Robyn’s Nest

I’m not sure my bum will ever be the same after spending four and a half months sitting on beanbags. I moved into a new flat at the end of September last year and two sofa deliveries later, I finally have a black leather thing of beauty and comfort to rest my cheeks on.

My first sofa delivery in early November ended in disaster because it wouldn’t fit through the damn door and my dream of owning a gorgeous corner sofa went out the window.

They say things happen for a reason and I think I’ll be much happier with my pair of two-seaters. They don’t dominate the room as much as a corner jobby would, I can move them into different places if I get bored, when my friends come round we won’t all be sat in a row and, should I decide to move house again, they’re more likely to fit a) through the front door and b) in any sized room.

So, my plans for tonight? As much as I wanted to try out korfball this evening (I am defo going next week though!) I am going to spend an evening admiring my new sofas and tackling my Monday night “to do” list in various sitting positions.

When you’ve been sitting on beanbags for as long as I have, sofas are a real luxury, and my flat will at last look lived in. Plonking a beanbag in front of the TV smacks a bit of Solitary Lifestyles Are Us, so at least the homely look I’ve tried to create will properly kick in.

Thanks go to my buddy Lisa for lending me the biggest beanbag in the world (the best substitute sofa possible I reckon), to my work colleagues for supporting me through what felt like a huge loss (when sofa number one was driven back to the store) and to Harveys for being sympathetic and helpful during such a distressing time.

They say lessons are learned the hard way and oh boy did I learn one today. Having spent the last two months sitting on beanbags, awaiting the arrival of my dream sofa  - a black leather corner jobby - today I experienced bitter disappointment.

Today was the day when I should have been able to put an end to beanbag nights and embrace the comfort of my brand new sofa, on which I spent a small fortune.

But no. I was tortured by grief when the delivery guys made it all the way up the stairs to the front door of my flat only to tell me there wasn’t a cat’s chance in hell my sofa would fit through the door, round the pokey little hallway and into my lounge.

“There’s got to be a way,” I protested. But no. These guys are the experts and although there were very sympathetic - and kept calling me sweetheart - the sofa went no further than my welcome mat. Aaarrggghhh. I didn’t even get to take the plastic covers off and touch it. It was almost mine.

Maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe I am meant to have an ordinary and small two-seater. Or maybe I am destined to spend my evenings on beanbags. But I did learn a harsh lesson today - use a bloody tape measure before splashing the cash!