The sofa

I don't believe I am alone any longer. If you trawl the dating/singles websites you will find the words 'unable to accomodate'. This is 'webspeak' for 'I live on a sofa'. It also says I am neither a man of property or means. I do however have access to a wardrobe rail, microwave and shared ablution facilities. Not the most appealing of settings to woo a potential playmate.
I for my sins am slightly further up the gene pool in that 'I live on a sofa' and own a car.
In fact I own a fully paid up 'flashy' sports car. A very important tool in attracting women. Not so the sofa. It all adds to the illusion.
In creating this illusion, I am after all only evening up the score.

Women who have reached the age of abandonment never ever engage in the battle without warpaint. It is a fact. It is their way. Whether they have locked up at home a gaggle of snarling kids or a treasury of red letters and financial demands is irrelevant. It is my experience that 'baggage' there always is. Is this ever declared when you arrive together at passport control?
Not on your sweet nelly my dears.
Why in heaven's name should I therefore declare my sofa.

This then makes for a dilemma. When both parties lock horns with 'smoke and mirrors' it is the degree of delusion that sets up the illusion. Jaguar XK8 does not imply sofa. Equally 36c, botox and painted nails does not say broke with teenage crackhead offspring. It is all part of the game.
Life is but a flitting fancy, Kairos, the god of the fleeting moment enslaving the outcome.

I have learned that behavioural science is just another name for knicker elastic.

The sofa is my monogamous relationship. My friend. My sanctuary. My priestless confessional. We have laughed together. We have cried together. Without it I would die.

Long live the sofa!