It’s that time of decade. We last bought a new couch in 1993. I wish I was kidding; I’m not. We’ve had new-to-us couches since then: a lot of new-to us couches, bought secondhand or given to us or donated by Freegle or inherited from dead parents; but we have not bought a new one since 1993.
We have had a couch each for some years now – unmatched in size, shape, style or fabric. We sold some stuff and saved and eventually we had enough dosh for two new couches. I demanded only identical couches with no space underneath for junk storage or stale dog pellets; the Hub demanded comfort. As usual, I got my way. As usual, he didn’t.
We found two lovely couches in a shop on eBay – style, colour, everything perfect. They arrived. They were installed. They look fabulous in the lounge. They give you backache within five minutes of sitting on them. The arms are too low; the back too not right in any way that counts with a couch.
We arranged a refund – hooray for seven-day returns policies! – covered them up for protection until next week’s collection, and went out the very next day and purchased two beautiful, matching, comfortable couches from a shop, where we were able to sit as long as we liked, testing their efficacy. They efficked just fine and all we had to do was sign on the dotted line and wait four weeks for delivery.
And so that’s how we find ourselves in the unique position of owning six couches but unable to sit on any of them: two are rain-soaked in the garden, awaiting a man in a van to take them to the dump; two are under covers in the lounge, awaiting collection (possession being nine-tenths of the law, they are ours until they are gone); two are currently under construction in a warehouse somewhere, desperate for a loving home.
Meanwhile, this six-sofa couple is sitting on tatty old deck chairs in the living room.
You couldn’t make it up.