Breaking up is hard to do, but squeezing a couch into your life is even harder.
Most people would agree that moving to a new place is stressful. My reasons for moving were stressful too. A few months ago, my life was turned on its head when my relationship with my partner ended.
Suddenly, moving is not just about packing up the kitchen, but sorting through every item and allotting ownership to it. Who would have thought that one could develop an emotional attachment to a tomato knife?
Apparently, I did, and was overjoyed when I was declared owner of a knife that I had not brought into the relationship.
Fast forward, past the tears and packing tape. I found a flat and had body corporate approval for my cat.
I decided to order a gorgeous, sage green couch to be the crown jewel in my new lounge. I was told two things by the sales person, which I immediately chose to disregard.
Firstly, that the couch would take six to eight weeks to be made. Secondly, that there was no way that a 3-seater couch would fit into a flat.
I decided to be optimistic about the projected delivery time, and insisted that I didn’t see how 30cm could make such a huge difference.
The store’s official delivery service wanted nothing to do with my plan to own a 3-seater couch, so I had to arrange delivery privately.
I waited impatiently for the full eight weeks, to the day, for my couch to be ready. The store arranged the pick-up with my movers, and somewhere along the way, nobody actually told me the date and time of the highly anticipated delivery. I had an hour’s notice.
The movers took one look at the narrow stairwell and very enclosed walkway, and recoiled. The outlook was not good. I thought that they were making an unnecessary fuss about the whole matter. They really were not.
After managing to hoist the couch up to the landing rather smoothly, the real fun began. The area in front of my front door is narrow and closed off. Add in two fire extinguishers and a fire hose attached to the wall directly opposite the front door.
They spent a full hour trying to wedge the couch through the front door. I had to field questions about why the store had even sold me a 3-seater couch.
I learnt that 30cm does make a big difference. It became clear the delivery cost was increasing with every grunt from the movers.
The movers conceded defeat and declared that the front door was not a viable entry point for the couch.
At this point, I slumped to the floor and asked myself how I’d come to own a wedding dress and a couch that I could not use. The couch didn’t fit. I didn’t fit. This new life didn’t fit.
How had I ended up living in a flat, on my own, for the first time in eight years?
The couch that had looked so sweet in the showroom was now an expensive mistake blocking the walkway. I started to bawl my eyes out.
My mask became a soggy mess of tears, snot, and diluted mascara. Would my parents take the couch? And how much would it cost to send the movers and the couch 20km to the south?
The movers took pity on me and assured me that the couch would find its way into the flat, but they suggested that I sell the couch to the next occupant.
The couch was hoisted back down to the ground floor, carried around the back of the block of flats, through my neighbours’ gardens, and then it was placed on the ground, below my balcony.
Just to complicate matters, there is a gorgeous pergola below my balcony. Out came the measuring tape and strategies were discussed.
The gap in the beams of the pergola were wide enough for the couch to travel through, but they lacked the manpower. I was recruited as the fourth ‘man’.
Somehow, it worked, and I can only think that I threw all my strength into helping them hoist the couch – I had some strange bruises to prove it the next day.
I paid the bill and added a hefty tip. I was so relieved that my purchase was not a massive failure. The couch is not too big for the lounge.
I can lie full length on the couch. The billowy pillows envelop me. The couch fits. I fit. This flat is now a home.
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