I *so* need to get out more

Some years ago my first "husband" came home form work to find me hoovering the walls. From thenceforward it became a metaphor for any slightly mad or cabin-feverish behaviour. Today, an unsuspecting onlooker might have witnessed me ironing a sofa. There is a perfecly simple explanation for this. (Apart from the obvious, but lets not go there). I am giving the bed-settee to my daughter so I dug out its cover from the bottom of a wardrobe and put it on. It looked better, but somewhat creased, so, rather than wrestling again with said cover and getting the (no doubt cobweb-ridden) ironing board out, I decided it would do no harm to iron it on the sofa! It worked! I hasten to add that I would not recommend this for a non-laundered sofa. In fact this prompted me to whip off the cover from the other sofa and bung it in the washer while there is still drying weather. Not the Camel-coloured sofa, the deep blue squashy sofa. (wonder why I'm getting rid of the sofa-bed? "too much furniture" said the charming estate agent and I'm enclined to agree).
So why did I do the sofa-cover-ironing, anyway? Well, I suppose that's just the kind of mum I am. Even though its probably going to be sat on by sallow youths weilding cans of "wife-beater"(AKA Stella) (shudder), burning blim-holes into its plain turquoise loveliness, I just couldn't bear for it not to be the-best-it-possibly-could-be under the circumstances for my not-so-little girl, who happens to be in Malaga at the moment... don't dwell on it...don't dwell