Wherever I lay my head

We have a futon. Thanks to Witney Freecycle (a group which, until recently, had very little Google juice) and the fact that anything advertised as needing some assembly or DIY is almost invariably ignored by the crowd of vocal Freecycle freeloaders that haunt the place (asking what colour your free sports car is, or can you send a picture of the free gold bullion that’s littering your shed), we managed to get a decent two-person futon with dismantled frame. When I went to pick it up, they’d even found the original bolts for the frame. It was put together by about twenty minutes of one-man work.

We now have a bed which is not in our bizarre, slightly cold attic room (more on that later). We can make the bed without ruining our backs—my mother was crippled for six months by a disc which slipped during a sheet-tucking procedure, and it’s almost certainly hereditary—and get into bed without bending down. Also, there is now enough sleeping-space for at least four other people; six if you include camping mats and the like; a dozen or two if you rather pedantically count the carpet in body-sized lumps. This means that anyone we like—you all know who you are—are always, always welcome to come and say hello. We’re four miles from Wolvercote and Botley, and the buses run as frequently as you’d hope for in the shires. If you miss yours, you can have the experience of the attic: rather picturesque if you know it’s only for one night.

After next weekend we’ll also have a dining table and chairs. We already have two beanbag-like seats in the living room. It’s up the ziggurat from here, and the endless round of dinner-party bourgeoiserie awaits us.

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