Duvet Quotes

Can't you treat yourself with a bit more consideration?' 'Why should I?' Mordion said, hugging the duvet round himself. 'Because you're a person, of course!' Ann snapped at him. 'One person ought to treat another person properly even if the person's himself!

Sometimes, a girl just has to dive under the duvet and regroup.

I miss the way he used to kiss my shoulder whenever it was bare and he was nearby. I miss how he cleared his throat before he took a sip of water and scratched his left arm with his right hand when he was nervous. I miss how he tucked my hair behind my ear when it came loose and took my temperature when I was sick or when he was bored. I miss his glasses on my nightstand. I miss watching him take Sunday afternoon naps on my couch, with the newspaper resting on his stomach like a blanket. How his hands stayed clasped, fingers intertwined, while he slept. I miss the cadence of his speech and the stupidity of his puns. I miss playing doctor when we made love, and even when we didn't. I miss his smell, like fresh laundry and honey (because of his shampoo) at his place. Fresh laundry and coconut (because of my shampoo) at mine. I miss that he used to force me to listen to French rap and would sing along in a horrible accent. I miss that he always said "I love you" when he hung up the phone with his sister, never shy or embarassed, regardless of who else was around. I miss that his ideal Friday night included a DVD, eating Chinese food right out of the carton, and cuddling on top of my duvet cover. I miss that he reread books from his childhood and then from mine. I miss that he was the only man that I have ever farted on, and with, freely. I miss that he understood that the holidays were hard for me and that he wanted me to never feel lonely.

Alcohol units: 5. Drowning sorrows. Cigarettes: 23. Fumigating sorrows. Calories: 3,856. Smothering sorrows in fat duvet.

Criticizing people, winding them up, making idiots of them or fooling them doesn't make people with autism laugh. What makes us smile from the inside is seeing something beautiful, or a memory makes us laugh. This generally happens when there's nobody watching us. And at night, on our own, we might burst out laughing underneath the duvet, or roar with later in an empty room ... When we don't need to think about other people or anything else, that's when we wear our aural expressions.

Not only was Miss Cribbe bearded, and always trying to get chummy with us like we we're her real children or something, but she had a disgusting incontinent springer spaniel called Misty, who was constantly sneaking in to the dorms and weeing on our duvets

Abruptly, she yanked the covers over her crippled one, hiding it from him. Tohr marched right back over to her, and resolutely pulled the duvet back where it had been. Tracing the badly healed wounds with his fingertips, he met her squarely in the eye. "You're beautiful. Every inch of you. Don't think for a moment there's anything wrong with you. We clear?" "But-" "Nope. I'm not hearing that." Bending down he pressed his lips to her shin, her calf, her ankle, tracing the scars, caressing them. "Beautiful. All of you." "How can you say that," she whispered blinking back tears. "Because it's the truth."Straightening, he gave her a final squeeze. "No hiding from me, okay. And after I feed you, I think I'm going to have to show you just how serious I am." That made her smile....then laugh a little. "That's my girl." he murmured.

I can't believe it's actually happening. This is independent adulthood, this is what it feels like. Shouldn't there be some sort of ritual? In certain remote African tribes there'd be some incredible four day rites of passage ceremony involving tattooing and potent hallucinogenic drugs extracted from tree-frogs, and village elders smearing my body with monkey blood, but here,rites of passage is all about three new pairs of pants and stuffing your duvet in a bin-liner.

Now, watching her sleep, and closing his eyes, he felt, in this particular intimacy - stowed beneath her duvet - that he was intruding. At the same time, he knew, settling down, you couldn´t dislike anyone you'd seen sleep

Le dessin de Man Ray : toujours le désir, non le besoin. Pas un duvet, pas un nuage, mais des ailes, des dents, des griffes. [...] Man Ray dessine pour être aimé.

So I'm back again to the eternal question, the one that has plagued me all my life: How Do Other People Do It? How come they were given life's rule book and I missed out? Where was I when God was dispensing capability and cop on? Looking at shoes, probably.

I love being single. It's my choice, not a sentence. It's not a state that I'm in until someone better comes along. Don't feel sorry for me. I love my life." "Don't you want someone to snuggle up to at night?" "No. this way, I never have to fight for the duvet, I can sleep diagonally across the bed and I can read until four in the morning." "A book can't take the place of a man!" "I disagree. A book can give you most things a relationship can. It can make you laugh, it can make you cry, it can transport you to different worlds and teach you things. You can even take it out to dinner. And if it bores you, you can move on. Which is pretty much what happens in real life.

The landscape rose and fell like a honeymoon duvet,

They found Lauren fully submerged in a duvet fort on the bed, the only sign of her existence a splay of ginger hair poking out from the bottom.

I flung the duvet off and flailed and swung and spat at you but you were elsewhere and I had to fall asleep crushed between what you'd said and what I thought.

Thursday morning. I usually let my Mum wake me up but today I have set my alarm for seven. Even from under my duvet, I can hear it bleating on the other side of my room. I hid it inside my plastic crate for faulty joysticks so that I would have to get out of bed, walk across the room, yank it out of the box by its lead and, only then, jab the snooze button. This was a tactical manoeuvre by my previous self. He can be very cruel.

