The Toxic Couch

It looked dangerously toxic. Tapping caused a frightful geyser of dust. When I stripped it of its tattered red cover, it revealed a horrible cumulation of grime, snarls and balls of I-don't-know-what wrapped in dust and crud. The springs jutted in all directions, in-between the coils were stuck folded empty cigarette packs, candy wrappers, and egads! even a rolled up rubber-thingy that confirmed it was a site of romantic encounters.

I almost put a match to it. But before doing the fiery deed, I consulted a local upholsterer . He wowed, amazed at how the springs stilll boinged, survived more than half a century of abuse and misuse. The frame needed only minimum woodwork. They don't make couches like this anymore! For a piece of furniture, it was major reconstructive project -- but he was undaunated.

Voila! . . . I watched its slow resurrection. And after that, nothing seemed impossible. But, alas, not too many agreed on my choice of cloth design and color.