Etsy has some very cute offerings in the handmade hottie department.
It’s snowing in London. It’s too cold to snow in New York. It’s pretty bloody chilly in Dublin, where I’m going to be next week. At times like these, I fantasize about all things warm. Cashmere, cats, hot chocolate, saunas, thermal underwear, real fires, wool tights, big fluffy duvets … and hot water bottles. There are many new-fangled devices for warming beds, things like electric blankets and shapeless objects you put in the microwave. But I secretly wish I lived in the days when a maid would come to your room and run a copper pan full of still-glowing coals over your sheets just before you got into bed. Of course, if I lived in those days, I would more likely be the maid, who then has to climb a draughty staircase to a freezing attic where the wind howls all night long and fur-coated mice nibble frostbitten toes. But anyway. Maybe it’s because they were the stuff of my childhood, but I still have a fetish for hot water bottles. In fact, I’m quite sad that I don’t need one where I’m living now; the radiator squeals and burbles alarmingly and emits more than enough heat. But encased in a snug wool or felt cover, a hottie is the perfect bedmate: it won’t steal the covers or snore or wake you up to tell you its crazy dream about making sandwiches with Kim Jong Il. Find the one pictured here, or browse Etsy for other designs. Just make sure the top of your hottie is on tight, though, or it could wet the bed.
Lately, I’ve been seized by the idea that there’s not enough poetry on the internet. I don’t mean you can’t read poems online, I just mean that most of what’s on Facebook, Twitter, and, to a lesser extent, blogs like this one, is depressingly prosaic. This has already inspired some odd behavior on my part, including posting a tweet in Latin. I’m sure one could argue that social media sites have encouraged many kinds of creative, anti-utilitarian verbal experimentation. Rather than diving into that debate, I think I’ll just leave you with one of my favourites by the Northern Irish poet Paul Muldoon. A copy of one of his collections would be an excellent addition to any bookworm’s stocking.
Quoof
How often have I carried our family word
for the hot water bottle
to a strange bed,
as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick
in an old sock
to his childhood settle.
I have taken it into so many lovely heads
or laid it between us like a sword.
An hotel room in New York City
with a girl who spoke hardly any English,
my hand on her breast
like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti
or some other shy beast
that has yet to enter the language.
