One bright weekend, a little while ago, my beloved-partner-in-all-things announced her intention to convert our bedroom into a boudoir, a temple to the sacred feminine. I responded with my usual smile and nod. In fairness, I had no idea of the extent of the coming transformation.
The preparations included two shopping trips and a substantial capital outlay on fabrics and down. Fortunately, I was banished to the studio for the duration of the actual works, although I was nonetheless still peripherally aware of much bustling and commotion in the local vicinity. At last came the great reveal. Our bed had become a festival of pillows and lace. I’m sure I could hear choirs of angels singing in celebration, possibly something by Bruckner. I went through my usual five stages of consciousness: affable bewilderment, existential anxiety, slow comprehension, cautious acceptance and quiet relief. I then entered the rare sixth stage: ebullient enthusiasm.
For me, the word ‘boudoir’ has now become a verb; ‘boudoiring’ is my new favorite activity. “Where’s Paul?”, you might inquire. “Boudoiring”, will come the inevitable reply. Or it might be contracted: “He’s upstairs having a boud”.
So, you might ask, how exactly does one engage in the activity of ‘boudoiring’? It’s really quite simple. You approach the bed as an altar, with reverence and awe. Having paid your respects to the goddess, you sit gingerly on the edge of the mattress and then, using either hand - or both, if it seems appropriate - you pick up the pillows and launch them across the room at a high velocity, making little explosion noises - peeow, peeow, peeow! - aiming at any target that takes your fancy: hideous Victorian prints, imaginary possums, even those monstrous ornaments your children manifested in pottery class that pollute every surface in the house. And then, when the bed is free from encumbrance, you lay down, get comfortable, shut your eyes and relax, serene and happy that you have gained facility in the art of boudoiring. I thoroughly recommend it.
The preparations included two shopping trips and a substantial capital outlay on fabrics and down. Fortunately, I was banished to the studio for the duration of the actual works, although I was nonetheless still peripherally aware of much bustling and commotion in the local vicinity. At last came the great reveal. Our bed had become a festival of pillows and lace. I’m sure I could hear choirs of angels singing in celebration, possibly something by Bruckner. I went through my usual five stages of consciousness: affable bewilderment, existential anxiety, slow comprehension, cautious acceptance and quiet relief. I then entered the rare sixth stage: ebullient enthusiasm.
For me, the word ‘boudoir’ has now become a verb; ‘boudoiring’ is my new favorite activity. “Where’s Paul?”, you might inquire. “Boudoiring”, will come the inevitable reply. Or it might be contracted: “He’s upstairs having a boud”.
So, you might ask, how exactly does one engage in the activity of ‘boudoiring’? It’s really quite simple. You approach the bed as an altar, with reverence and awe. Having paid your respects to the goddess, you sit gingerly on the edge of the mattress and then, using either hand - or both, if it seems appropriate - you pick up the pillows and launch them across the room at a high velocity, making little explosion noises - peeow, peeow, peeow! - aiming at any target that takes your fancy: hideous Victorian prints, imaginary possums, even those monstrous ornaments your children manifested in pottery class that pollute every surface in the house. And then, when the bed is free from encumbrance, you lay down, get comfortable, shut your eyes and relax, serene and happy that you have gained facility in the art of boudoiring. I thoroughly recommend it.