It is that time of year when you have a momentous decision to make: is it time for the winter duvet?
Growing up in the 60s in London duvets were things people only used in northern Finnish ice huts. It wasn’t until the 70s when Brits realised that duvet didn’t rhyme with rivet.
Now everyone has a duvet; and most people now know that tog is a unit of thermal measurement, as well as being some bizarre creature in Pogle’s Wood.
But was there, in the late 70s, a massive chucking-out of sheets, blankets and, most importantly, candlewicks? Were there suddenly heaps of discarded eiderdowns at the local tips?
I had a blue candlewick, which, over the course of many years constantly picking (which prevented other potential adolescent nocturnal activities (and still I have dreadful eyesight!)), ended up with more holes than actual bedding – I’d have been warmer with a giant Polo covering me!
Perhaps “continental duvets” featured heavily in The Champions or The Persuaders which encouraged us and our parents to hurry down to Brentford Nylons to purchase this Scandinavian wonder night-time protection?
I miss my candlewick, holey that it became, and would be comforted by it in the dead of night in my quiet Balham flat, if ever I woke, to see the beaming, and comforting face of Captain Scarlet – half hour later I’d wake up thinking the Mysterons were in the room – they weren’t – they were burglars.