Yesterday's adventure was a sofa. A second hand green leather squashy comfortable three seater.
Available now, for free, or it goes to the tip!
Out comes the tape measure, the soft rack, the sense of intrepid determination. The sun is bright, the air is still.
It's a solidly heavy piece of furniture. The car roof gets a scratch: no buckling. People are staring, smiling, pointing. We are a curiosity adding to the ambience of a summery day.
At home, Mr takes the lead, proceeds into the house. I can only see his hands, wrapped around the pouffy green padding. A wiggle and a shove or two: we have a sofa. Just shy of twelve months, we have been sitting on a couch substitute. A mouldery old bed frame, pocked by woodworm; poisonous foam padding on splintering slats. We put it in the garden, make a sun bed of it for the last of its days.
Boy comes home: it's his birthday, and he is delighted. We could go to the river with our picnic basket, but we don't, the novel allure of sitting comfortable in our own front room being too strong.