User avatarA 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.

5 comments to A life in furniture

  • How many London pounds did he waste on bloody sofas? This is sickening, almost pornographic in content.

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


  • Yeah, I get a full on robot chubby from people throwing away money on furniture, in the same way you’ve got the hots for pictures of bins in alleys.

    We’re filthy hounds.

  • 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.

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