We have a new sofa. Ikea, for all their maze like warehouses, dime bar based confectionery and tiny pencils do a very good line in cheap sofas. Last week they were doing a promotion on one called HAJKQLIDJ (or something similarly scrabble-friendly) at a knock-down price, so we snapped one up.
It is the comfiest piece of furniture ever invented, but the downside is that it looks like a chocolate cream cake on legs. It should have been christened FUGLY rather than HAJKQLIDJ and is now known as the Fugly sofa in our house. Anyway, the other downside is that every time I come home, having had lovely dreams on the tube about spending the entire afternoon sprawled out on it doing nothing, I find this:
Wilb has single-handedly monopolised the thing since it arrived on Saturday, and seems only to move to eat (and even then she makes a decent effort to convince us to bring her science biscuits to her).
I’m sure once upon a time cats ruled the savanna plains, stalking their prey, climbing trees, expanding their territories and terrifying allcomers into submission. ‘What went wrong Wilb?’ I ask her on a daily basis, but she just yawns at me and goes back to sleep.