This week I finally coughed up for a new sofa bed. It arrived, I assembled it and then brought Dot into the spare room, which is also my study and reading room, for a look. Giving me a look of rapturous joy, my brave little sausage threw herself onto the sofa and sort of expanded across all of it from the middle. For the first time since she came to live with me, she did not sleep on the bed with me. When I went out to work she was on the sofa, when I came in 12 hours later, she was on the sofa.
Contrast with today. I went out shopping in Chatham ('cos that's how hard I am) and bought some nice cushions for my new sofa, together with a rather nice oblong cushion to go on the living room windowsill for Dot. In pre-new sofa days, Dot arranged for God to drop off a sunbeam outside the living room window, sort of midmorning-ish. I place spiffy new cushion. I peel Dot off new sofa. I place Dot on new cushion. You would think I had tried to lower her into boiling chip fat. She yelled and yelled and looked at the cushion (from the floor) and looked at me as if to say, "Fat hooman, why you bring nasty dangerous cheap Primark-y cooshun into home? New cooshuns are dangerous, especially ones with...gulp...
TASELLS!! Take nasty thing away or I will kill you until it really hurts".
The cushion's still on the windowsill but Dot ain't and no, there are no prizes for guessing where she is.
Why are some new things good but other items, seemingly innocuous to hooman eyes are the work of Satan himself? She can't really tell I didn't get it in John Lewis, like I said, can she?
C.
