Eighteenth letter: Happiness is a giant red, bean bag.

That’s a foolish statement to begin my blog ‘Happiness is a giant red bean bag’, but then again this has been a cheery, odd week. My poor confused mind has been sent into overdrive, looking for an explanation for the sudden influx of happiness, could it really, just be a giant red bean bag?

Still working

                Perhaps, but it’s unlikely. Let me explain, last weekend Andy announced he needed to separate his work life from his home life. Those of you that work as lecturers or live with them(I’m starting a support group), know that the work doesn’t end when they come home, far from it. For the last six months Andy’s ‘office’ had been part of a wall in our main living room (main? only! I have delusions of grandeur creeping in). He’d initially been against the idea of being separated from the household (the dog and me), while working from home.  But, during the last few weeks, he’s noticed a creeping dislike for being at home. He reassured me it wasn’t us (the dog and me again) but, the fact was he’d  now begun to associate our ‘main’ living room with work.

                Sunday afternoon he had a light bulb moment, he would create an office in the spare bedroom, our only room for guests, and the empty space left against the wall would become his area for leisure. This involved yet another trip to IKEA, which as you might imagine, is not my idea of happiness. You see, despite what my family think, I’m quite easy going these days, and only want a quiet life, my current needs being along the lines of :

• Not actually making anyone physically sick with my cooking.
• Following Cesar Millans philosophies while walking Alfie.
• Staying awake till at least 10pm.
• Watching the Walking Dead.

IKEA on a Sunday afternoon, does not fit in anywhere on my desire for a quiet life, and I wasn’t convinced I wanted a red gamers style, bean bag in my ‘main’ living room.  Yet, Andy seems so adamant that this would be the icing on his cake, and the only place he knew he could buy one instantly was IKEA (the meatballs weren’t even a consideration). I knew, I really did that it would be pointless, that IKEA would have all the fun of a five hour traffic jam on the M1. But I couldn’t dash the hope that filled his little round, grinning face.

Supa brightness

IKEA do not sell giant red bean bags or any other kind of bean bags, they did sell a variety of  other useful items, that we left on the floor beside the 20 people deep columns, lining up behind the three working checkouts. The other six stores we tried didn’t sell bean bags either. There was nothing for it, we would have to go home empty handed. I hadn’t got away with it that easily though, on the way back Andy outlined his plan. I would hit the internet, while he finished off some work, if I couldn’t find what he was looking for we’d hit the late night shops on Thursday.

Almost warm enough to sit out

By Tuesday he seemed to have forgotten all about bean bags and my mood lifted, it had been a close shave, but I seem to have gotten away with it. My mood was somewhat darkened again when I met my friend Laura for coffee and she described Alfie and the canine equivalent of an overly friendly Down Syndrome child. However, watching Alfie stand on his two hind legs trying to reach the face of our waitress, presumably for kisses, I had to admit she has a point.  I guess Alfie’s life can’t be all bad, if he sees most people as needing to be the recipient , or as a source of affection.

Jack pointing to the newly returned sky

The real reason for the increase in happiness is, of course nothing to do with red bean bags or mentally challenged dogs. It’s the sky, it’s back! Breda has once more returned to the picturesque European holiday town, I remembered from last summer, full of smiling people, sipping wine in the harbour while basking in the sun.

Okay time to take Aflie out..

Trace

BTW, if you’re wondering, we now have a giant red bean bag installed in the ‘main’ living room and Andy is still grinning.