Ah, it's time to buy a new sofa. All these adverts with prices slashed – and a Christmas spent sitting on the tatty old ones with springs that resemble my post-celebration belly (distended) – has inspired me to make the decision that the time is well and truly nigh.
With pennies tight, it's high time that I went between the cushions and collected the takings from among the boiled sweets, errant socks and medley of crisp droppings.
But it's not that easy. We've been trying to buy a new one for a year. It goes something like this.
Try out six zillion versions of corner ones with bed-like promontories attached, argue about who will have the lengthy position in front of the television and stop the children from running all over the store.
Then defend ourselves from 12 salesman (the DFS disciples) and fail to make a decision about pattern, let alone fabric.
We're so memorable in our indecisiveness that the salesman at our favourite store greets us like long friends before turning away and no doubt signalling in desperation that it's really someone else's turn to take the Compton penalty.
Isn't it so hard though? I get hit with that old paradox.
You see one you fancy on TV – but then you can't buy it because other people will have seen it on TV and know where you got it from.
Then there's forecasting bottom spread (will two cushions for three seats really still be working out in a few years?) and the children's growth (will they be able to still sit next to each other with enough space to balance trays on knees?).
And don't forget the back issue (will it suffice to support heading into my 40s next year?)
Obviously a sofa's not just for Christmas, it's for six or seven festive seasons and this may be why I have a house peppered with other people's secondhand ones (including my gran's, my neighbour's and my mum's friend's).
The whole long-term-ism nature of buying comfort for evening after evening is just too much for me.
Which is why, in 12 months' time, I might just be sitting on exactly the same old sofa.