The queen-size bed has a wooden frame and a dark-orange duvet cover and pillows. The bedside tables on both sides are identically stocked: three books, a lamp and a glasses case. I wonder if this allows my parents to swap sides during the night. I turn on one of the lamps, lighting the room like a sexy library.

Dear Fran I'm watching you sleep. You are sucking your thumb. (We're going to need to talk about this.)  I can't pretend you look like a delicately slumbering princess, because you don't. Apart from the thumb business you are twitching around like a ferret and about ten minutes ago you pulled the entire duvet over yourself and left me with nothing. But I've never loved you more than I do right now.  I love you so much. I hope we can have a life together. There's so much I want to say to you. Please wake up soon. Freddy x

Grisaille let go of Ruthven and flopped face downward onto the duvet, with a creak of springs. 'I am never leaving this bed again,' he said, muffled by the covers. 'I am amalgamated with this bed. This bed and I have achieved spiritual oneness. I am it and it is me.

So she way awake at night and at times there was a curious peacefulness to this, the darkness warm as though the deep violet duvet held its color unseen, wrapping around Pam some soothing aspect of her youth, as her mind wandered over a life that felt puzzingly long; she experienced a quiet surprise that so many lifetimes could be fit into one.

He walked over the arched stone bridge, enjoying the silence of the village. Snow did that. It laid down a simple, clean duvet that muffled all sound and kept everything beneath alive. Farmers and gardeners in Quebec wished for two things in winter: lots of snow and continuous cold. An early thaw was a disaster. It tricked the young and vulnerable into exposing themselves, only to be nipped in the root. A killing frost.

What makes us smile from the inside is seeing something beautiful, or a memory that makes us laugh. This generally happens when there’s nobody watching us. And at night, on our own, we might burst out laughing underneath the duvet, or roar with laughter in an empty room … when we don’t need to think about other people or anything else, that’s when we wear our natural expressions.

He headed for the door but stopped halfway. “I love you, Sophie. I love you with my soul.” Her bare arms held up the duvet. “Don’t ruin this, Banallt, please.” “I’m not a villain from one of your novels, Sophie.” She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Unlike them, I can change. I have changed.” Unfortunately, she didn’t believe him.

When I opened my case in the hotel, he gestured excitedly at my snakeskin sandals, turquoise suede wedges and silver-speckled jellies. “But you’ve loads of shoes,” he bellowed joyfully. I shook my head sadly. Men just don’t get it, do they? They’re definitely missing the shoe chromosome.

It felt safe under the duvet. The world couldn’t reach Patricia now she was hiding under a thick layer of polyester.

rather than hanging around like a fart under a duvet.

She was the child with the flashlight under the duvet late into every night. She would breeze through a book in a day and a half, then read it six more times.

Milly likes Josh fine, it’s just that she’s hungry and it’s pretty cold when they’re not under the duvet and she’d kill for a cup of tea.

Tickling light falls over warm duvets, like the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. It shouldn't be doing this. It's the wrong day to be beautiful, but the dawn doesn't care.

I love Prada. Not so much the clothes, which are for malnourished thirteen-year-olds, but I covet, with covety covetousness, the shoes and handbags. Like, I LOVE them. If I was given a choice between world peace and a Prada handbag, I'd dither. (I'm not proud of this, I'm only saying.)

I like staying home, thank-you-very-much, where I know I can always find a plug point for my laptop, I'm never ten steps from a kettle to boil for tea, and I can go to sleep wrapped up in the comfort of my own duvet.

In the dark behind the glare of the television, like a mannequin behind it, I could see a silhouette and it wasn’t moving. It was maybe six foot high with its shoulders hunched and I blinked to make sure it was real. The TV fuzzed grey and white and black and I had a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow away. “Rory” I whispered. Clawing out gently beneath the duvet cover, reaching for his hand. But I couldn’t find it. And he didn’t answer.

My friend Kathy is the only person who'll be halfway honest with me. 'Did you ever see a cowboy film, where someone has been caught by the Indians and tied between two wild stallions, each pulling in opposite directions?' she asked. I nodded mutely. 'That's a bit what giving birth is like.

Our health is our wealth.

You can't tell that the coffin holds the body of a boy. He wasn't even sixteen but his coffin's the same size as a man's would be. It's not just that he was young, but because it was so sudden. No one should die the way he did; that's what the faces here say. I think about him, in there, with all that space, and I want to stop them. I want to open the box and climb in with him. To wrap him up in a duvet. I can't bear the thought of him being cold. And all the time the same question flails around my head, like a hawkmoth round a light-bulb: Is it possible to keep loving somebody when they kill someone you love?

For a moment I was dizzied by the impulse to leave her there: shove the techs' hands away, shout at hovering morgue men to get the hell out. We had taken enough toll on her. All she had left was her death and I wanted to leave her that, that at least. I wanted to wrap her up in soft blankets, stroke back her clotted hair, pull up a duvet of falling leaves and little animals' rustles. Leave her to sleep, sliding away forever down her secret underground river, while breathing seasons spun dandelion seeds and moon phases and snowflakes above her head. She had tried so hard to live.

Around them, the dawn gently wakes Borg like someone breathing into the ear of someone they love. With sun and promises. Tickling light falls over warm duvets, like the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. It shouldn't be doing this. It's the wrong day to be beautiful, but the dawn doesn't care.

