'... I want to grow something.' I scanned the perimeter of our palatial eight-hundred square-foot flat the moment my wife uttered these words. In about ten seconds I wondered where and looked at her, clueless. She chose to ignore it as usual. 'I want a  planter box. I want to grow something.' 

Now we all know the 'that was once' story and we know more that it is more than just a story. And so, without further ado, wife and I discussed how we would go about reorganising the contents of the living room - the sofa, its sidekick chairs, the television table, the aquarium - basically everything but her was assessed for its utility. 

In the end, it was decided we would sell the old sofa and its chairs. It was also unanimously decided by my wife that I, being an accomplished woodworker, would make a storage sofa, given we could use the money from the sale of the old sofa for the wood. This was her manner of reciprocating my willingness to go with her plans - including me in hers by making me work on them for free, or  er... for food. 

It all went as planned - sofa sold, money pocketed and an ideal spot identified for my wife to grow whatever she wanted to. And usually when things seem to go well, they don't. And so, I ripped a tendon while carrying a slab of wood upstairs and that meant I couldn't as much as drive a nail for the next month leave alone make a sofa. After much lamentation and chiding, it was once again unanimously decided by the wife that we couldn't sit on the floor until I was fit and so we bought a sofa and it was due the next morning. 

'This simply won't do,' I woke up to my wife's protests the next morning. It was bright and sunny, and the helpers from the furniture store were there already, sofa and all. A lone, rogue tear threatened to leave her eye.

'What's wrong?' I walked up to her and placed an arm around her, carefully, preemptively. 

'What's wrong? Can't you see the sofa is larger than it was at the store?' 

'How can it be...' I started off only to be cut off by her glare. 'I mean. Yeah. It didn't look this big,' I said and looked at the sofa. I then turned towards the helpers.

'Sir, sign,' the bemused guy - who clearly didn't have to undergo such trauma - handed me the delivery receipt. Even before I could finish signing, he snatched it and hurried out along with his partner, leaving me alone with my wife and the sofa that had coldly encroached upon her planter box's space. 

'All I wanted was to grow something. Now what shall I grow?' My wife said, even as I parked myself on the new sofa. The cushion felt plush and warm and so I slid down, my back arched and my tummy flowing gracefully over the waist band of my trouser.

'You just grew a sofa, dear. It is already bigger than it was at the store,' I said scratching my belly lazily. My wife smiled - and that usually means things go south afterwards. 

And then she glared at my tummy.