I’ve made really good friends with the couch of late. There’s something about being the only unemployed individual in a house that leads you to find this kind of companionship. But I tell you now that it’s not a healthy relationship.
While I’ve given the couch a thorough vacuum and a lot of quality time, I’ve also given it popcorn kernels, sand, red wine, cereal and a nice bum-shaped indentation.
And whilst it has comforted me through the pretence of novel writing, the plottings of my million dollar empire, far too many Tarintino movies, and the aspirations of job hunting, it has also lulled me into a deep slumber on far too many occasions. It’s an evil couch.
The couch and I have become so close that yesterday, when the gigantanormous plumber walked in to fix our shower, I actually felt it squirm. And, when the plumber sat down to catch his breath after climbing two flights of stairs, I shared it’s agony in seeing its cushions pancaked to the floor. It pained me mostly because I’d never felt such a close connection to a couch.
And so, when plumber man finally left, so did I – it was exactly the motivation needed to inspire a jog.
And with my life potentially ending tomorrow with me boarding a flight (that’s right, I said the ‘F’ word), I need to put some distance between us (it makes tomorrow’s farewell easier too) and get out and make some real friends. Besides, couches offer no guidance in the ways of airplane survival and that’s what I need most in life right now (apart from coffee).