Delivery Slots

Forgive me accessing my inner Tim Dowling but this happened.

We bought a sofa bed. Quick tip. If you want a sofa bed demonstration in a furniture department and there are no partners (oops, what a giveaway) around to help, try doing it yourself, badly, and pretty soon you will be surrounded by advice.

We managed to purchase a product that was in stock, so delivery was agreed for next Wednesday which meant today.

'They'll text you the day before to give you a two hour window.'

Yesterday that text arrived and the two hour window was 7.00 a.m. - 9.00 a.m. The text also said they would message again when half an hour away.

'What shall we do?' asked Mrs Dowling (see how it works).

Now I know what the answer to this question is. If it had happened that I had been home alone to receive the delivery I would have set an alarm for 6.45 a.m., popped on some clothes, made a coffee and had a look at my phone to see if they had been in touch yet.

However anticipating that, as ever, there are two ways to answer a question such as this, my wife's way and the wrong way, I provided this answer aloud:

'You set your alarm and then bring me a coffee in bed.'

She looked a little sad for no reason but no more was said.

This morning I heard Mrs D get out of bed (but not her alarm) and a short time later a cup of coffee was indeed placed at my bedside. I popped to the loo (noting that the heating had not yet come on), came back to bed, had a sip of coffee and checked the time. 6.16 a.m. This, we note, is 14 minutes earlier than the earliest possible half hour notice text. I went back to snoozing.

At (I calculate) 6.31 a.m. a voice on the landing disturbs my slumber to say the delivery will be at 7.00 a.m. I go back to snoozing.

At 6.45 a.m. I find myself fully awake so turn on the light and grab something to read while finishing my lukewarm coffee.

I am collecting outrageous quotes from HTSI (The Financial Times' weekly guide to spending lots of money) and find this, 'If you want to achieve your dreams you have to hustle.' Suppose your dream is to be nice to as many people as possible?

At 6.59 a.m. I hear a van arrive in our quiet cul-de-sac. I get out of bed and put on some joggers and a t-shirt, insert my teeth and smooth my hair over.

At 7.00 a.m. there is a knock on the door. I wander downstairs and answer it (there is no sign of Mrs D). A man with a large box asks where I want it?

'Would upstairs be OK?' I ask.

'Sure', he says, far too cheerily for 7.01 a.m.

Mrs D joins us during the second box (of three). She whispers that she was in the loo (at precisely, precisely mind, the time they said they would be here).

I am now writing an amusing anecdote having wished five friends a happy birthday, prepared and eaten my breakfast, sorted out the washing, and read HTSI, Feast and the Church Times. I've even had an internal dialogue about Oxford commas. Not happy with the result.

I have never heard the sound of a sofa bed being assembled upstairs but I'm taking a wild guess. I am pressing P for publish whilst still within the two hour delivery slot.

Downsizing

We've been down-sizing. Naively we thought moving to a house half the size of our big vicarage meant only taking half our furniture. If you read no further paragraphs and want a single take-away from this piece please note that furniture designed for big rooms can't make that journey. Doing what we have done you will need to get rid of most of your furniture and purchase smaller pieces.

Over the years we have collected several items in pine and these created the theme of our last two homes. I wrote only this summer about the lovely old ironmonger's counter units we had procured, with the stated hope that we could keep them. In fact we gave two to our younger son and his family and brought two with us. A couple of weeks into living here in our new home and we worked out they were too big for the space. Also, surprisingly, it turns out that a big part of liking them was the space in which they lived. Without wishing to sound pretentious, this is not a pine house. It has a sleeker, more modern vibe. No carpets downstairs. Wood painted black,. Blinds not curtains. And the usual modern bathroom accessories that are a triumph of style over function.

Our last two houses have been big. Our Victorian terrace in Leamington had three floors,  many rooms and decent high ceilings. Our modern vicarage in Nailsea had a couple of huge spaces in which ordinary furniture got lost. Our conservatory alone had a four seater corner sofa, the biggest of the old counter-cupboards and a dining table that seated twelve, comfortably. There were two further sofas in the lounge. Fate of the older one is pictured.

There is a modicum of truth in the saying that clergy are middle-class people in upper class houses on lower-class salaries.

One of my main sources of joy in an ordinary week is the FT Weekend glossy supplement HTSI. It used to be called How To Spend It which is a big clue as to what it might be like. The first six pages are usually double-page promotionals for watches. No, not Swatches.

It is not devoid of ideas for the cute use of space, something we are working very hard on just now. This week there was a special focus on someone who has chosen to live in an open-plan cave. Not an actual cave but a purpose-built one. The pictures of the accommodation are beautiful and could probably manage well enough without being described as '...an organic celebration of the curvilinear.' We learn that open-plan living 'requires a robust approach to one's ablutions'. Yes folks, in this space everyone can hear you stream. Anyone got the number for Private Eye's Pseuds' Corner?

The HTSI subjects have a lot of space.  We don't. So we have spent five weeks carefully monitoring dead space where things might be kept. We need to lose one more pine unit completely and a huge pine dresser which we spent real  money on in 1984. One further shop display case can stay but needs painting to blend in. The last of the four old counter units is going in the garage as useful storage.

Yesterday we threw more money at a bespoke shelving solution (sorry, I've caught pretentiousness now) than we spent on each of our first three cars, even allowing for inflation. Turns out that making things small, compact and beautiful is expensive. And meeting a wonderful local carpenter gave us a couple of ideas for space-saving which we hadn't thought of. Can't quite afford Scooby Doo wardrobe doors but they are enticingly cool. Thanks, James Adcock.

Carrying with us our Arts and Crafts mantra and thus trying to have nothing in our home that isn't useful or beautiful (don't ask how I made the cut) we have entered the world of sofa-beds, integrated kitchen appliances and flat-screen TVs. We do already have some pleasing quiet corners though, with a few more to come.

Minimalism is a bit of a reach from here, see kitchen picture, but the next month sees the premier of Ruthlessness II; this time it's serious.