleep in it, aged about 8. My youngest two fight over it every weekend, watching cartoons.
I know it’s only a thing, not a person, but it’s a special blanket. Now and then it deserves a good clean.