Fresh SheetsThis is a strange confession .
One that defies the usual definition of 'confession', at least in the slightly dangerous, exciting sense of the word.
My confession is sheets.
High thread count sheets.
No more percale blends from Walmart for me.
No more flannel with pills so bad it feels as though there are cookie crumbs in the bed.
I have finally worked my way up the social ladder and reached the dizzying heights of 600 thread count. I received the sheets from Restoration Hardware and I immediately washed them.
You can't sleep in your bed with unwashed sheets, no matter how pristine they are in the cellophane wrapper. And for me it's the ironing that really seals the deal. You see, when you buy really good Egyptian cotton sheets they come out of the dryer looking less than perfect.
So I iron everything.
I watch with such pleasure as the steam releases every crease and wrinkle and the weight of the iron glides effortlessly across the fabric.
I fold precisesly.
I sprinkle with lavendar water.
I stack everything by size and take it to the linen cupboard.
Everything is white.
Sheets, towels, facecloths. Everything white. And the neat rows delight me.
The stacks of pillow cases with folds as sharp as metal and all edges matching up in the same direction. Meticulously 'styled', like a photo in a magazine about country cottage chic.
And tonight I get to experience my new sheets for the very first time. Cotton against skin.
I will be naked, of course, and the temperature in the bedroom is slightly chilled by the A/C. I have already 'staged' the bed by removing the surplus pillows and folding back the top sheet over the matching duvet cover. A good duvet should be light and airy to the touch, not dense and lumpy. I also use a feather bed mattress topper so a freshly made bed, for me, is like a newly risen loaf of bread; a slight sensuous mound of crisp white cotton.
Cold, crisp white cotton on summer evenings is blissful against the skin. It floats down and settles as the trapped air between la
Yes, it's the simplicity that I appreciate the most. Because bedtime, for me, is a wonderful haven away from the noisy, irritating, stressful world out there.
There is no phone, no TV in my bedroom.
Just a huge white bed in a tall white room.
And space. Lots of space.
White noise, one might glibly say.
I shall prepare for bed. I am showered and moisturized, spritzed and annointed. I am an advertiser's dream come true. For it is people like me who just love to buy expensive things that they don't need. We are the Sybarites. The Hedonists. We hate suddenly realizing that we gave the valet parker a ten instead of a five and yet think nothing of spending sixty quid on a scented candle.
My bed awaits.
And all is calm.