Our sofa used to be the finest on the street. When new it had been beyond compare, proudly lording it over the cheap, junk-shop furniture of its neighbours. Admittedly this was back in the days when the area was still largely run-down and studenty so the competition wasn’t up to much. Back then it was a land of grotty bed-sits, dodgy take-aways and neglected gardens. Over time, as prices went up, the students and other assorted grungies were squeezed out and their houses were bought by people who harboured the bourgeois notion that it is preferable to live in a whole house and not bang your head on the sink whenever you sit up in bed. So houses were gradually converted back to their original purpose and design and it was a pleasant change to have neighbours who didn’t indulge in all-night parties or wee in your bushes or believe that traffic cones were the funniest things in the world and place them so comically on your car, in your garden or most hilariously of all, in their own bedrooms.

The new neighbours wrought stylish, bold and innovative havoc on their homes - putting in, ripping out, knocking through and tarting up. And whats more, they still do. But I’ve never been a slave to fashion, I resent the idea of up to the minute ‘home makeovers’ and chucking out perfectly good furniture because it doesn’t conform to the latest trends. Apart from tickling up the paintwork up now and again I never change a thing, for I know that re-papering the walls might mean the curtains won’t then quite match, they would need replacing which would inevitably make the carpet look old or the sofa look tatty. Then it would be a nightmarish spiral of obsessive interior decoration and unending expense that could eventually sweep like a plague through the whole house, lie dormant for while before starting all over again.

I know people who are hooked on all that, like desperate junkies looking for their next fix they study style magazines and paint charts and makeover TV shows in the search for a new contemporary, cutting edge ‘look’, terrified of being more than two years out of date. They look pitiably upon our house with its unchanging rooms and even try thrusting decor magazines at us with Mormonic zeal. But with me its a straight, simple choice: given the limited amount of spare cash I have available, do you prefer a fortnight on a Greek island or new carpets?; would you rather be sipping a charming local wine in a habourside taverna, witnessing a glorious sunset or glugging Tesco’s finest in a fancy pink lounge, watching Casualty?

Well its your money of course say the pitying friends but when its spent you’ve got nothing to show for it. But we do - we have two weeks of new experiences - sights, sounds, smells, taste, friends. OK dodgy plumbing and mewling, overtired children too, but that’s all part of life’s rich tapestry, whereas all they have is a house full expensive, impractical furniture and dining room walls painted in a colour that they insist is Tuscan Sunset but which is, in fact, and somewhat ironically - Traffic Cone Orange.

But I suppose the consequence of this outlook is that my old sofa is now looking a little worn and pitiful these days. Now its way past its best and sits forlornly in the lounge like an elderly, dotty relative - odorous, stained, saggy and slightly embarrassing but still nevertheless family. I should have flogged it to a student while I had the chance.