No 'f' in sofa

I am no longer sofaless. Well almost.

Unfortunately with the typical thoroughness I have come to expect in life there are portions as yet to be fetched to me. So while now part of me can sit I cannot loll. If I accept this situation I will develop lopsided buttock syndrome. So where of an evening to place the gangling torso I inhabit I am still at a loss.

By way of explanation the 'third party' carrriers who delivered said incomplete article employed a driver with a 'third party' brain. The neandrethal impersonator who rode as shotgun had little more to display in terms of cerebral capacity. They doorstepped my future instrument of repose and informed me in true ok coral fashion that they would not be lifting the sofa any further than the roadside.

I informed them I did not live on the roadside. This was beyond their developed comprehension.

And so I had it, two slobbering skullnumbs who with finger pointing consistency referred to their interpretation of the semantics of a delivery ticket in order to not complete their task. The whole deal took a swift change of direction when I introduced a wireless transmission courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell and his forebearers. An irate Managing Director lined up on my side and the shotgun was unloaded.

Without much more exertion than a good squeeze I had four large boxes in which to play filling my living room. Before you could say Robin Jackson the knuckle draggers had their palms open for alms. A fixed stare for their efforts filled their 'sweaties'. I too can stand off with remarkable alacrity.

Alone with my boxes I unpacked with more zest than a ton of oranges.

And so the tale is yet to be comlete. One of the boxes was the wrong package. Threequarters of my sofa was all I had.

There is still no 'f' in sofa.

Keep you posted.