WE have new arrivals in the Newton household. Family members are queueing up to greet them, and declare them most attractive and comfortable.

Lest you think we are allowing our nearest and dearest to sit on freshly-hatched offspring, let me reassure you: we recently took delivery of a pair of shiny new sofas.

We inherited furniture with the house, and they served us well. However, 13 years on, they were showing signs of wear and tear. The arms had been scratched threadbare by cats. The upholstery bore the unsightly hallmarks of over a decade of TV dinners.

The padding was considerably thinner than in years gone by, and lowering one’s posterior took longer as a result – and every spring could be felt upon landing.

Their time had come. Our derrieres deserved better.

At least, the Other Half and I thought so. Daughter viewed the prospect of losing her favourite piece of furniture with the same distress one might feel when dispatching an old friend to their maker. She liked nothing better than to curl up on its capacious cushions, underneath a furry blanket resembling the pelt of a brown bear, phone in paw.

So OH and I hatched a plan and went sofa shopping in secret. We headed for an out-of-town furniture store, and no sooner had we walked through the door that we spotted something that looked the right colour and size.

We sat down – nice and comfy, in black faux leather. Then we discovered all the gizmos.

The seats recline, and the head rests adjust. Lovely!

There are built in USB ports and even plug sockets for charging your phone. No more squabbling over the fast charger. Brilliant!

There are cup holders that, with a touch of a button, switch on a cooler to keep your water/juice/margarita chilled. OMG!

And let’s not forget the speakers that enable you to connect your phone to your sofa and play music through it. Cor blimey, guvnor! How have we survived without such technical wonders?

Compared to our tatty seating, these were the Rolls-Royce of sofas, and at a sale price to boot. We were well and truly hooked in, and signed up on the spot, hopeful of delivery before Christmas so we could open our gifts in luxury.

The happy moment came a couple of weeks ago, some time after the festive season. Daughter was advised to say a fond farewell before leaving for school; we stopped short of lighting joss sticks.

A knock at the door, and the guys came in to pick up the sorry old suite, obligingly wearing shoe coverings on our nice new carpet upon my request (I swear I’ve turned into Hyacinth Bucket, God help me).

Our departing sofas were light enough, but there was a sharp intake of breath upon realising that one was too big to exit via the front door. How did it get in here in the first place? Was it built in the living room? Thankfully, it went through the kitchen door, never to be seen again (sob).

Then in came our new acquisitions. I could hear the chaps puffing and panting with the exertion it took to lift furniture with all the extra gubbins required to power the 21st-century features. OH and I tweaked the positioning later, and realised we had bought the juggernaut of sofas. I resigned myself to never being able to hoover under them (I’m not exactly heartbroken, to be fair).

What had looked attractive and proportionate in store looked gargantuan and overstated in our living room. “It looks like an airport lounge,” said OH, with more than a hint of regret.

We wondered how often we were likely to sync up our phones to play “lounge music” (see what I did there?) on the Bluetooth speakers, and bemoaned the fact that the cupholders were designed to cool summer drinks rather than keeping the heat in mugs of tea.

As for Daughter, she was appalled that we had made the unilateral decision to switch our sofas without consulting including her in our shopping expedition. “How could you?” she wailed, unconvinced by the fact she could now play Taylor Swift through the couch.

It didn’t take OH and I long to settle into our fancy new settees. They are higher up and well-padded, so we feel we’re sitting in much healthier positions. I’m happiest with my feet up and the phone plugged in, a glass of something nice chilling by my side.

Daughter, however, has lost the ability to stretch out and watch TV, and is in permanent pout mode as a result. She has also banned me from playing music, which distracts her from GCSE revision. And the cat has already coughed up a furball on it.

But here I am, home alone, reclining and playing music to write words by. Bliss!