You are not married...

… in the true sense of the term until you have bought furniture together.

So the sofa we had bought in haste one and a half years ago, when we moved into the new house has already been showing desperate signs of wear and tear.  Add to this, the child has been speeding along the wear and tear process by occasional random peeling and tearing of said leather, leading to a situation where we either need to restore or replace said sofa immediately or lead to a situation where guests drop in coins at the urli kept on display on my sideboard.

Therefore the husband, the elderly relative, the spawn of the womb and yours truly landed up at the furniture shop which had advertised a 40 per cent sale.

The first thought when one looked at the sheer size of all the sofas on display was I need to break down walls and the door to get these into the house. The second thought was lets leave now.

The spouse was firm and unrecalcitrant and set about examining said sofas with a great deal of interest that didnt shake or get vaguely unruffled even when price tags leading to figures that could probably buy a house in a far flung suburb where displayed. Yours truly of course had to injudiciously act disapproving and find fault where there was none, in order to dissuade the man from spending enough to put the child through college merely to have him loll on the said sofa till he reached there.

Engraved. Brocade upholstery. Sequins. And such like horrific stuff. And the man fell in love with a maroon and silver mock croc print patent leather square shaped monstrosity which I promptly could veto happily because I would need to airlift it to the balcony, demolish all glass panes and then get it into the house.

We skulked around in opposite directions of the huge showroom. The child tripped along happily whining about the Siderman bed and the Spiderman cupboard and the Spiderman desk he had to have, never mind if he doesnt have a room to himself yet. The mater stumbled along and sank down into the convenient sofas at regular intervals to rest her weary feet, occasionally piping up in favour of chaise lounges for obvious reasons.

Finally we reached the top floor and there was no further to go. I, with the uncanny knack women have to find something pretty, zeroed in on a perfectly charming engraved rattan and carved wood sofa set and dining table combine that had my name emblazoned all over it.

The man skulked around in a corner and sat on something, adjusting levers and having his feet go up and his body wobbling to some unheard drummer. He called for me. I went to investigate the need for the war cry.

Recliners. Them ugly things. Which give you a massage when required. Which sit around looking comfortable and inviting and lead to power struggles in the room over whom the primary ownership of said item of furniture belongs to. Yup. Them. Five of them. In lieu of the sofa.

Someone remind me of all the nice things I said about him in the previous posts before I consult that lawyer about grounds of incompatibility.

About these ads