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  • I found my Ken Done bedspread in the catacombs of a giant share house I lived in. It was the kind of house where it was impossible to keep track of your own possessions. A box of records would go missing for months only to turn up in a cupboard nobody had opened. Everyone borrowed each other's clothes. If you lent a housemate a DVD you may as well have said, keep it – it's yours. So when I found the bedspread in the library of cobwebs I knew that nobody would miss it.

    At first, I didn't realise its value. It looked like tacky Australiana to me, although I liked the colours. But when a friend noticed that it matched a sheet set they found in an op shop, I knew I'd never let it go: it was a Ken Done.

    At the time, my housemate was dating someone with a Ken Done obsession. She had the scarves, the jumpers, the curtains. This kind of obsession: http://cargocollective.com/penelopebenton/Death-by-Done

    When she heard about my bedspread she gave my housemate a mission: steal it or suffer.

    Ken Done had never meant much to me before. But my love of the pastel parrot-and-fish pattern grew with the knowledge that I had something that another person burned for. Besides, the Ken Done-obsessed girlfriend had something that I wanted just as badly: my housemate's time. Since they had started dating, I'd seen a lot less of my housemate. I was bitter.

    The girlfriend and I sent messages through my housemate, provoking each other over who had the right to keep the bedspread – the fortunate prospector or the committed collector. It became an ongoing, semi-serious rivalry.

    One day my housemate introduced me to LaDiDa, the app that lets you record hilarious vocoderiffic songs. I thought of the ultimate burn – I'd make a song for my Ken Done nemesis and send her a final message: the bedspread is mine!

    She also had LaDiDa. Or maybe she downloaded it just to burn me back. Her Australian artist-themed smackdown still cracks me up. It's true – I'll never understand the irony that is Ken Done.
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