The Custom-Made Sofa: Delivery Day

Today was the day my new custom-made sofa should have been delivered.

You can kind of guess that it wasn’t, can’t you? To be honest, I knew it wasn’t going to be ready. A week after I ordered it, they called to say the fabric I wanted was out of stock and would I please go choose another. It took me a couple of days to get up there – juggling trips that far away with a 12pm nursery pick-up is not easy.

“You can see the frame, as well,” said Rashid. The words “dangling”, “carrot” and “donkey” sprung to mind.

Nothing like my sofa, but I like the colours...

So I drove up there a week ago and was ushered into a meeting with the production engineer. He was an incredibly well-informed chap who – thankfully, given his job – knew everything there was to know about sofa design. I settled down at his desk and we talked for an hour about every single measurement of the sofa: how tall DH is; how long his legs are; the relative height of the base; the depth of the cushions; the shape of the corner wedge; the height of the cushions and the ratio of foam to Dacron. The curve of the armrest; the height of the back; the thickness of the back cushion; the stuffing for that. The legs, the piping, everything.

It was one of the most satisfying conversations I’ve ever had with a tradesman in this country. As I stood up to leave, the production guy said,

“Oh, and your fabric. It’s not good. I make you a beautiful sofa and you hate it because you chose wrong fabric. Come… let me show you…”

And we spent another half hour going through fabric books.

But, while I’d found it easy to communicate with him over the design, I wasn’t having much luck with the fabric. I want a natural fibre, but the production engineer, he thinks a polyester is better. More hard-wearing. More popular.

“If my husband sits on polyester, his hair catches fire,” I said. The production engineer smiled.

I took home two books: one of cottons that weren’t washable and so were about as useful as making the whole thing out of chocolate, and one of polyester chenilles that shone in the sunlight. DH snorted.

Today I went back to search some more. I found my fabric (Oxford cotton 470gsm) but it doesn’t come in the colour I want (as close to white as is humanly possible in an Oxford cotton).

“Can I see the frame?” I asked Rashid.

 “The men are at lunch,” he said apologetically.

“But the frame is not at lunch? I can see it?”

He agreed reluctantly and led me into the workshop.

“There are a few frames. Any one could be yours,” he said, indicating a three-seater, and a small sofa with chaise.

“Not mine,” I said. Mine is a three-metre by three-metre L-shape.

Rashid led me into the woodwork room, where the wooden frames are constructed.

“Madam, yours will be in here,” he said.

We looked around. There was nothing. Just some long strips of wood that may one day make up the frame of my sofa.

I felt it would be rude to point out that it was delivery day and it hadn’t yet been started, because Rashid was being so pleasant.

“Lovely,” I said.

I’m hoping we’ll have it for Christmas.