Write Now Rebekah

The sofa and I are curiously bonded.

When we began our journey together we were both firmer to the touch and had ‘s p r o i n g’. Our tufty bits were unmatted and we took time to dress up. We wore drapery on our fine plump selves. 

We showed our love in our presence. In our time given. Our love language was care. We were solace and comfort for our family. We cradled and nestled. We were ‘sofa king’ awesome. 

Can I squeeze that in and get away with it? 

Sofa, so good. 

But then, time spilled all over us and eroded our sheen. We mirrored each other’s levels of exhaustion….we got frayed….. And then a virus brought the planet to its knees. 

Our family followed advice and saved the world by lounging around all day on our sofa. She became our central focus. Who told us to do nothing to save lives?
Yes.
WHO did. 
It turns out that all those things that I was going to do but I didn’t have time, I found out time wasn’t the reason why they weren’t being done. I’m going to have to blame the kids instead. 

We had too much enforced togetherness.  We were sat on excessively. It showed in both our forms. Her shape changed… who am I kidding… I noticeably sagged too, under the weight of the things. 
All the things. 
All the need.

The stains, the worn patches. The stickiness, the WTF is that down the crack?

Bad things happened. Things leaked and spilled and oozed. It was projectile level abuse. Things deteriorated past my ability to rejuvenate. We squirted her with chemicals that swore to reverse her demise. They didn’t. I smeared myself with creams that promised the same effect. They didn’t work either.

These days she creaks and loudly complains if jumped on. Each mark on her was a teeny little mistake. A teensy bit of erosion. Each time we scoured at her ability to bounce back. And here we are. Greying. Blotchy. Saggy. Out of shape. Aged in ways that show up clearly in the daylight.  I’ve been trying to think of another relevant pun about couches and armchairs, but I’ve had no luck sofa.

A cleaning service contacted me and promised to bring her back to her former glory. To return her stain free. To help her smell better. They disinfected her, and returned her to us in an altogether more sanitary condition. They are Titans of recovery. With their vegan potions and their powerful sucky things, they whizzed in and eradicated years of visible abuse. They are a woman centric super team. With their mission to revolutionise cleaning while paying fair wages and offering good working conditions. I fully applaud them.

Our sofa now sits in near pristine condition. Smirking at me. She is ten years younger. Her improved appearance and smooth exterior smugly remind me to sort myself out. 

I’m hoping Titan Cleaning will expand their business to offer a similar service for humans, as we creep in the direction of a vaccination and life out there. I feel it might take a team, a whole rescue crew. Possibly a crow bar and crane. Some sort of plumping, energising, re-motivating, all singing, jazz handed individual. 

Do they exist? I’ll have a look and report back. 

But this week? I started with her. We are symbiotic after all. 

Photo by Marcela Rogante on Unsplash