When The Feathers Fly

January is a major cleanng month for me. Normally, the entire flat gets done in a week. But I've been feeling under the weather and a super-clean house has not been at the top of my list. To get into the groove, I've called the carpet/ upholstery cleaners to come in and do there thing. The sofa in the living room was the priority. God knows it needs a good cleaning. It has literally become Sebastian's stomping ground and Daisy's bed. So the carpet guys are here and I tell them and the girls, "please take the covers off and wash ONLY the covers. Do NOT wet the feathers (down) cushions. This can NOT get wet." After repeating myself maybe fifty times in a span of twenty minutes in both English and Tagalog, I decided to turn on my laptop. Three minutes later, the down cushions are soaking WET! My face is visibly dismayed. Carpet Man No 1 tells me, we'll vacuum it dry. Now my living room is filled with wet and dry down. Some stick to my face and hair. I decide it's time for me to retreat. Screaming isn't going to do anything. Nor is thinking about the duck that gave its down for my once fluffy sofa. I'll just think violent thoughts in my bedroom.