Avatar A life in furniture

Living above a bed shop, you’d think that the item of furniture most at risk of overwhelming my life would be beds. But no: here in the London Borough of Royksopp, it’s sofas we’re drowning in.

As you probably already know, my domestic co-habitant, Steve “Stevey” Stevingtons, is immensely and sickeningly rich: certainly a millionaire, possibly close to Jeff Bezos levels of financial liquidity. So it was that, a month ago, he splashed out on a new sofa to replace his old one. It was a real beast of a thing, a mo-fo so-fa to seat five, with a cornery bit and a separate footstool thing. Absolutely glorious. But as soon as it arrived we both saw the problem: as spacious as our living room is, it’s not big enough for two sofas to be practical.

The old sofa was moved to the balcony for a while, which is also vast, but that was short lived once it got rained on. Steve was forced to dispose of it and for a time we were back to a one-sofa arrangement, until it became clear that the new sofa – hand-stitched in a small village in the Alps and delivered by helicopter at a cost well into six figures – had a saggy ass in one of the seats.

The Stevingtons dynasty are not known for tolerating shoddy workmanship, least of all drooping upholstery, so the new sofa was broken up and this week a third, identical sofa arrived in its place.

I am pleased to report that seating arrangements in the penthouse are now entirely buoyant and without any saggage in the ass or any other region, and I am hopeful that this sofa-saturated period has finally drawn to a close. Thank you for your time.

18 comments on “A life in furniture

  • Pornographic? Are you aroused by it? Is the spending of so many hundreds of thousands of precious London pounds causing you undue excitement?


  • You repel me, with your dirty money fetish. Does the squandering of Newcastle Pounds do it for you as well, or are they so worthless it doesn’t register with your libido?

  • Oh yeah. If I’m not throwing away on my newest venture then I cannot get the cheap thrills that my body craves. Yeah.

    I stand outside pubs late at night, waiting for drunk people to stumble home, pouring money out of their purses and wallets, not to pick up the money but to roll around on the floor in… it gets worse from this point onwards.

  • This is why you buy and hoard useless tat, isn’t it? It’s not because it will ever increase in value. It’s just so you can get cheap thrills as you look through your bank balance at all the squandered mon-wahs.

  • My god. This, plus all the limitless filth in that other post… it’s more than I can handle. You’re a filth hound. A filth fiend. I had no idea that, for all these years, I was consorting with one so wantonly filthy.

    Hang your head, sir.

  • Piling it up like bells? That’s not a phrase. Do you mean “it’s going bells”? Because that’s definitely a phrase.

  • There’s a lot of phrases with ‘bells’ in them, and “it’s going bells” is definitely my favourite.

    “It’s piling up like bells” is my second favourite. Look it up.

  • I looked it up. Apparently there are more phrases with bells in than I thought. Of all the new ones I just discovered, I think “it’s raining bells and bells” is my favourite.

  • That’s brilliant. I’m definitely going to use that one.

    Another one that was new to me was when you’re very hot and tired, such as when you finish a long game of squash or badminton, and you can say “I’m sweating bells!”.

  • Yeah, now you’re getting it. It’s the bells revolution!

    Someone who’s useless – “They couldn’t organise a bell-ringing in a bell tower!”

    Someone who won’t sit still – “They’re up and down like a bell.”

    Someone who’s cool – “Cool as a bell.”

  • Don’t forget when someone’s hot: “Hot as a bell!”.

    Or when they’re at about room temperature: “They’re ambient as a bell!”.

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