A few minutes later, John got up, put his clothes back on, palmed his liquor bottle, and left. As the door clicked shut, Xhex pulled the duvet over herself. She did nothing to try to control the shakes that rattled her body, and didn't attempt to stop herself from crying. Tears left both of her eyes at the far corners, slipping out and flowing over her temples. Some landed in her ears. Some eased down her neck and were absorbed by the pillow. Others clouded her vision, as if they didn't want to leave home. Feeling ridiculous, she put her hands to her face and captured them as best she could, wiping them on the duvet. She cried for hours. Alone.

On the roof, on the duvet under the steam vent, with the planets overhead, he let her scream all she wished. She screamed into the night. To the stars. At one point, with his lying atop her, he said, “Look over my left shoulder. Venus is visible tonight.” Then he pulled the covers away from her, wrestling her for the duvet, as he called, “Here she is, all you Venusians”—he lifted out his arm, using it to span the celestial horizon-—“and the rest of you planets out there: the most beautiful woman on Earth, spread-eagled for your pleasure!” He laughed. “At my disposal, mm-m-m!” He bent down, nibbling, kissing her neck with his teeth, his lips, his mouth.

The old Chinese proverb springs to mind - No pain, no gain.

Below him, his city spread in soft mounds and hollows, like a duvet dropped into a well. The breeze and the elevation made

After locking the door firmly behind her, then checking it just to make sure, she placed Sam’s heels by the bed and fell onto a pink duvet.

We cannot avoid things going wrong. Even when we’ve prepared brilliantly, Fate can still vomit on our duvet.

Who the fuck manages to do this in one go? You’d need the intellect of fucking Einstein to get this massive fucking duvet into this cover.

My white duvet is like an avalanche of blanket.


They say that men marry their mothers.’ ‘I’ll remind you of that comparison the next time you’re begging for a fumble under the duvet. I’ll even let you call me Mum if you like.

How did you know, she asks him, later. They have eaten dinner, showered, are lying in bed with the duvet folded around them. Know what, Will says, into her hair. She is pressed into him, her back curved along his stomach, his knees tucked alongside her calves. What I needed, she says. Will is not sure this is a real question. He thinks it might be her way of simply telling him what everything has meant to her. Not just the piano, but all that time apart, the months where they did not speak, gave each other space, tried to heal in their own, separate, fruitless ways. How he never forgot her. He never knew they would find their way back to one another; never dared hope it would happen. But life continued, and there she was, and here he is, for her.

And, at the end of a long night, as you crawl under the duvet, there is a sense of quiet satisfaction in knowing that the rest of the working world is just setting out on the morning commute. *

She threw the duvet off and tiptoed across the landing to Josh’s room. He was sound asleep, his face lit up by his nightlight. Pip crept over to the foot of his bed and climbed under the covers beside him. She lay there, listening to his deep breaths, letting his warmth thaw her. Her eyes crossed as she stared ahead, transfixed by the soft blue light. Josh would be safe, if she was here to watch him.

They’re idiots,” he said, prowling over to recline beside her on the bed. “All of them.” “Everyone’s an idiot,” Parisa replied, tracing mindless patterns on her duvet. “You should know that as well as anyone.

Or, you know, instead of revenge plots, we could focus our energy on going off to university in a few weeks,’ he said brightly. ‘You haven’t even picked out a new duvet set; I’m told that’s a very important milestone.

The second hugely seductive move is to signal that we view the other person with a mixture of tenderness and realism. It’s often imagined that it’ll be seductive to convey an air of adoration, to hint that the other strikes us as exceptionally attractive or accomplished. But surprisingly, it is deeply worrying to be obviously adored, because everyone, from the inside, knows very well that they don’t deserve intense acclaim, are often disappointing and sometimes quite simply pitiful. So seduction involves suggesting both that one likes the other person a lot – and yet can see their frailty quite clearly, that one cope with it and forgive it with gentle indulgence. One might, towards the end of the evening drop in a small warm tease that alludes to our understanding of some less than perfect side of them: ‘I suppose you stayed under the duvet feeling a bit sorry for yourself after that?’ we might ask, with a benign smile. Such a gesture implies that we like another person not under a mistaken notion that they are flawless but with a full and unfrightened appreciation of their frailties. That ends up being powerfully seductive because it is, first and foremost, reassuring. It suggests the ideal way that we would like someone to view us within the testing conditions of a real relationship. We crave not admiration, but to be properly known and yet still liked and forgiven.

I’d rather be a beggar than be with the wrong king—not the queen of slaves, but the slave of bravery. I lay me on rocks, cover me with the darkness of the nights—not the king’s poisonous soft duvets that won’t let me meet I at dawn.

40, not a bad run in the history of human existence but she’d really rather it all kept going, water in the taps, whales in the oceans, fruit and duvets, the whole sumptuous parade, she was into it thanks, she’d like that show to run and run.

Sometimes I found it strange that you had to pray in the dark, although maybe it was like my glow-in-the-dark duvet: the stars and the planets only emitted light and protected you from the night when it was dark enough. God must work the same way.

Her eyes stung from crying for so long and having some tears dry on them. Her body was weak from the exercise but she did not feel better. While she was crying she had wanted someone, anyone to come and hold her. She had crawled into her closet, hoisted herself up onto the shelf that had duvets and bedsheets and curled herself among those. Now she knew that no hug could erase her pain, no sort of embrace could bind up her heart. She needed a new heart it seemed, her old heart was beyond repair.

