People often tell me how lucky I am to have Chris for my husband. “Yes, I know,” I usually answer, and I sometimes want to add, “I’m such a poor fish myself,” but I don’t because that would be churlish of me. After all, they probably say it as a compliment to my good taste in choosing such a nice husband, or perhaps they are well aware I’m of a flirtatious nature and therefore they think a little reassurance on their part will keep me grounded. If the latter is the case, they ought to realise that flirts are often the most innocent of creatures, yet not so naive as to be unable to appreciate when they have found near perfection.

Anyway, none of this is really what I want to blog about today; I just wanted to begin by telling you that I’m lucky because Chris helps me make the bed each morning – then, of course, I got to thinking about everybody saying how lucky I am!

So, there we were a few hours ago, making our bed; of the three pillows apiece only one matches the duvet cover of white patterned with pretty pink roses and green leaves; and for some strange reason Chris put one of the non-matching pillows on top.

Incidentally, have you ever wondered why people require so many pillows and cushions nowadays? We have six on our bed but, when I was at the doctor’s surgery the other day and I picked up a House and Gardens magazine, I noticed that nearly all the display beds had upwards of eight pillows, bolsters and cushions – there was practically no room on top of the beds to sit! And what do we do with them when we get into bed? Do we arrange them prettily for our comfort and pleasure? No, at least Chris and I don’t, we throw them onto the carpet. Sorry about this little aside – just thought I’d air my ponderings on this modern obsessions with pillows and cushions.

So Chris had put the odd choice of a non-matching pillow on top and he hadn’t pulled the duvet up quite far enough to match my side; not only was the symmetry wrong but also there were wrinkles and folds in the duvet cover.

“You’ve put the wrong pillow on top,” I informed like a hospital matron (lucky Chris).

“Which is the right one?” he asked.

“Can’t you see that the pink rosebuds with the bit of green match the cover?”

“Not really.”

(Now in truth, it wasn’t a perfect match because the duvet had been a present and didn’t come with pillow cases. However, the pillow cases that I had ear-marked for the job were as good a match as I could find, especially in colour if not design and size of roses.)

Chris swapped over the positions of the pillows and pulled the duvet back to the same weird, lop-sided height as he had left it before; pulled awkwardly at odds with the side of preference – my side – the same wrinkles and folds appeared again, as before.

“Would you mind pulling up the duvet a little?” I asked.

Chris obliged with a certain finesse and lightness of touch that looked very much like blatant, albeit mute, sarcasm.

“All ready for inspection,” he couldn’t resist saying.

“Good,” I burst out laughing.

A short while later I was thinking in the shower; it was a long shower (hair wash) so I thought a lot. I got to wondering how and when I had become so petty. It seemed to me that when I was young and smaller there was so much to learn, and so much growing and living to do, that I would not have worried about making the bed, let alone the order of the stupid pillows. Now I am bigger (in every sense) and travelled, and know so much more, how come I am bothered by the small things? Does this mean that small is big when we are growing, and conversely, that when we are big and bloated with self-confidence we are actually becoming small-minded.

My Big Small Theory probably has as many holes in it as a shower head, after all it was devised in only the length of time it takes to have a long shower; nevertheless, I have decided that tomorrow I shall bite my tongue when Chris puts his pillows at odds with my own. I promise that the wrinkles will not rankle with me. There will be no war over roses, big or small, in our house. Lucky Chris.