Sunday, 3 February 2013
Our sofa is undoubtedly a pit of filth, and it will remain thus until at least the old dog shuffles off and the crumb-creating boy is in his own den of nastiness for at least most of the year. I still cling to the stylist ideal of tweaking it here and there to camera as it were, a throw placed over the worst bits, the cushions arranged just so, bit to the left, thanks, and another cushion just there, good — polaroid.
Cushions: womeny things mainly I think. Scatter cushions, what a horrible phrase: brings back all those flowery sofas of the 80s with hundreds of meaningless matching frilly edged square fabric . . . things.
Actually, any decade come to think of it. Now it's rather more line of anally-retentive beige/cream/brown cushions standing to attention on something leather and cuboid, with an occasional foray into a crazy one made of uncomfortable beads or impossible to clean corkscrewy wool that I can't recall the name of at the moment.
The cushions are very rarely used on our sofa. The boy throws them on the floor, I might stuff one of them into the small of my back when settling to watch a film, the runty dog might make a nest in the velvet brown one if no one's looking. There are two favourites from a vide grenier a few years back: absurd 1970's orange, mustard and black, washed almost to threads. Two fancy new ones our cousins sent with musical instruments on them, two small useless red velvet ones the size of a seven inch record (if anyone can remember those) and yes, the brown one. I plump them up every day when I sweep up before the day starts. It looks alright for a few minutes until it's covered with discarded coats, books, guitars, electronic projects etc. But I think to live in a house where the cushions stayed firmly where you put them all day might be a bit worrying.
Here is my favourite Monty Python sketch, involving cushions oddly enough.