Today the furniture moves again. I drafted the Brother-In-Law to help me haul the sofa back downstairs from the library to the parlour.

The choir executive needs to meet in person, in a place where we won't get rained on or have to compete with road noise. So it's the library at my house, the only space we have that's big enough, and sufficiently ventilated, to accommodate up to eight people under the current public health rules. This is the meeting when we tell the conductor that we can't afford the 12-month contract he has always had, and that he must either accept a month-to-month arrangement -- that is, he works (and we pay him) only when we can rehearse in person -- or he resigns. It will be ugly.

So the library has to have separate seats for eight people. Therefore, the sofa shall move. Fortunately, it's not a great hulking overstuffed thing or, God forbid, a hide-a-bed; it's a teak-framed Danish Modern job. But it's no featherweight, and it's long, so a bit of skilled manipulation is required to get it through the library door and around the corner to the stairs.

Widening that door is one of the objectives of the bathroom renovation I would like to do before I get much older.