It’s a mixed blessing, buying a new settee. There it sits, in its pristine freshness, totally out of place atop stained carpets, just waiting for the first spill.
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As the self-appointed guardian of the virgin settee, which arrived while the Man of the House was away, I have provided it with all the protection I can in the way of loose covers.
There’s almost no point in choosing a new colour, because most of it is covered up. Should the Moth and I indulge in the practice of having our dinner in front of the television, it is atop especially purchased new trays. No more bolognaise sauce splashes – in fact, no more bolognaise, or any other dish that splashes.
I am still unable to relax in front of The Antiques Roadshow. I must be on guard, because Zylka, having thoroughly enjoyed a mix of brown rice, vegies, fish, chicken necks and a small bone, wants to wipe her chops thoroughly along the piped braiding that I had admired so much when I chose the settee.
The loose covers are no barrier – she sticks her old head beneath them, and comes up looking like the Queen in her headscarf. That is, if the Queen had a spotty face, which I’m sure she doesn’t.
So towels are to hand, to give Zylka’s chops a thoroughly good clean before they reach the settee. And the rest of her, too – paws that might have trotted over the freshly turned vegie patch, or paddled through a mud puddle.
Zylka is very good, and stands patiently while I inspect and clean all four feet.
Not so Zahli, who can reach the settee in one jump from the door, bounce off all four walls, be back on the settee again, rip the loose cover off and disappear with it down the hall, all while my mouth is opening and yet to shout.
Both dogs, of course, have their own beds on the floor, but that is not to say that they will stick to them.
Thistle is a much cleaner proposition, having washed his feet delicately himself before jumping up, but even he can leave a little nest of grey hairs.
However, all animals pale into significance when it comes to what the Moth can do to furniture, new and old.
Our old settee was dark blue; the effects after he would collapse backwards into it in mud, paint or oil-streaked clothes were not so noticeable. Slopped tea and red wine stains were absorbed into an all over pattern that could have been mistaken for brocade if you didn’t look too closely.
I must have expended whole working weeks in cleaning that lounge, and it still looked blotchy. It now lives at Rocky Hall, where the dim light of the interior there does not show up the damage, and it looks like almost vintage damask.
What it did show, though, was the white hairs of the dogs. Dalmatians shed constantly, and every shed hair stood out, the dark blue gradually receding to uniform grey until I got the vacuum out. Even the most powerful dog vacuum on the market will not get all those spear-like hairs out of a fabric settee.
When the old settee began to fray around the edges, I determined on a new one in a much paler colour, and suggested vinyl, or its equivalent, to the Moth. He said it would be cold to sit on.
So we wound up with another fabric one, hence my anxiety over spills. Despite Zahli’s muddy assaults and Zylka’s wiping her chops on it we weren’t doing too badly a month or two down the line.
Until last night, when I handed the Moth his tray of dinner. It was a tuna fish pie, rich in parsley sauce, with the potato topping a sizzling, buttery brown.
I was taking a chance, I knew; but he had had plenty of time to get used to the new arrangementss, and had been doing quite well.
But he’d been out all day working at Rocky Hall with Zylka and Zahli, and was tired. He set his tray on the arm of the settee, and poured himself some red wine.
Then he threw himself backwards into his accustomed spot.
He caught the edge of the tray with his backside as he descended. It slid beneath him, the content s of his dish sliding down the arm of the chair. Then he sat in it.
He could not have assaulted that settee with his dinner more thoroughly had he been trying.
He leapt up, I ordered him out to change and set about cleaning and scrubbing, something I never do at night, and the atmosphere was charged with discord.
A day on, I can accept that the settee had to be christened sooner or later; but I wish it hadn’t been with fish pie.