I love my new sofa. But my bottom doesn't

When I say new, I really mean old. Victorian old. But it’s not threadbare – it’s beautiful – in a pink sort of way.

You see, since my Anti-versary party two months ago, when I threw out my old, tatty effort to make more room for my tambourine dancing, my family of six (if you include one Dad and three animals) have been battling it out for a space on the only sofa in the house.

As I know more than most, nothing lasts forever and despite its sentimental value and foam filled memories, my old battered and tattered sofa had to go. And so began the thorny business of searching for a new one.

The one I really, really wanted had a price tag of £2,170, which is bit steep really for one misty teal, chesterfield-style, fabric sofa.

So I stopped looking, much to the chagrin of Dad, who likes to involve himself in all key decisions in my life, and kept pointing out hideous creations in various shops.

My mother is the same. The Teen and I rocked up for dinner the other evening and she immediately showed me a picture of a sofa she has spotted in a magazine, which she offered to buy me (yes I know, I know, one day the apron strings will be cut).

Anyway, without seeming like an ungrateful brat, I told her gently that I didn’t really love it and the thing is I would rather have nothing than something that I don’t really love.

Yesterday a friend showed me a tiny, two-seater Victorian number on a pre-loved website, I knew I wanted it.

And when I saw it in real life, half an hour later, I fell in love with it on the spot.

It is cheap, its curvy shape will fill my space perfectly (hopefully, I don’t really do measuring tapes) and despite being desperately uncomfortable (I mean you can feel the metal springs under the horsehair), I think it’s fab.

I have always carried this crazy notion that when something is meant to be, it happens effortlessly. You know, like fate.

And that’s how I feel about my new, old, sofa. It is fated to be in my house where new memories will be made.

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