warmth

on electric blankets

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It had been a long campaign. Started, I think, as a joke nearly a decade ago now. One of those affectations early in a relationship that carve out a little space for teasing. He never did switch on the cumbersome, outdated space heaters in his place; I’d moan about the sheets being cold. At some point the jokes about electric blankets became a more fevered endeavour. I would proselytise about their energy-saving capabilities, the deep luxury of getting into a lightly warmed bed. M refused outright, said they made him think of the elderly.

The seasons turned, the days lengthened. Summer would arrive and catch us off-guard and we’d be kicking the covers off, simmering in the heat of stewing evenings instead. Another autumn, another cold snap, another brief campaign for the electric blanket.

We moved in together later than people usually do; both liked our own spaces a bit too much. His was on the Tube, mine was in the woods. But two winters after we hammered together a new bed - one that belonged equally to both of us - I sent him a series of texts:

“Legit qn

“I am buying an electric blanket

“A single one

“Do you want a double, for your side?

“Or you wan to be cold while I am toasty