Oh no! Not the comfy sofa.

Sheila's nose was bunged up. Sheila's ears were bunged up. Her eyes watered and her joints ached.

“I don't know why people say they've got flu,” she muttered. “The blasted flu's got me.”

She set the washing machine going, and sat down for a bit. She herded stray mugs into the dishwasher and turned it on, and sat down for a bit. She washed up the few pans that wouldn't fit in the dishwasher, put them away, and sat down again.

At least the new sofa was really comfy. So comfy that she didn't want to get up again. Really it would be much more sensible to go back to bed and have a proper rest.

When her eyes opened, her throat was as dry as the Sahara and the shadows had moved. Water, she thought muzzily. Or a hot drink would be better. Water and then a hot drink.

She tried to stand, but sagged back onto the sofa. Curious. It felt as though her behind were glued down. She tried again, with the same result.

Goodness, she needed a drink. The kettle was only ten metres away, in the kitchen. Three, two, one, GO!

Sheila heard something rip half a second before pain flashed across her rear end. She staggered to her feet and cautiously touched her bum. It was covered in something spiky, like Velcro on steroids. What on earth?

She turned to look behind her, and forgot to breathe. The seat cushion of her nice new sofa was riddled with a ball of broken roots.