This is part of what will be a 3-part exercise in insanity. I write slowly, and need to push some of my boundaries. So, with a free Saturday, I decided to ask my Tumblr friends (come join us- follow the Call the Midwife tag, we’re there) to send in prompts for me to write responses to in 60 minutes. One down, two to go.

This prompt technically breaks the “No Turnadette” rule, but hey, give the people what they want.

Turnadettefangirl said: Okay, a fic where a piece of furniture is the main POV 😉 The gold sofa, the hatch, the bed. Those have witnessed a lotta Turner family drama (and joy)

I used to have it easy. I was a lucky sofa, and I knew it. Years ago, in the furniture store, the old second hand furniture would tell tales of terror and abuse.

“Look at my back leg,” the tallboy moaned. “Two brothers fighting took that one. I’ve had this old board to hold me up since.”

“My scratches,” wailed the dining room table. “I’ll never be glossy and polished again!”

But it was the old sofa on the corner that earned the most pity. Its upholstery torn and stained, cotton wool peeping out and missing an entire cushion, the old couch had seen it all.

“A family of thirteen,” the old voice croaked. “One beast jumped on me and broke my spine, another pulled out the horsehair for a school project, and I won’t even tell you the details of the season the entire bunch of them had the stomach flu.”

When I was purchased by a quiet couple, starting out their marriage, I considered myself lucky. The man was out all the time, and the woman seemed to prefer to spend her time with the piano bench.

I didn’t mind. Life was easy.

The day they brought home a baby, I worried. “My bright covers! My arms! This child will be the ruin of me!”

But the boy left me alone. The floor was his domain. Each day he would amass a collection of blocks and cars and small animals and build great cities. Each day he would spill something, too. I never spent much effort getting to know the carpets in those years. They never stayed long enough.

By the time the boy became slightly less clumsy, he had moved to the table and chairs near me. He was a serious boy, and rarely had any friends over. He would sit quietly and do schoolwork or read. I wondered why he looked so sad.

Then the man began to spend his nights on the couch. I never saw the woman, though I could hear her talking quietly with the others in the private rooms. I wasn’t a proper place for a grown man to sleep, though I must admit he did rarely spend a full night stretched out over me. His nights were spent out of the flat, or pacing the floor. Even the nights he spent in the bedroom, I doubt he got any rest.

Eventually, he returned to the bedroom. The flat was silent through the day and I was left to my thoughts. In the evenings, the boy would stay at his place at the table, whilst the man sat in one of the matching chairs, silently smoking.

They didn’t talk much, not really, though it felt as if there was so much to be said. The man worked and smoked, the boy read and played his music. Sometimes, I would see one watch the other, a helpless expression on his face. Neither ever sat upon me, and after ten years, I looked as good as new.

I was grateful; I was a handsome couch, and could last for decades. There was little chance I would end up old and worn out at a second-hand shop. The few times a visitor came by, I was always admired. It is possible that I grew vain.

After months of no visitors, life in the flat changed very suddenly. The boy and the man had a new friend. A quiet, small young woman, she soon found a comfortable spot on the handsome gold sofa near the lamp. Her visits became frequent, and though I began to see much more use, she was careful to care for me properly. She made sure my cushions were rotated, and soon after she came to live in the flat, I was vacuumed frequently.

It seemed that I was, if you’ll pardon the expression, “sitting pretty.”

Oh, how wrong I was. The woman was little, and took excellent care of me. But suddenly, it wasn’t enough for the man to be home, he sat upon me, as well. And not on his proper cushion on the other half. No, the man insisted on sitting as close as possible to his new favorite. Right over two cushions. At the same time! The man had no thought for symmetry or wear! I began to show signs of use.

Perhaps if the man and woman had been content to sit still, it would not have been so defeating. But they never seemed to be settled in one spot for long. Once the boy left of an evening, they would shift and nudge and thump. Their giggles and sighs only infuriated me more.

And shoes! They completely forgot themselves and for the first time ever, shoes scraped against my beautiful cushions. I was furious. The shoes had to go.

And then the shoes went.

My friend, I blush to tell you that the shoes were only to first of many items to be removed. More than one morning I was awakened by the presence of a cufflink poking through my fabric. The deep corners and recesses of my shape became the lost and found of the detritus of their shenanigans.

So now, no longer the proud, handsome showpiece, fit for the display window of the best furniture retailers, I am an ordinary, faded gold sofa.

And the worst of all, further proof of my disastrous decline, I have discovered the fact that will most assuredly put me in the back corner of the saddest of all charity shops.

Now they have a baby.