I lament the lack of writing talent in this generation

So, finally, the story of the lovesac. In pictures. The story starts here...
A lovesac store in Vegas. It's the last day of my holiday, and Tom introduces me to this thing called a Lovesac. Before we go any further, I'd like to clarify, IT'S NOT A BEANBAG!
Anyway, my birthday was the following week, I was feeling splurgy and, spurred on by sales staff who assured me it was light enough to travel back with me on the plane, I bought a lovely a Lovesac (a Moviesac to be precise).

Only, once I got to the airport, it was revealed that actually the beast was too heavy for the plane. 20lb too heavy. Not a problem, I hear you say - leave it with Tom. But Tom lef thte airport as soon as he dropped me off. That's OK, call him up and ask him to comeback, you counter. Actually, it turns out I don't have Toms number - its hiding in the depths of an email some where.

So I'm stuck in the aiport with a 40kg big thing, 70 minutes before my flight takes off and nowhere to run. It transpires that the only internet terminal this side of security is out of order and the lady at lost and found wont let me 'lose' it unless it's been through security. She will, however, check my email for me, which would be fine if she had the intelligence to use my name and password correctly. I blame the airport slot machines.

After much too-ing and fro-ing, frantic attemted and unsuccessful calls to various people, I discovered that the terminal has free Wi-Fi. Simple - just find someone with a laptop and I'll be fine. Except the one time I need one seems to be the ONLY time no American is teched up. Ultimately, however, i do find one, call Tom, who screeches around the corner a full 30 minutes before the flight goes airborne.

Cue my turn to sprint through the airport 'Love Actually' style, only to find the biggest queue for security and the need to take a train to my gate. Anyway, I arrive 15 minutes before take off and make it on, in the process soaking my fellow passengers with the rivers of perspiration streaming from my pores.

This story is long enough, so I will conclude by saying that the process of getting to Scotland was long, drawn out and costly. Basically a big big hassle. I wished I'd sold it on ebay far too late. But when it arrived, Boy was I happy! I jumped in my little car and ran all the way to Glasgow to hunt down a dirty warehouse where my baby was hanging out. This truck is an example of the transport she had to suffer.

And this is her sitting in my boot.
My flat mate John helpfully offered a hand in the final leg of transport.
And then she was cut free and allowed to grow. And how she grew!

In short, my non-beanbag (who really needs a name - any suggestions) is gorgeous and THE most comfortable place to spend hours watching football and scrubs. So I extend an open invitation to everyone to come experience her warm embrace.