The One
He had to be the one: beautiful and sexy but not intimidating or distant. No second chancers this time; I was after a fresh and new love, no baggage attached. I dismissed second hands and hand me downs, preloved affairs. No eBay or gumtree. I was, officially, a grown up, with keys to a house and a life-term sentence of a mortgage, and I was after a sofa.
Who needs bed and chairs and tables, who even needs to pay the mortgage, when you have a sofa? You can do all you do in chairs and beds and tables in a sofa, but you can do it better.
This sofa needed to say things: hey, I’m sexy but rocket science clever; I only have a dry lemon in my fridge but I can cook a three-course meal, if I want to. He had to be big because so many friends were going to stay, and legendary parties where going to happen in the otherwise empty house. We were going to crash in exhausted but stylishly dishevelment. He had to enhance my complexion and complement my wardrobe. More than a sofa, he was a flying machine to take me nonstop to the shiny world of sophisticated adulthood.
It was love at first sight, so I ignored the alarm bells that told me he was 40cm too long. I settled for a dark shade for the only reason that, on the glorious dawn of the morning after, I would look great in my dusky pink kimono.
Six weeks went by and he arrived, confirming my suspicions. He took the best part of the house, but still I didn’t care; the sofa was alone and he didn’t need to share with anyone else. No chairs or tables to overshadow his gloriousness.
Like me the sofa has aged, I mean matured. We have come through the years holding to each other for dear life.
If lately, I complain about his unelegant chunkiness, he has also caught me in many falls, held me from the abyss, wiped tears in his 100% linen cushion covers, cleaned my snot on his square armrest and left a stain of mascara visible enough to remind me to delete that bastard’s number. Broken hearts heal better cocooned in the right combination of feathers and foam; together in sickness and in health.
It hasn’t always been easy. There are times you want to escape your life and it is a tad more difficult when you have to do it with an FSC-certified frame that has to come through the window.
So, I re-upholstered. Little swatches of cheerful ROMO Linara dutifully lined the armrest, hoping to be picked. Was the reincarnation going to be pink and cheerful (Confetti 2494/338) or a calm sea breeze (Nordic Blue 2494/84)? It turned out to be sensible, with a severe dose of boring “greyge” (Kudu2494/463).
I have tried to leave him so many times, sat comfortably on him looking for a replacement in the cruellest of ironies. On those occasions (and there have been many), he offers a 50p coin or a hairy raisin and occasionally returns the remote control as an olive branch.
He is none of the things he was, but then nor am I.
But when I sit I know he holds more than my darkest secrets. He has held me through hours of labour and one incredible birth and holds me when I hold my babies. Both of us scared and speechless marvelling in the incredible little joy that we both hold in hour arms.
He has stoically and heroically survived potty training accidents and “too many sweets” vomits without complaining and done his best to disguise the evidence.
It was just me and the sofa. And then it was two (madly in love and carefree) and then, two (petrified) plus one. And then four (exhausted) and (oh my god) we are going to be five and there is still room for the dog.
And he holds us all in our imperfect family, holding the shape of us tight in his arms, keeping the kindness everywhere like crumbs, in the place we return to when we get lost. No questions asked.
Our sofa smells of unconditional love, he feels like forgiveness, he tastes of us.
Update: when the end arrived it was awful. It involved a hammer and I can’t really talk about it any more. I’m sorry.