How many late dinners of ham and pickled anchovies? How many arguments over the sock drawer—blacks mixing with navy blues—until they decided at last to have separate drawers? Separate duvets, as in Germany? Separate brands of coffee and tea? Separate vacations

Ditching the demon drink means walking away from the endless cycle of negativity and bashing of self – the mornings filled with recriminations and self-hatred, when the only option appears to be hiding under the duvet and wishing the world would disappear, will

Sophie opened one sleepy eye. A chink of light had found its way through a gap in the bedroom curtains and was falling on her face. She felt her husband slide his cold body down under the duvet and raised her head. She spotted a steaming mug of tea on her beside cabinet.

Yes, I thought, as I wiggled my toes under the duvet, each of us has in our mouths the incomparable taste of our own lives. We roll it around with our tongues, over and under, above and below. We hold it in or else we spit it out. And sometimes, sometimes we choke on it.

It’s not about over-the-top gestures to me,” he finally says almost shyly. “It’s all the tiny moments that go to make a real love story. The funny things that go wrong like when one of you forgets your anniversary or does something silly. They all become part of your story. And you add to it with every argument or slammed door that you have. Every birthday or Christmas that you mould into a thing that only the two of you recognise. It’s taking care of each other when you’re throwing up or have a cold, it’s huddling under the duvet together laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It’s holding the other one when they’re frightened, knowing you will do anything to make them feel better again. It’s like being two pebbles on a beach. You start off individual shapes and then the weather and proximity means you rub the rough spots off so in the end you’re smooth with a patina that only echoes one other person.

Today is one of the days when Ma is Gone. She won't wake up properly. She's here but not really. She stays in Bed with the pillows on her head. Silly Penis is standing up, I squish him down. I eat my hundred cereal and I stand on my chair to wash the bowl and Meltedy Spoon. It's very quiet when I switch off the water. I wonder did Old Nick come in the night. I don't think he did because the trash bag is still by Door, but maybe he did only he didn't take the trash? Maybe Ma's not just Gone. Maybe he squished her neck even harder and now she's - I go up really close and listen till I hear breath. I'm just one inch away, my hair touches Ma's nose and she puts her hand up over her face so I step back. I don't have a bath on my own, I just get dressed. There's hours and hours, hundreds of them. Ma gets up to pee but not talking, with her face all blank. I already put a glass of water beside Bed but she just gets back under Duvet.

Picking me up, Frank carries me like they do in the movies to the back of the loft, pushing aside a gauzy scrim on rollers to reveal a king-size bed with Gothic-looking wooden posts jutting out from each corner. This is not the innocent white-sun-dappled bed of my dorm room fantasy. The sheets and duvet are a manly gray, and those posts recall certain scenes in Dracula and Wuthering Heights. Placing me on top of it, he pulls of his sweatshirt, revealing his pale, hairless chest. His disheveled hair hangs limply above his shoulders. He looks a little Klaus Kinski-ish- in need of blood, yet sexy, vulnerable, yet ready to please.

His bed was made with a beige duvet. A neat desk with an elaborate computer set up on it. Three large screens and a keypad and wireless mouse in the middle. There was a tiny dog bed next to the desk and a potted plant in the corner. Artwork on the walls. It was a nice apartment—minus the view. He was obviously clean and had good enough taste.

It’s sad when the things you continue to do make people question whether you have dementia. They’re not inside my brain to hear or see the hallucinations. Would it make them feel better to see me on a foggy day, the type where I curl up under my duvet and hide away from the world? Would that make the disease fit better into the pigeonhole they’ve allocated it?

La solitude est une chose bien étrange. Elle vous envahit, tout doucement et sans faire de bruit, s’assoit à vos côtés dans le noir, vous caresse les cheveux pendant votre sommeil. Elle s’enroule autour de vous, vous serre si fort que vous pouvez à peine respirer, que vous n’entendez presque plus la pulsation du sang dans vos veines, tandis qu’elle file sur votre peau et effleure de ses lèvres le fin duvet de votre nuque. Elle s’installe dans votre cœur, s’allonge près de vous la nuit, dévore comme une sangsue la lumière dans le moindre recoin. C’est une compagne de chaque instant, qui vous serre la main pour mieux vous tirer vers le bas quand vous luttez pour vous redresser. Vous vous réveillez le matin et vous vous demandez qui vous êtes. Vous n’arrivez pas à vous endormir le soir et tremblez comme une feuille. Vous doutez vous doutez vous doutez. je dois je ne dois pas je devrais pourquoi je ne vais pas Et même quand vous êtes prêt à lâcher prise. Quand vous êtes prêt à vous libérer. Quand vous êtes prêt à devenir quelqu’un de nouveau. La solitude est une vieille amie debout à votre côté dans le miroir ; elle vous regarde droit dans les yeux, vous met au défi de mener votre vie sans elle. Vous ne pouvez pas trouver les mots pour lutter contre vous-même, lutter contre les mots qui hurlent que vous n’êtes pas à la hauteur, que vous ne le serez jamais vraiment, jamais vraiment. La solitude est une compagne cruelle, maudite. Parfois, elle ne veut simplement pas vous abandonner

Ma soeur a mis le feu à sa chambre en lisant la nuit avec une lampe de poche sous son duvet pour que mon père ne voie pas de lumière passer sous la porte. Mais elle l'a éteint toute seule, en battant l'édredon contre le mur, et en ouvrant la fenêtre pour évacuer la fumée. Quand ma mère entre le matin dans sa chambre, elle trouve tout cramé. Mes parents n'ont plus la force de rosser ma soeur, elle résiste trop dignement à leurs coups.

