Feathering The Nest


By Schubert
- 447 reads
There are sofas and there are sofas, and this one is just how a sofa should be. Constructed from seasoned hard wood, jointed and screwed and made as sofas should be made...to last. Cushions are generous and stuffed with the softest feathers, so that when you collapse into it at the end of a the day, it swallows you whole in blissful comfort and supports your every contortion until bed time.
As with all such wonders however, there is inevitably a downside and with duck-down filled sofas it's a morning-after issue. Every day, as part of my waking-up-the-house routine, and immediately following the grandfather clock winding, I haul back the curtains in the living room to admit new light: and there it sits, pummelled and forlorn, a victim of serious assault, a disfigured lame duck. It looks more like an unmade bed than a super-sofa, pleading for assistance in the restoration of dignity and re-establishment of propriety.
This is not how the Rolls Royce of sofas should be, and I empathise immediately with my friend's acute embarrassment. Her once graceful curves and come hither countenance now cruelly squished by the previous evening's loafing, I set about the stressful task of removing her voluminous seat and back-support squabs and re-plumping as graciously as such a task might be accomplished, being fully aware of the sensitivities involved.
There was a time some years ago, when such a task would not have required a second thought, but now in my grandfather-clock years, hurling heavy and cumbersome feather-and-foam filled encumbrances onto the floor and beating and kneading them back into shape comes at a cost; namely exhaustion, broken finger nails and despondency.
Something had to be done for both our sakes and the answer came quite unexpectedly through the letter box one day in the form of a flyer advertising home upholstery solutions.... whatever they were. It was either divine intervention or Alexa listening in to my early morning wrestling bouts and seizing the opportunity.
He arrived in a van, a twenty-something in T-shirt and jeans, equipped with an impressive portfolio of satisfied customers and a battle-scarred vacuum cleaner called Henry, with a smiley face. The solution, he told me, was to remove the feathers and substitute them with additional foam rubber. This would make for a firmer cushion and ensure that the sofa was permanently frisky, come-hitherish and ready for action.....my words not his, as he didn't seem the playful sort.
Almost convinced of his bona fides, I retired to the kitchen to make him a brew and returned some minutes later to find our Axminster looking like a hungry fox's killing ground, with Henry and his smiley face working frantically to recover the situation. It's difficult to describe how one sofa cushion could possibly contain so many feathers, but poor Henry had to be emptied four times in the filling of two black bin liners....and there were still three more cushions to go.
Two mugs of Yorkshire tea and seven bin-bags of feathers later, the operation was over and the patient looking fit, well fed and infused a with new-found hauteur. She now graced the room with a discreetly-Botoxed confidence and that familiar elevated presence that we hadn't seen for some time. My morning routine now rescued from the trauma of drawing back curtains and finding a friend distressingly over ravished, I waved off our upholstery Maestro and turned to face my next dilemma: what to do with seven bags of feathers.
The local waste disposal site was as busy as ever, with a relentless procession of contributors relieving boots and back seats of all the things they no longer had time for. An energetic DIYer lobbing an orange seventies kitchen unit into a cavernous skip. A frail lady struggling up a steep ramp with her treasured Goblin Teasmade. An enthusiastic gardener with his newly butchered Cupressus escaping from the confines of its flimsy bin liner. All the world was here, disposing of the evidence. Getting rid of their stuff in preparation for acquiring more stuff. And me, with my seven bags of feathers.
He stood there in his orange overalls and heavy boots, watching over his fiefdom, waiting to chastise the recalcitrant.
'Number three,' he bellowed across the parade ground at some hapless novice. 'Paper and cardboard in number three.'
I approached him cautiously, in fear of becoming his next victim.
'Where do I dispose of feathers?' I enquired innocently.
'What sort of feathers?' he threw back, the seasoned professional that he was.
'The sort that birds have,' I quipped, triumphantly.
For a split second he hesitated and I couldn't determine whether he was about to attack me or accept that he'd been out flanked.
'Number five,' he growled. 'Miscellaneous.'
I thanked him politely and stepped out of range.
Things went exceedingly well until number seven. It’s supposed to be a lucky number, I know, but I can confirm that there are occasions when this proves untrue. As I snatched it from the rear of my pride and joy, the unimaginable happened. The carelessly tied knot holding the bin bag together fell open and a large proportion of its content escaped, some into my over pampered conveyance and the rest out onto the the orange sentry’s parade ground. A passing skittish breeze immediately seized the opportunity and scattered them far and wide. I did what every rational human being would do under such circumstances and fled the scene without looking back.
This morning, I took delivery of two large sacks of feathers purchased with disconcerting ease on the internet. The van driver gave me an odd look as he took my photo at my front door, holding them aloft like some callous duck hunter. ‘This is a first,’ he quipped, as he turned away, grinning at his phone. He must have thought my esoteric purchase proof of some bizarre cult activity and as I closed the door I imagined him in his van posting the image on the dark web.
The ancient order of cushion stuffers is now at work attempting to rectify a grievous mistake. My favourite featherless resting place now looks as buxom and plumptious as I could ever wish for….but it isn't. Gentle caress has given way to one-size-fits-all utility, an unnatural we're-doing-our-best compound, a chemical imitation. I made a mistake. It's not the same any more and I'm sorry. There is no substitute for feather and down cushions and I'm doing my best to put things right. I've just scoured the internet for advice on reviving interfered-with cushions and the best it can offer is to approach the issue cautiously and preferably in the bath, for containment reasons. It didn't say whether I should run the water or not.
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Comments
Hah! This sounds like the
Hah! This sounds like the time when I thought 'How hard can it be to empty a beanbag, wash the cover and refill it?'.
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Who would believe you could
Who would believe you could write a great story about a duck filled sofa? Yet you've managed to do just that.
Enjoyed the read.
Jenny.
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So funny and entertaining
So funny and entertaining Schubert. I wonder how many birds that took. The problem is those feather filled sofas are quite heavy to re-arrange but like you say, unbeatable for comfort and it's a natural product. All these nips and tucks will end up costing you more than a new sofa but it sounds like she's worth it.
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