SINCE my Antiversary Party last week, we have a problem in my house.

We have only one sofa.

In order for my front room to be transformed into the disco room, which incidentally boasted a glitter ball (miniature sized) and smoke machine (the fire and the odd contraband cigarette), the sofa had to go.

But now I don’t want it back in doors for a variety of reasons.

1. The dog destroyed it when he was a puppy six years ago.

2. Because of said dog, I have had to cover it with throws, Scottish weave woollens and cushions to make it look presentable.

3. The coverings get messy fast and I have some sort of disorder that compels me to straighten them a thousand times a day.

4. It is an ugly and covered in dog hair and very, very old but not in a good, antique way.

So, it has now been sitting outside my cottage for the last ten days, much to the chagrin of the Sitting Tenant (Dad), except he isn’t anymore because he has nowhere to sit.

However at least the occasional tramp, who passes by on a fairly regular basis, now has a comfortable spot.

No one can accuse me of not doing my bit.

The problem is that of an evening, the Dad, the Teen, the Dog and I tussle over the one remaining sofa, which is not fun after a hard day’s labour.

The Dog and the Teen usually get the best deal.

But new research has revealed that couch potato Britons spend 17 years of their lives sitting on the sofa, watching television, reading, eating or snoozing on their most treasured pieces of furniture.

This high figure can be boiled down to an indolent 49 hours a week – three months a year, or nearly a quarter of our lives.

Think about what we are all missing out on just because we have a squishy sofa in the room.

Dad has now given up trying to bring in the old sofa, which is now saturated by rain.

Instead he is painting my kitchen.

Every cloud.

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