L Shaped Sofas and Platform One

Last night Freya tried to push me off the sofa. She tried very hard indeed and basically succeeded -  though largely because of the moral support of her mother. Mrs G. always takes her daughter's side, ignoring the fact that said daughter is a wind-up merchant of the first order. Anyway, she tried to push me off the sofa, and it came about like this.

One side of the sofa projects out into the room - a bit like how the Cape of Good Hope points its way out of Cape Town. So the sofa is essentially an L shape. When it comes to naming sofas after letters of the alphabet, the letter L seems to have something of a monopoly. Personally I'd like to see more diversity here: a W shaped sofa - or a Q shaped one perhaps - it's always good old 'L! 

Anyway this is my bit of the sofa, where I can elevate my legs and idle away time watching repeats of detective dramas on ITV3. Actually in the last few days there have been lots of Carry on Films on that channel. Ewan and Freya can't believe we're watching them and they are pretty outrageous when seen through the eyes of youngsters; semi-clad young ladies being chased by over-sexed middle-aged men isn't really my thing either, but TV schedulers seem to think the demand is still there! 

Because of the sofa's shape and my position on it, I can, as I say, loll on it, legs raised. This is lovely, and fully deserved given how much work I put in to keep the family solvent. As I revel in it I can feel my blood pressure lowering and the stresses and strains caused by Sid James's nauseating behaviour and the plethora of murders in Midsummer ebbing away; it's like having a massage from............. (insert an individual of your choice). I feel it's right and proper that I enjoy this privilege and have no doubt I've earned to right to luxuriate on this alphabetical furnishing! Admittedly it's never really been discussed that it's my territory, but like the British Constitution, some things are unwritten. Anyway possession is nine tenths of the law.

So imagine my surprise when I came into the sitting room last night to find my daughter had taken up residence on that  - on my - part of the sofa. Not only that, she was hugely enjoying herself, being covered by a blanket and cuddling some kind of ridiculous teddy called Timothy given to her by her boyfriend.

I won't be naming the boyfriend. For a start it might be out of date by the time I press 'Publish'. In addition, apparently they are in a 'situation-ship'. This is one of the words of 2023 and describes a relationship in which there is some romance but without the label of 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend'. Freya once declared herself to be a pomosexual. It transpires a pomosexual is someone who doesn't want to give a label to their sexuality.

"But that's a label," I informed her, with exasperation.

Anyway she'll be cross with me for outing her as a pomosexual so we'll press on.

After I'd recovered from the shock I attempted to share this bit of the sofa with my beautiful progeny; the said progeny took exception and some kind of physical altercation took place which lasted for several minutes. It was jokey, but this didn't stop Mrs. G. from being ratty with me for two reasons; firstly our commotion was compromising her attempts to complete that day's Wordle, and secondly, because she yet again took Freya's side. 

And perhaps, in this instance, rightly - you can judge, reader - but I'll say this: if Freya, and not Lee Harvey Oswald, had shot JFK, her loving mother would have found a way of defending her. 

"I'm sure it was an accident, wasn't it, darling? You just happened to be on the grassy knoll with a gun when the President drove past."

But I accept that this is family law; it's just how things are. I know there's a whole father-daughter dynamic which Freya and I have in abundance, but if anyone is remotely mean to our second born, Mrs. G. generally hunts them down and thwacks them over the head with her handbag. 

So the cheeky teddy-owning, pomosexual got her way. As usual!

She's starting at Platform One later this week. Platform One describes itself, modestly, as a boutique college. Basically it's the music bit of the Isle of Wight College , though in a separate building half a mile away, and has a self-contained feel about it. It's so much more than the above description, however, being embedded into Island culture and with tentacles that extend throughout -  including into the summer Isle of Wight Festival. The boss, Dave, is a bit of a legend on the Island. I say that because everybody has heard of him, from our friend Nigel who runs the Teaching Agency to a local bus driver. And when you mention it, everyone seems to know someone who attended the college. 

"Platform One? Oh yes, my sister-in-law's brother's wife's daughter went there. It's marvellous," is a typical response. Yesterday it was the daughter of the lady at the adjacent electric car port whose daughter was an alumni, and today the son of the librarian at school.

Dave was at pains to illustrate the myriad opportunities available to young musicians here; it seems to me that the community that is the Island will afford my daughter even more opportunities than a college on the Mainland. Freya is a singer/songwriter, but I think her thing is really the latter. She's composed over 50 songs, baring her soul in many of them regarding romances present and past. Hopefully some of the 140,000 Islanders will get to hear them at some point!

So we're all kind of sorted. Tomorrow, Ewan is popping up to a local school for a chat about volunteering there. Hopefully his 'gap year' can be filled with community-based work. He's very motivated to help those less well off and there'll be plenty of opportunities to do that here; these will be fascinating to document and will give us continued insight into Ventnor and Island life. 

Incidentally, my empathetic, Socialist son is not the sort of chap to push people off sofas - more an advocate for those who are being pushed. And so the sitting room battle lines will be drawn, with Mrs. G defending her blue-eyed girl and my compassionate, dutiful son, extolling the principles of fatigued fathers and their rights to take proprietorship on sofas named after letters of the alphabet! Which is quite a mouthful; the dictionary will pass through my system soon, hopefully!

En garde!