We had held onto it, by the cushion covers, through the whirlwind of tiny bedsits, the old pickle factory we'd had a room in, and saved it from the skip, just about, until we came to rest in that house. When we were in the pickle factory, it was actually our bed for a while! It wasn't a fold-down or anything, but it was softer than the floor. Nothing with an entrance fee. I kept it spotless, and made Charlotte and Rachel and Bill hover their feet just above the mats when I picked them up from walking on the Common.