It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, like the fact that Supermarket staff may have more about them than you give them credit for.
It hadn't been the best of times, we'd had gales that had marooned my brother and family in London, and, Gent that I am, I'd abandoned my bed to them, occupying the sofa in a sleeping bag. The sofa proceeded to destroy my back, already in a parlous state from shopping and humping computers, consequently I had had to abandon my trusty steed and use Public Transport, the resulting bout of flu had laid me out for two days, during which time I caught up on large amounts of sleep, a fair amount of pain, and perfected my listless sigh.
I was due to go to a Beer Festival on the Thursday with a younger friend of the female persuasion, and exercising cold logic with the precision of a surgical instrument, had decided to prepare the sleeping arrangements prior to our, potentially unsteady, return from the Fest. First however, I was beset by the inevitable anxieties that face a man of a certain age when about to play host to a "young gell": would my puissance overcome her so that I would have to succumb protesting, would I be ravished(though in my post-flu state I would have served better as hot-water bottle than sex-object)?
It hadn't been the best of times, we'd had gales that had marooned my brother and family in London, and, Gent that I am, I'd abandoned my bed to them, occupying the sofa in a sleeping bag. The sofa proceeded to destroy my back, already in a parlous state from shopping and humping computers, consequently I had had to abandon my trusty steed and use Public Transport, the resulting bout of flu had laid me out for two days, during which time I caught up on large amounts of sleep, a fair amount of pain, and perfected my listless sigh.
I was due to go to a Beer Festival on the Thursday with a younger friend of the female persuasion, and exercising cold logic with the precision of a surgical instrument, had decided to prepare the sleeping arrangements prior to our, potentially unsteady, return from the Fest. First however, I was beset by the inevitable anxieties that face a man of a certain age when about to play host to a "young gell": would my puissance overcome her so that I would have to succumb protesting, would I be ravished(though in my post-flu state I would have served better as hot-water bottle than sex-object)?
Reality intervened, and I sorted out the bed clothes and towels, then opened the sofa bed by exerting a back-friendly downward pressure to shift the cantilevers, there would, at least, be two of us to reverse the process.
Thursday. Snow. A text message, "There's snow. I'm not coming. Sorry" I went to work, the handbasin belched forth the sort of miasma normally associated with the undead, necessitating extensive furniture moving, panel removing, flooding and calls to non-existent College plumbers. The Tube collapsed on the way home (due to severe weather conditions - my arse) causing me to skedaddle under most of the City as I sought a way home. I arrived after an hour and a half (double the normal time). My brother called to tell me that I was to be an uncle again, such was my mood that I am afraid to say that I was churlish, "Oh great, another dependant, another birthday to remember, more present expense".
I put away the bedclothes and towels, and opened the gin, later I tried to close the bed, I failed. As I applied upwards pressure, I could feel my lower back saying things along the lines of, "I really don't think you should be doing this." and "I may not know much about levers but I know what I like and I don't like this!"
My living room still contains the sofa in bed mode, perhaps it adds a bit of BoHo chic.
Moral: Never re-arrange the furniture till they're at the door or you may do yourself an injury.
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