I'm a terrible sleeper at night but make up for it during the day. There's something about the clubhouse by the pond that sends me off to a blissful sleep almost as soon as my head hits the old sofa.
Or perhaps it's something about the sofa, old and well sat in as it is. It's the first sofa I'd ever bought when back in 1985 I had given up employer-supplied cars, employer-supplied accommodation, and employer-supplied furnishings and hit my own domesticity - and my own bank balance - with a vengeance.
I had bought myself a one-bedroom hole-in-the-wall apartment at McMahons Point and furnished it all - sofa, chairs, coffee table, bookshelves, standing lamp, bed and bedside tables, et al - in one short lunchbreak by walking across to Grace Bros.'s George Street store, pointing at the various objects, and telling the sales assistant who was already mentally calculating his commission, "One of these, one of those, and two of those over there, and have it all delivered by this evening."
The sofa is all that's left of those "Sturm und Drang" years. It's like an old friend I've known for years and feel comfortable with. Rover thinks so, too. Come on, Rover! Time to put on some Mozart and hit the sofa! It's happy hour!
