101 Lives of a Sofa

sofa

Some like the brown leather ones.

Or the oddly shaped like flying saucers ones, designed in high fashion labs.   Not a stitch out of place and watch out if you come near with a bar of chocolate or a glass of red wine.

Others go for the white ones that twist and turn like the Milky (Motor) Way in their living rooms.

We all search for the right one.

Some like piles of cushions scattered everywhere, with no greater plan or reason.

Others like well–matched rows of embroidered squares and circles.

And some like cosiness, comfort and low-maintenance, and the odd crumb.  So do I.

Every sofa tells a story and here is ours.

First there is the smell of spilled morning coffee and rushed routine.  A stash of cornflakes hidden by Peanut, just in case.

The sleepy hollow in the left corner from the time when I carried my boy under my heart and needed those frequent naps or just liked to lie down with my eyes closed and listen to the birds chirping and cars rushing while stroking the Bump.

A few marks where Peanut chose to wipe his nose.  Sorry about that. I know I should take better care of you but a part of me thinks that your shabby looks make you more special.

Some days Teddy 1 and Teddy 2 invade all the sofa space.

P1010074

All these crumbs and cornflakes, chocolate stains (proof of my late night writing) and hollow spots tell stories about our family.

Stories of fun games and pillow fights.  Laughing out loud.  Building dens.  Cosy evenings after long days; our feet up, plates on our laps and lazy chats.

Of Peanut squeezing through with a book, or two.  Our goodnight reads and singing along to In the Night Garden songs.

Of holding hands when life on the small screen gets too scary.  Of resting my head on BlueBeretDad’s shoulder and falling asleep when the football is on.

Of us mastering the baby babble, making plans for our future and listening to someone playing bagpipes in their garden.

Our sofa is not just another piece of furniture.

It is not about purpose and function and order.

It is more of a friend, though frayed around the edges.

It is a hiding spot for our memories.

Disclosure: This is a sponsored post and I have received monetary compensation for writing it.   All words, images and sofa memories are mine.

Haiku

Dear Peanut

Summer is here or at least this is what the calendar says.

We have had some lazy sunshine sipping through the clouds which means you could work on your wobbling and stomping in our local park.

Everyday you show more of your unique personality; you are a funny boy. A stand-up comedy star in the making or a mountaineer, judging by your ability to climb the Everest tables, chairs, the kitchen cupboard and the big bookshelf.

Here are some snippets of last week. Something for you to read one day and remember. Taste of your first ever ice cream. Your first magic tent. And your second summer solstice.

Love

Mum x

ice cream Gaping mouth

Soft vanilla, melting stars

Your eyes -two suns

Breeze in my hair h4

You at my skirt

Summer solstice

magic tent4 cushions, 1 blanket, 2 chairs

2 teddy bears at the gate

Welcome to Peanut’s Magic Tent

Teargas and Tulips

teargas

On 1 June it is Children’s Day in Poland so let’s raise glasses filled with lemonade to our children because childhood doesn’t last long enough.

A few days ago I got angry. Very angry. At life. And the universe. And everything.

There I was sipping my favourite Apple & Dill tea (tastes much better than it sounds), eyeing the last chocolate brownie on the plate in front of me and catching up on one of Radio 4 programmes, From Our Own Correspondent. This is one of my favourite pastimes apart from reading, blogging, doing yoga and drinking cocktails like no one is watching (order depending on the day).  And on the more serious note, whenever I get a chance and have two minutes to myself, I like to listen to stories about quirks and oddities in other cultures.  In that particular episode of FOOC, called The Lap of Luxury and broadcast on 23 February 2013, there was a reportage from Syria in which a BBC journalist visited an old Roman burial chamber and found seven boys hiding in the dark.  Some of them were brothers; some had lost their parents in fights and bombings.  Seven pairs of eyes in the cold tombstone. “We are all afraid.”

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A Wild Meadow

Hello everyone

Still enjoying my time in Sweden.  Ah the sun and the pastries!  I know I said I would take a break from all the blogging madness but I have recently dreamt up this post.  So here it is – a quick walk down my memory lane for you while I’m away.  Oh, and before I disappear again to chase some elks – there are some great Sweden inspired posts in the making so watch this space!

DoodleBuddy

There is a wild meadow a five-minute walk away from my parent’s flat.  It doesn’t seem to belong to anyone and you can see it in the neglected long grass and half dead shrubs hiding remains of a drunken party.  Empty bottles of vodka.  Old newspapers used as a seat or cover (or both) from rain and cold.  An old decaying building that used to be a petrol station. Its dead eyes boarded up, its face scarred with an occasional graffiti of male genitals.

This is where I used to play hide and seek with my best friend, crawling on the ground, knowing my dirty knees and torn sleeves would get me into trouble later. The overgrown bushes and grass hid exciting secrets and treasures.  A lonely boot missing its laces.  A broken umbrella. A baseball cap.

This is where as an eight year old girl I took my puppy, Gapcio, for his first proper walk.  Over the years spent exploring the meadow, Gapcio never tired of digging up molehills and showing unrequited love to an occasional hedgehog.  And this was where I took him 18 years later for our last walk before he disappeared in my dad’s car.

The meadow witnessed hours of me and my friend coming to grips with our teenage angst while sitting on a fallen tree, overanalysing failed dates, drinking cheap beer and choking on cigarette smoke.  During summers a group of secret naturists took over our hiding spot to scorch their wobbly bellies in the high sun.

This is where I came to say good-bye to my life in Poland before heading off into the unknown eight years ago.

One year I brought a former boyfriend back with me to introduce him to the meadow and its magic. He looked at the grey blocks of flats rising over the city in the far distance, the weeds and dead trees around us, dried out bones of a dead bird he had managed to avoid stepping into and the abandoned petrol station building with a fresh graffiti of a gigantic penis on its front.  My heart swelled with pride.

“So, this is the meadow I told you about”

He took his time taking in all the beauty before muttering something about perfect hiding spots for criminals on the run and dodgy drug dealers.