I recently bought an electric blanket for myself, because the windows in my flat appear to be made of rice paper and let in a draft that could power a windmill. It's nice to crank the blanket up before bed and then slide into a mass of hot, steamy blanket soup. I find it soothing, like a mug of warm milk, or the sight of Laura Dern's beautiful face. The Fleetch, however, reacted quite differently on her first meeting with the blanket. In hindsight, given all that I know of her, I really should have seen this coming.
Me: Go on, try it.
Fleetch: I'm a little afraid.
Me: Don't be. It's a beautiful thing. Modern technology is awesome.
Fleetch: (putting her hand under the duvet) Oh. Oh my GOD.
Me: I know.
Fleetch: Sweet lord of all that is warm and comforting!
Me: I know.
Fleetch: (in wonder) It's like slipping your hand into an angel's vagina!
Me: (staring in appalled fascination)....Um.
Fleetch: (getting into my bed) It's like being inside a Tauntaun! Sexually! With your momma!
Me: ....Are you aware that the things you say often turn aggressively sexual, quite quickly?
Fleetch: Shut your beautiful mouth. This is between me and the blanket.
Me: Please step away from the bed.
Fleetch: (crooning and turtling inside the duvet) I love you, blanket. I'll never leave you.
Me: I'm going out for a while. Don't do anything to, with, on or around the blanket while I'm gone.
Fleetch: (turtling further) I can't make any promises.
Me: .....Dammit, fleetch.