All-out. Thaumaturgical. War. And there were of course no alliances, no sides, no deals, no mercy, no cease. The skies twisted, the seas boiled. The scream and whizz of fireballs turned the night into day, but that was all right because the ensuing clouds of black smoke turned the day into night. The landscape rose and fell like a honeymoon duvet, and the very fabric of space itself was tied in multidimensional knots and bashed on a flat stone down by the river of Time.

It was colder that winter than I knew cold could be, even though the girl from Minnesota down the hall declared it “nothing.” Out in Oregon, snow had been a gift, a two-day dusting earned by enduring months of gray, dripping sky. But the wind whipping up the Hudson from the city was so vehement that even my bone marrow froze. Every morning, I hunkered under my duvet, unsure of how I’d make it to my 9:00 a.m. Latin class. The clouds spilled endless white and Ev slept in.

You apologized last night, don’t worry about it.” “I did?” “Yeah, about thirty times. Then you tried to seduce me, which I politely rejected—sorry. You were far too drunk to be doing anything other than sleeping.” Sinking farther into the duvet, I feel the heat creep to my cheeks. “Doesn’t sound like me. You sure?” He hums a “Yep,” smirking to himself. “You were very graphic with what you wanted to do to me. Told me my dick is the prettiest you’ve ever seen.” Peeking over my duvet shield, he looks so happy. “It is, to be fair.

About sexuality of English mice. A warm perfume is growing little by little in the room. An orchard scent, a caramelized sugar scent. Mrs. MOUSE roasts apples in the chimney. The apple fruits smell grass of England and the pastry oven. On a thread drawn in the flames, the apples, from the buried autumn, turn a golden color and grind in tempting bubbles. But I have the feeling that you already worry. Mrs. MOUSE in a Laura Ashley apron, pink and white stripes, with a big purple satin bow on her belt, Mrs. MOUSE is certainly not a free mouse? Certainly she cooks all day long lemon meringue tarts, puddings and cheese pies, in the kitchen of the burrow. She suffocates a bit in the sweet steams, looks with a sigh the patched socks trickling, hanging from the ceiling, between mint leaves and pomegranates. Surely Mrs. MOUSE just knows the inside, and all the evening flavours are just good for Mrs. MOUSE flabbiness. You are totally wrong - we can forgive you – we don’t know enough that the life in the burrow is totally communal. To pick the blackberries, the purplish red elderberries, the beechnuts and the sloes Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE escape in turn, and glean in the bushes the winter gatherings. After, with frozen paws, intoxicated with cold wind, they come back in the burrow, and it’s a good time when the little door, rond little oak wood door brings a yellow ray in the blue of the evening. Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE are from outside and from inside, in the most complete commonality of wealth and climate. While Mrs. MOUSE prepares the hot wine, Mr. MOUSE takes care of the children. On the top of the bunk bed Thimoty is reading a cartoon, Mr. MOUSE helps Benjamin to put a fleece-lined pyjama, one in a very sweet milky blue for snow dreams. That’s it … children are in bed …. Mrs. MOUSE blazes the hot wine near the chimney, it smells lemon, cinnamon, big dry flames, a blue tempest. Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE can wait and watch. They drink slowly, and then .... they will make love ….You didn’t know? It’s true, we need to guess it. Don’t expect me to tell you in details the mice love in patchwork duvets, the deep cherry wood bed. It’s just good enough not to speak about it. Because, to be able to speak about it, it would need all the perfumes, all the silent, all the talent and all the colors of the day. We already make love preparing the blackberries wine, the lemon meringue pie, we already make love going outside in the coldness to earn the wish of warmness and come back. We make love downstream of the day, as we take care of our patiences. It’s a love very warm, very present and yet invisible, mice’s love in the duvets. Imagine, dream a bit ….. Don’t speak too badly about English mice’s sexuality …..

urge to jump up straight away. He lay unmoving and alert, listening out for the slightest sound. The cottage was old and there were often noises —creaks and bangs and scratchings —that he knew were not ghosts but just the normal sounds an old house makes. The waiting was torture. Finally, at ten past midnight Zak kicked his duvet aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was already fully clothed. He retrieved a bag from under his bed, a small backpack that he’d packed earlier for his night-time excursion. It contained a torch, a pair of gloves and his mobile phone.

I snapped my teeth at him making him retract his fingers to a safe distance away from my choppers. I grinned as I turned around and made a move to grab my duvet so I could shake it out and make my bed, only to find I couldn't because Storm was lying on top of it. I didn't even hear him come in. “Hello, my baby boy,” I cooed. Alec gasped from behind me. “How does he fucking do that?” I smiled as I leaned over and scratched behind Storm's ears. “Because he is a cool dog.” “This is not funny, he doesn't make a fucking sound... it's not right, not right at all!” I grinned. “I told you,” I said as I turned around to face Alec again. “He is a ninja dog.

