2004-03-08 - 1:11 a.m.

The diary entry which you are about to read is an account of the tragedy which befell a young insomniac named Gannymede. It is all the more tragic in that he was bored. But, if he lives a very, very long life, he could not be expected nor would he wish to see as much of the mad and macabre as he were to see that day. For Gannymede, an idyllic foggy afternoon chore became a nightmare. The events of that day were to lead to the discovery of one of the most boring events in the annals of Diaryland history, The Scotland Duvet Massacre.

Shortly before the weekend began I arose from my manger and noticed with some degree of alarm that the myriad stains, insects, crumbs and spillages coating my bedsheet had merged to form a frank command: "Clean me, slob!" I added the comma in myself with the pickings from my left nostril. Bodily fluids don't lie. Had it been 9 years already? I had sheets to change! I told Penny to hold my calls and undressed the bed with the vigor of an escaped con in a 2-bit whorehouse. The bed was nude and I stood over it, smirking with triumph. The pillows were next and soon they too were cast to the floor, shriveled and bald. This sudden burst of activity left me giddy but determined. Stage one complete. Once the air cleared and I had stopped coughing, I gathered up the crumbling remnants of my bedding and tried to remember where the washing machine was.

I set the controls to Hiroshima and let electricity take its course. Washing machines take a long time, don't they? (Seinfeld: "Hey, what's the deal with washing machines?") Even a stiff kick to the drum doesn't seem to hasten the cycle. Round and round they go, forever and ever, the obsessive Nazis of the white goods world on their endless quest for purification. As the moon pulled up his barstool, I began to wonder if this was my punishment for disobeying the washing liquid box by putting the pouch in after the laundry instead of before. Can the machine really tell? Was that plume of black smoke there before? Finally, after 427 rotations, the vibrations stopped and I hopped down to open the porthole and retrieve my soggy cargo. It worked! The sheets were good as new! By now bedtime was fast approaching so into the tumble dryer they went. Tumbler dryers are a lot more laid back than their perfectionist cousins. They do the job in half the time and don't care too much if it's not perfect. They compensate for the odd damp spot with that soothing scent of dryness that greets you when the door is opened. Wonderful.

So it was back upstairs to make my bed respectable again. Never again shall I go through this utter hell. After many hours trying in vain to remember which pillowcase belonged to which pillow, I gave up and stuffed them in regardless of colour and tried to beat them into shape. It was hopeless. They just sank back into their lumpy forms like Stretch Armstrong. Ignoring the damn things momentarily, I attempted to put the sheet back on the bed. Every time I cast it out it would veer off to the side and out of my grip, making it impossible to line up the corners. My arms were getting pretty sore by this point. I ended up crawling out to each corner of the bed and tucking the ends under the mattress. But as soon as one elasticated edge was yanked down and tucked into position, the opposite side would break free. I began to despair. It was with pure adrenaline and super-human strength that I managed to get all four into position simultaneously. It was then that I saw the label sticking out from the end and realised I'd put the bloody thing on inside out. Wiping my tears aside, I ripped off the sheet and started the whole exhausting procedure again, not realising the worst was yet to come: Puting the duvet back inside its cover.

I don't know how long exactly I was inside the duvet cover for. There was certainly a lot of mail waiting for me when I made it downstairs, bearded and bloodstained. My nightmare began after I pushed the duvet inside its patchwork jacket. No amount of shaking would straighten it into the corners. My arms throbbed with pain as time after time the duvet doubled up on itself or twisted into gorgon knots that would have baffled Houdini. The entwined shapes that my treacherous bedding formed defied all laws of physics. As I lost feeling in the left side of my body it became obvious that the only solution would be to climb inside the cover and take the duvet to the corners of the cover by hand. Stripping to the waist, I entered head first There was an eerie penumbra of gloom inside the labyrinthine folds. I thrashed about, hopelessly entangled in the darkness. The entrance had sealed somewhere far behind me, or was it in front? I gasped for air. The material clung to my face like a pimples on a McDonalds worker. Blinded, scared and wheezing I searched frantically for the corners. If I could just get the thing flat, then maybe I could find an escape. Days passed. I was so weak I could barely move. I was keeping myself alive on a diet of sweat and lint. My imaginary friends had began taunting and mocking me. “You’ll never find the corners! Lumpy quilt forever!” echoed round my cotton dungeon. When my nail eventually grew long enough to cut through the wall, I wept with joy. I had failed to align the duvet with the cover, but by God, I was free! My celebrations were cut short, though, when I noticed that during my time in the cover, half of my mattress had disappeared. I laughed like a madman as I watched it all burn. It's hammocks from now on.

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