The sofa has gone. Nearly. The council didn’t collect it, so it’s sitting rather forlornly in the street with a job number pinned onto it. If it hadn’t been so hard to take it downstairs, I might be tempted to rescue it.
It appears in so many photos of Cat and Not Cat that it would probably come up as a recognised face in i-photo if I looked.
We had to take the wheels off to achieve its egress. That sounds like a simple screwdriver job, but they had been firmly attached and would not come out without a fight. Bits of wheel all over the shop. I grovelled around on the floor collecting them up. Not Cat hid under the bed.
P was worried I was having a heart attack as we manoeuvred it through three doors and down two flights of stairs. Most physical activity makes my face a becoming shade of tomato within seconds. He looked at me worriedly over the banister and suggested we might rest. I was actually feeling ok, though a trifle warm, and I was glowing quite heavily. Only the concern in his eyes made me realise he thought I might be about to keel over.
The sitting room suddenly looks much bigger, though I’ve done my best to fill it up with bits from the car which are sitting on a spread of newspaper like a misguided artist’s idea of installation art.
There’s one hole in the wall, but it’s only small.