FEATURES A HOME IS THE SET FOR THE SCENES OF OUR LIFE

Dolly Alderton desperately seeks a sofa

‘Are you comfortable?’ I asked my friend India. It was the third time I had posed this question in the space of an hour.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you – I feel completely comfortable.’ It was in reference to my sofa, which we were perched on side by side. It was the first time I’d had a friend over for a movie night since moving into my flat a year ago. And, oh, how I’d agonised over this bloody sofa. Initially, I’d wanted one in an angular, mid-20thcentury shape, but those weren’t comfortable. However, all the comfortable ones looked too squishy. Then there was the hunt for the specific shade of green I wanted – I bought several swatches from the online shop, ranging from ‘Fern’ to ‘Emerald’ to ‘Kingfisher’. Finally, I settled on a sofa and it arrived. But I was crushingly disappointed – it wasn’t as big as I’d imagined. I filmed myself with a measuring tape, to prove to customer services that they’d added four inches to its depth. After much pedantic deliberation, we decided that the website had included the sofa’s jutting cushions in the official proportions, whereas I’d assumed the measurement was just for the frame. The whole sofa debacle preoccupied me for around three months of my life. ‘Are you SURE you’re comfortable?’ I asked India again. ‘Physically, yes,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘But, socially, not any more, no.’ Why did it matter so much? How had I become the sort of person who thought about lampshades as they drifted off to sleep, or tore out interiors pages of magazines or had a secret Pinterest board called ‘Mi Casa’ with multiple pictures of scallop-edged mirrors and blush-pink velvet curtains? When I moved into my flat a year ago, it was the first home I’d rented on my own. For the past decade, I’d shared houses with friends and, while I’d always been a homebody, they hadn’t been a space of my own. The day I first walked into my one-bed, ground-floor flat, I dreamed of how I would furnish every inch of it with colour and comfort and memories and fragments of life – not just rugs and tables but old family photographs, my favourite records and dog-eared books.

The process of decorating my first solo home has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life. I think about my flat when I’m away from it. Not just the abstract concept of home

– I miss its corners and its door frames. I think about the plants creeping down my bookshelf and the light seeping through the cream linen curtains in my living room and the reassuring sound of my sheets being spun every Sunday morning as I drink coffee and listen to Desert Island Discs.

Perhaps being monomaniacal about curtain poles and shelving units is simply a frivolous exercise of control – a way that we try to find a temporary sense of harmony in a chaotic and sometimes overwhelming world. But I have a more optimistic take – a home is your very own nation of identity. It is a knowable sanctuary. It is for exuberance and energy, retreat and rest – accidental parties and well-planned movie nights. It is the set for the scenes of our life that matter. It is a promise of memories – that no matter how long you’re there, it will always be a part of your story. And that, I believe, is worth finding the perfect sofa for.

‘Why did choosing a sofa matter so much?’