It was good to be gay on Top of the Pops years before it was good to be gay in Parliament, or gay in church, or gay on the rugby pitch. And it’s not just gay progress that happens in this way: 24 had a black president before America did. Jane Eyre was a feminist before Germaine Greer was born. A Trip to the Moon put humans on the Moon in 1902. This is why recent debates about the importance of the arts contain, at core, an unhappy error of judgment. In both the arts cuts—29 percent of the Arts Council’s funding has now gone—and the presumption that the new, “slimmed down” National Curriculum will “squeeze out” art, drama and music, there lies a subconscious belief that the arts are some kind of . . . social luxury: the national equivalent of buying some overpriced throw pillows and big candle from John Lewis. Policing and defense, of course, remain very much “essentials”—the fridge and duvets in our country’s putative semi-detached house. But art—painting, poetry, film, TV, music, books, magazines—is a world that runs constant and parallel to ours, where we imagine different futures—millions of them—and try them out for size. Fantasy characters can kiss, and we, as a nation, can all work out how we feel about it, without having to involve real shy teenage lesbians in awful sweaters, to the benefit of everyone’s notion of civility.

We invited each other into our spaces when parents would allow – girls only in these altars of beauty. We were christened into girlhood, not by holy water or the consumption of Christ’s body and blood, but with these rituals – painting each other’s faces, playing with each other’s hair, making each other over, doing our worst because we were allowed and laughing until we lost all control of our limbs, collapsing in a heavy pile of happy tears. There was an intimacy that was so pure, as deep as if we were real sisters. Our lips frosted with sugar, giggling under duvets, talking about kisses and crushes and trying our hardest not to fall asleep – fighting to keep the night alive.

When I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the windows in my suite. There was a lipstick-smeared drool stain on the Frette linens. And someone was . . . shouting. Wait, what? I turned my heavy head. The Vice President of Marketing was in my room—yelling at me! “AHHHHH!” I was nearly naked! I fumbled for the duvet. “You missed breakfast!” The Vice President of Marketing was bugging. Behind her was a male hotel employee with a key card. “We’ve been calling and calling!” “I overslept!” I cried. “Why are you in my room? Can you give me some fucking privacy? You can’t just bust in on people!” I knew I shouldn’t talk to one of Lucky’s biggest advertisers this way, but I was pissed. I may have been a drug addict, but I had my dignity! You know?

the air veined with balancings in the rootless spaces where endless worlds are formed and dissolve snow duvet dancing in the night beating in the heart’s ear of a language so close to being here — memory of snow on the skin melted flakes of past images edgeless night on the edge of memory clouds assemble and dilate the straw thrown into the light bright plovers turning under the wind I listen again to what ear throat fingers and brain extract in a moment from the endless flowing stream of things a water that transports friable words which we pass from hand to hand from mouth to ear, bits of mourning and clarity — low voices and the footsteps become clear the embers of a life roll on without brakes red of a morning, of another sunset in the gorges, on the broken stonefields someone within me listens relentlessly to the inaudible beating in things. from " Nuits

remarqua que si on laisse refroidir de la résine qui a été fondüe, & que, si, avant qu'elle soit tout-à-fait refroidie, on en approche du cuivre en feüilles, elle l'attire à la distance d'un pouce ou deux, sans aucun frottement précédent. M. Gray continua avec succès les recherches électriques de Boyle & de Hauksbée; ayant voulu éprouver s'il y avoit quelque différence dans l'attraction du tube lorsqu'il étoit bouché par les deux bouts & lorsqu'il ne l'étoit pas, il n'en apperçut aucune; mais comme il tenoit une plume ou duvet au-dessus du bouchon de liége dont le bout supérieur du tube étoit bouché, il remarqua que cette plume étoit attirée & ensuite repoussée par le liége de la même manière qu'elle a coutume de l'être par le tube. Cette observation le confirma dans une pensée qu'il avoit euë autrefois, que, comme le tube frotté dans l'obscurité communique de la lumière aux autres corps

(Romance is) not about over-the-top gestures to me,” he finally says almost shyly. “It’s all the tiny moments that go to make a real love story. The funny things that go wrong like when one of you forgets your anniversary or does something silly. They all become part of your story. And you add to it with every argument or slammed door that you have. Every birthday or Christmas that you mould into a thing that only the two of you recognise. It’s taking care of each other when you’re throwing up or have a cold, it’s huddling under the duvet together laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It’s holding the other one when they’re frightened, knowing you will do anything to make them feel better again. It’s like being two pebbles on a beach. You start off individual shapes and then the weather and proximity means you rub the rough spots off so in the end you’re smooth with a patina that only echoes one other person.

He curled his arms, popped his biceps. "The Hulk is no match for the power of these pythons." "I see another python is also proud of the fact that my room is destroyed." Liam cupped his semi-erect length and gave a manly tug. "The desk is next. Or should we do it on your dresser? You've got a weapon of mass destruction at your beck and call. Just point me in the right direction." Laughter bubbled up in her chest. She loved this playful, joyful side of Liam. Maybe he'd never really had a chance to embrace that part of his personality when he was growing up, but he was definitely making up for it now. "Are you seriously comparing yourself to a weapon of mass destruction?" "Look at this room." He opened his arms wide. "We rocked the fucking world." Daisy made her way across the broken shambles of the bed. It didn't look girlie anymore. They'd managed to knock off the pink duvet, and all the fluffy pillows, and tangle the delicately flowered sheets in a heap. Definitely time for a change. "Where are you going"----he growled----"wiggling that sexy little ass at me?" Daisy looked back over her shoulder and smiled. "You said something about a desk?

