When I moved into this house, two years ago, my enormous corner unit wouldn’t fit in one piece, so we split it. Part went in Efan’s half of the room. Here it is before it became his pit. Didn’t it look nice in those days?
And part went over my side, where it took up almost a whole wall. For some reason, I don’t have a photograph that doesn’t have a boy sprawled all over it, usually with skin showing and an animal perched on top.
About a year after moving in, the red throw was wrecked, all the pillows ha gone missing, and the dog
had decided it would be a good idea to bury a bone in the middle of Efan’s part of the sofa. Hence a huge hole and a room full of foam. We used to joke that one day we’d come home and find Bella lost somewhere inside the sofa. Thank goodness that never happened.
On my side of the room, the sofa sagged and bent, and the last straw came when the recliner popped out and wouldn’t go back.
One day, on impulse, I went to recycling center and bought two new sofas. Well, they were new to me, okay.
On returning home, a sad truth confronted me – what the hell were we going to do with the old furniture?
Numerous calls to “The man with the van” taught me that for professionals to take furniture to the recycling center they have to have a license and no one in the Rhondda (or so it seems) have a license.Not only that, but the first date the local authority could come and collect was 14 October.
So we were stuck with furniture we couldn’t get rid of while about to take possession of more. Great.
No problem, we thought, we can store the furniture in the garden until the council can collect. Therefore, Efan and I maneuvered one third of a sofa into the kitchen, then into the back hall – but not out of the back door. We tried all ways, but it just wasn’t going. Then my back went into spasm and all hope was lost.
Tears and tantrums ensued – that was just me – and Efan had a meltdown. After a difficult week it was the straw that might not have broken the camel’s back, but certainly screwed it up for a few days.
An impassioned appeal on Facebook reminded me why I don’t ask for help, and the situation could have descended into a full scale pity-party, without cake or sausage rolls.
A chance phone call from my cousin provided our salvation and my knights in shining armour hastened all speed from the big city. Who knew that if you slit a padded sofa with a scalpel the padding comes out and the carcass fits through doors that would otherwise not have accommodated it?
Two wooden carcasses and a car full of foam-filler black bags later, and a takeaway was called for.
We left the corner piece for me to sit on until the new furniture came, on the basis that if we could get the big bits out, the corner bit should be easy, right?
Um. It turns out that the corner but has a curved back and our education in furniture removal was increased yet again with the eye-opening fact that curved things don’t fit through doors as well as straight things.
We un-stuffed, hammered, chiseled and had another breakdown but to no avail, and we are now left with a deadly (because of blood-seeking nails) but interestingly rocking wedge of wood in my kitchen.
I have to give it points for tenacity, but it will not defeat me. The bags will go to the recycling center today and the rest will be smashed with a sledge hammer as soon as I get hold of one. Injuries aside, I’m sure I will find the experience extremely rewarding given the trouble this little piece of hell has given us.
Update will follow