'Shove-it!'

'I'll be perfectly honest with you, luv, I just can't see this one going in there.'

Ant had started to wonder about his delivery mate, Lenny. Surely there was sufficient scope for innuendo to be derived from that regular remark; he thought to himself while manoeuvring the customer's sofa on to the tail-lift of their truck. Indeed neither of the naturally lewd pair were slow to detect or deploy dodgy humour at the best of times.

Perhaps Lenny's poker-faced pessimism had been amplified on this occasion by the customer's stark sexiness - that rarest and most uplifting of delivery run treats! Ant and Lenny met their fair share of failed deliveries on any given run and sofas were a particular problem. Clumsy clobber, more often than not sold to smitten customers in high-street stores without a question asked by the sales staff about such distant concepts as the actual size of door openings. Every practical aspect of the merchandise reaching requisite rooms beyond the threshold of excited households, remained, presumably, indicative of resourcefulness on the part of the company's "dependable" delivery men.

Whereas, basic laws of physics and geometry could only be obeyed along the way; ideally, in an absence of undue acrobatics, scorched tempers, or the occasional sobbing customer to console ... in a fashion. Ant found it all the more intriguing that with so much daily grief to consider, Lenny's 'no-can-do' mantra should linger quite so awkwardly after countless utterances. Yet linger, it did lately:

"I just can't see this one going in there...."

Ant snuck a glance at the tall, thirty-something lady, as she stood vibrantly in the entrance of her elegant, semi-detached suburban home. He concealed his surge of euphoria at the sight of her delightfully short dressing-gown which declared much of her beguilingly bronze, mediterranean skin to their ever-perving eyes.

It had just gone noon, on an oppressively grey Tuesday, as the gruff, hefty and unshaven forty-six year old, Lenny, made his way back towards the truck from the customer's doorway.

'What a crashing contrast!' Ant could only think to himself, as he lowered the sofa mechanically and peered again, over Lenny's jaded shoulders while the lady ruffled her recently washed, long, brown hair whilst framed within her porch. She was around a decade older than the stylish, 22 year-old Ant, whose slim and attractive appearance almost seemed to tear through his work-wear. Whereas the smart, combat-style outfit worn by Lenny tended to mask their physical disparity and meld their mutual lack of zest.

'Okay Ant, let's start taking the cushions in,' Lenny muttered and then muted, 'I know it's not going to go round the corner, even if we get it past that poxy doorframe but best give it a go anyway.'

Ant had learnt to deafen himself to Lenny's defeatist prognosis of such scenarios within the first week of their two-year partnership. For the senior Lump n' Dump chump (to heedless onlookers) had been so wrong so often, that the weight of his words actually seemed to rise (and reach) the god of unenviably awkward tasks. Whether blessing would ensue and afford a slick delivery, or the whole day become cursed in a manner not entirely lacking in resemblance to that Laurel & Hardy sketch with the piano and umpteen flights of steps, remained, it so often seemed, a matter of outright fate.

As they tore their way through the packaging to remove several bulky cushions, Ant suppressed further Freudian notions about sexual substitutes for dressing gowns or feverish energy behind their efforts. The particular suite they were about to deliver was a corner unit which it would at least be possible to assemble in two separate sections within the living room.

However, the smaller portion bore a ruthlessly jutting arm-rest which threatened to wedge itself in the hallway. If the smaller part actually reached the intended destination, then the straight main section should theoretically follow without an unseemly fracas between man and upholstery.