He was taller than Kay, which gave him just the geometric extent to wholly wrap her back. He could honestly say that he could not remember ever lying around her, beside her, or intertwined with her in a position that was slightly uncomfortable—that was, in fact, anything short of sumptuous. The earthy tones of his wife’s natural scent hit a descant note of sweetness, and featured the same subtle complexity that Kay savoured in red wine; thus he loved nothing better than nestling a cheek on her shoulder to inhale at the base of her neck, where the heady smell was distilled. She didn’t snore, but she did have an endearing habit of talking as she dreamt, which helped convey that the shifting and realigning of their bodies during the night were a form of conversation. Their sleep was best in winter and constituted the most winning aspect of the season (in comparison, sod Christmas), when they lowered the thermostat to 12°C and doubled the duvets, the air sharp and fresh in their lungs, their bodies in due course so indolently warm that it felt almost criminal. An instep cooled outside the duvet would slip bracingly against his calf; a hand warmed under the pillow would cup the side of his neck, making him feel not only safe and beloved, but more profoundly and perfectly present in the single beating moments of his life than he ever felt during the day.

I picked her up and carried her down the hall to the bathroom, just a pitiful skeleton with skin stretched over the top and a great red scar across her chest. She sank onto the plastic seat we had got from the hospital and closed her eyes as I washed her, leaning her poor bald head back exhaustedly against the back of the shower cubicle. "I'll just change the sheets," I said, "I won't be a minute - would you rather sit under the water, or shall I turn it off and wrap you up in a towel ?" "Under the water," she whispered. I had to strip the bed entirely, and two of the pillows were saturated. I replaced them with pillows from my bed, and while I was at it my duvet as well. Then I propped the poor woman up against the bathroom sink to dry and dress her, picked her up and carried her back to bed. Never have I been so grateful to be, after all, a strapping wench rather than a delicate wisp of a girl. As I pulled the covers up under her chin she opened her eyes, looked at me sternly and said with nearly her old decision, "This is not the way I wish to be remembered, Josephine." "I know," I whispered, the tears spilling unchecked down my cheeks. Nurses are supposed to be bright and matter-of-fact about these things: my bracing professional manner left a lot to be desired. "I'll get you some dinner." "No," she said. "Just my pills, love." Back in the kitchen I stood for a moment in a trance of indecision, wondering where the hell to start. It didn't really matter - when you're overcome with lethargy you just have to do something. And then the next thing, and then the next, and eventually, although you'd have sworn you were far too tired and depressed to accomplish anything, you're finished. I turned on the tap about the big concrete sink by the back door and began to scrub sheets and blankets.

So you hook up with strangers?" Liam asked in a hushed whisper as the cashier rang up their order. "Were you with someone last night?" "Yes. His name is Max." She pulled out her phone. "I have a selfie of us together." She held it up for the cashier to see, keeping the screen away from Liam's line of vision. "Oh, he's gorgeous," the cashier said. "He's got the nicest eyes." "Let me see." Liam felt his protective instincts rise. "Who is he? Max who?" "He doesn't have a last name." "Jesus Christ, Daisy," he spluttered. "Does Sanjay know you do this? What about your dad?" "They know all about Max," Daisy said. "In fact, my dad took a picture of us cuddled together in bed the night before he left on his trip, and the cutest one of Max on my pillow. I bought some pajamas but he refused to wear them. He likes to sleep au naturel." Bile rose in Liam's throat. "And your dad took... pictures?" "Photography is his new hobby. He took some great shots when I was giving Max a bath..." "Stop." Liam held up a hand. "Just... I can't. I don't know what's happened to you, but it ends now. We're engaged and that means no more random hookups, no pornographic pictures, and no flashing pictures of strangers in the nude." "Amina doesn't mind. She's my second cousin." Daisy introduced them before turning her phone around. "And this is Max." Liam was a heartbeat away from shutting his eyes when his brain registered the picture of a fluffy white dog on a pink duvet. His tension left him in a rush. "Max is a dog." "He's a Westie. Layla got him for me as an emotional support dog at a bad time in my life." Liam bit back the urge to ask Daisy about a time so bad she'd needed extra love. It was her business, and he could only hope she would tell him when she was ready so he could offer his support. "That wasn't funny." "Amina and I were amused." "I heard you were engaged." Amina's gaze flicked to Liam and she blushed. "He's almost as cute as Max.

is wondering if the queen pulls the duvet up so you can only see her head, then says "Look Philip i'm a stamp!".

lol I can sleep, i've never had a problem with it. I just never got much. These days if i'm not awake doing something, i'll stay in bed from night til night and have no problems with hiding under the duvet. That's what worries me. It comes to the point sometimes that I don't know what i worry more about when going to sleep - my dreams? my dreams that are nightmares, or the real fact that it doesn't matter if my eyes are closed or open, i'm still living the same thing. Pretty fecking depressing if you ask me lol So I tend to stay awake the longest I can so that when I fall asleep i'm too tired to say or do much that I just sleep and don't think.

The poor soul would have been 100 - if he'd lived another twelve years. Apparently he asked to be scattered over the place where he spent his happiest moments - but Bridget wasn't keen no having ash all over her duvet.

