Beware a Pitchfork up your Ass

I have mostly been very good at keeping the devilish sensation at bay. That itching, bubbling, spumescent sensation that can threaten to boil over and burst forth from my very being in the most vile and violent of ways. Yes, I have mostly been very good at not thinking about the sofa cushions.

OCD predominantly under control. Phew.

It is only late at night, in the dark land of sleepless delirium, that I may feel the urge to dash home, rearrange, plump, straighten, and generally put right the cushions of our family sitting room that are so mistreated and abused. Which is progress.

(Actually, the more I dwell on this whilst typing, right here, right now, the more I can envisage an exhausted mother/red wine soaked father/lazy ass teenage boy abusing said cusions this very second. Must swiftly move on before I suffer a relapse and implode...)

Anyway, being aware of my 'little issue' shall we say, it amused me greatly to discover The Serpent at Home. This is a text referred to in The Moonstone by a downright irritating sourpuss called Drusilla, and is treated like her Bible. It shows how the Evil One lies in wait for us in the most domestic of places. To wit: 'The chapters best adapted to female perusal are 'Satan in the Hair Brush'; 'Satan behind the Looking Glass'; 'Satan under the Tea Table'...'

The creme de la creme of this nonsense, however, is as follows: 'Satan among the Sofa Cushions'.

I love it. A woman after my own heart.

Well they do say the devil (or, in this case, Satan) is in the detail, and I am a perfectionist after all.