It’s only ten o’clock and I already feel as if I can say I have had a helluva morning. I feel wrung out, weak and exhausted. I have sprained myself, I am sure, and I may never be the same again.
The sun was shining through the cracks in the barn door when I woke up. I was worried about the cracks when we first had the house done, but they are just part of the natural expansion and contraction of the wood and they allow us to have at least one door that will open and close in the wet weather. In our house in Canillas we spent several months unable to close the kitchen door. At least we weren’t shut in!
I bumbled into the kitchen and made a cup of tea (builder’s brew, just a splosh of milk) feeling fuzzy and content. As it was already fairly warm outside, I decided to sit in my lovely granny chair, put my feet up on its matching footstool and ease into the day.
That was when the nightmare began. But to explain, I shall have to take you back to yesterday. (This is where you imagine flashback harp music playing. Or click here)
All was well until Min adopted the fig
It is fig season here at Cortijo Limonero, and the big tree behind the dog pound is covered with figs. The dogs love figs and they snaffle as many windfalls as they can when they go for a walk in the morning. The rottener the better.
Because Casper loves Minnow far too much for her tiny frame to bear, she chooses not to go walking with the others and takes herself off to do important dog stuff on her own. Yesterday, by means we shall not go into, she acquired a very overripe fig. It was at that point of squishyness that reminds one of a three week overdue pregnancy. Soon there would be a ‘happening’ and it was not going to be pretty.
But would Princess Min eat the fig? No, of course not! This fig was to be treasured, carried about delicately, without puncturing its already splitting skin. It was to be sniffed, rolled cautiously and guarded from all comers with a curling of the lip, a baring of the teeth and a snarl that needed no interpreting.
It was a potential trip/slip hazard, so I was not altogether dismayed when Minnow decided to carry it carefully onto my footstool and lie down for a snooze. The fig was like a favourite old teddy bear, only smaller, rounder and with messier stuffing.
‘Awww! How almost sweet!’ I thought and took a photograph.
It was not so sweet when the Tiny Terror rolled over in her sleep and squashed the fig.
And that is why I had to remove the covers from my lovely granny chair and put them through the washing machine.
The armrests had no zips, the stuffing relocated and will not be persuaded back into place. I am not happy with the armrests. I decided to leave them for later wrangling and press on with the cushions, of which there are three.
I have rarely had furniture with removable covers, so I knew I would have to think of a cunning plan. I decided that folding the cushions and then inserting them into the covers and letting them unfold into position would be best. If you know different, please advise. No really: I am traumatised and need to know.
The footstool cushion was covered in a sort of soft filmy plastic, which I assume is to protect it from foot-related grime. The plastic is loosely draped around the foam and only fixed in one place. Putting the cover on involved a slight tussle which saw me emerge victorious and only a little hot and bothered.
I moved on to the seat cushion. This is shaped and the cover has to be the right way up. It has no plastic covering. The folding technique seemed to be working as well as anything I could think of, so I made a start.
Nobody told me the cushion covers were made of genuine Bitch Queen From Hell fabric that clings to foam as soon as it touches and will not let go. I had only pushed the foam about six inches into the cover before it was gripped in a way that would make your average bird-eating spider web look like the work of an amateur. Of course, the foam was unwieldy and difficult to hold folded with one hand. I wedged it against my side and attempted to wrestle it either in or out. At this point, I did not care which.
Eventually, I had the cushion in one hand and a screwed up cover in the other. I decided to try turning the cover inside out and pretend it was a sock being forced onto a small child’s unwilling foot. All was going badly enough, when I realised I had it arranged to be inside out when fully applied. Mutterings ensued, as I wrestled the wretched thing back off.
Ten minutes later, I was slick with very unladylike perspiration and had invented several new and telling phrases. I was ready to call it a day, but the back cushion remained to be done.
This cushion is more gently contoured than the seat cushion and should, theoretically, be easier to manage, in spite of being rather tall. However, like the seat cushion, its cover has to be the right way up. It also has a facing of upholstery wadding, much like the stuff people use in quilt making. This wadding was only attached to the foam by its clingy nature and the top edge was wrapped over to overlap around to the back. This recipe for further trouble is at the top, so it goes in first, the better to jam up the works and make progress impossible.
I will not attempt to describe the battle that ensued. I suspect the BQFH fabric shrinks in the wash. I suspect that the wadding is a nastier relative of the fabric and that they have formed a malign alliance to traumatise those foolish enough to think ‘loose cover’ does not mean ‘anything but loose cover.’ I think it may be a while before the armrests are reapplied.
When I have recovered from the trauma, I may attempt a haiku about the whole sorry eisode, but in the meantime, a word of warning:
When furniture is advertised as having removable covers, remember the removing is the easy part.
I was not joking about the armrests!
*** ADVICE HOT OFF THE PRESS***
My dear friend, Paul, says: Tip learned when reupholstering car seats. Put the foam inside a bin liner, slide into cover, then slit the bag and remove it.
Genius!