I wrapped the duvet underneath me to form a nice little cocoon, and managed to sleep for perhaps another hour or so, during which time I had a very peculiar dream about a hooded man who chased me around Shepherd’s Bush with a sword made out of breakfast.  And then my dog was barking.

A blanket could be used as a duvet, in the fight against elitism.


Struck by some oddity of texture, I look again—and realise that the muddy heap has two brown eyes and a long brown beak, and that it is actually a female eider duck, its feathers comfortably fluffed out, perfectly camouflaged against the ground. “One can see why it would make a good duvet,” I say, as we stand on the walkway admiring it.

Sunlight penetrated the room and he flung the duvet aside; the sundial pointer of his morning erection showed a quarter past seven.

she won’t be making evening practice either, then rolls over, pulling her duvet high up around her ears. She feels vaguely surprised that it’s so easy. She’s reminded of her favourite Yeats poem: Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Her brain thick with sleep, the idea of Marcus as a falconer strikes her as quite profound. This far from Marcus, she wonders how he ever had such a hold over her. The thought sleepily occurs to her that she may never get out of bed, never return to the pool, again. As she has always suspected, the first practice was the hardest to miss and after that one slip, the whole foundation of her training discipline would come crashing down, falling apart around her. The slacker in her would take over. Yes, the pool, always her centre, has lost its hold. What, she wonders, has held the whole thing together this long? I have an intense burning desire to be a champion. That was the phrase she learned at National Youth Team swim camps. I have an intense burning desire to be a champion. They repeated the mantra over and over—a room full of fourteen-year-olds chanting the words in unison. I have an intense burning desire to be a champion. After

HOUSEHOLD MAINTENANCE I’ve written the following list to help you with the maintenance tasks that will have the most impact on the longevity of your belongings. Every day Act fast to clean up spills on furniture or clothing. Update software as needed to avoid getting hacked. Every week Vacuum, dust, and clean the house and furniture. Condition regularly worn shoes. Clean clothes as necessary. Clean out the dishwasher filter. Every month Descale the coffee maker (see this page). Condition regularly used leather bags and shoes worn less often. Fix any garments in the mending pile. Every three months Oil wood cutting boards and spoons. Put frozen vinegar cubes in the garbage disposal. Check the smoke alarms. Check the water softener (if you have one). Every six months Deep clean the house. Turn and vacuum the mattress. Launder the pillows and duvet. Polish wood furniture. Deep clean the fridge. Clean the refrigerator coils. Put petroleum jelly on the fridge seals. Run the cleaning cycle of the dishwasher and washing machine. Inspect the gutters. Every year Take stock of the items in your life (see Chapter 8). Have any leather jackets professionally cleaned. Get the knives sharpened. Clean the filter in the kitchen hood fan. Check the grouting around the tiles in the kitchen and bathroom. Flush the hot-water system and have the boiler serviced. Inspect the roof and exterior of your home (best done in spring/summer). Fix any loose fixings or screws. Clean and consider repainting/resealing the exterior woodwork. Every two years Have a professional deep clean of your upholstery and carpets.

I lie here for a few moments, willing it to go away. I’d hoped that by moving back to London I could leave it behind, with no forwarding address. But now it’s found me and it’s not giving up without a fight. But neither am I. Summoning my courage, I throw back my duvet. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that you must never give in to a bully. And The Fear is the very worst kind.

The pleasure of a freshly-dressed bed is one of the finer things in life, and yet many stumble here, not sure what can go with what, or whether it's okay to mismatch pillows and duvet cover. The simple answer to this is that anything goes.

Friendships as Leona knew, could often be like the sharing of a bed of companionship with someone and sometimes the blankets and duvet would be shared much like the details, secrets and intricate intimacies of one's life and at other times, they wouldn't.

Can’t we just be allowed to feel a bit bleugh sometimes without this constant pressure? Max certainly isn’t happy right now. Cricket wasn’t feeling joyful when she cleared out Monty’s clothes. And bliss to me right now would be something to take away this awful PMS, and crawling back underneath my duvet. Sometimes life is crap, and wrapping it up in an inspirational quote isn’t always going to make you feel better. On the contrary, sometimes it just makes everything feel worse.

My bed was calling me, so I turned off my mobile, switched on the answering machine and climbed under the duvet for a few hours of divine uninterrupted sleep.

Ever cried when you don’t know what you’re crying about? It’s intense, and it’s miserable, but oddly soothing at the same time. You’re curled up in your bed, huddled under the duvet, and you’re silently sobbing in the safety of your cocoon. That’s

Pennywise offer best Specialist duvet cleaning in Uk. Pennywise Cleaners provides highly effective sterilisation and removal of allergens, leaving your duvet fresh and hygienically clean.

He’d wake up, and watch Dex sleep for a brief moment, grinning like an idiot at his partner’s sleeping form. The guy always looked like he’d gone three rounds with the duvet and lost. It was wrapped around his waist, one leg on top, arm tucked up against his body, the other under his crooked pillow, his hair sticking up every which way and stubble grown in. Damn he was sexy. Sloane carefully leaned over and placed a kiss to Dex’s bare shoulder, tempted by the curve of his spine leading down to that plump ass underneath the covers. God, he loved Dex’s ass. Then again, there wasn’t a whole lot of Dex not to love. Love? He