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On the front porch of April's tiny adorable house, there is a needlessly extravagant canopied loveseat, which was there when she moved in and which she has been quietly resenting ever since.
The concept of a patio swing is basically fine. It's basically fine to put a little cloth roof on top to keep the weather off; the manufacturers weren't going to know in advance that her porch has a roof of its own. In her opinion, the point where it all began to go wrong is the panels on the sides, with vertical metal bars and elaborate wrought-iron detailing between them, like a charming little garden fence. Each panel has a gap, flat on the bottom and arched in a charming little curve on top, placed so that a person sitting on the inside could easily reach through it to get at the small, charming table-platforms that protrude from each side panel like little rectangular wings.
The problem with all this, in April's opinion, is that it makes her look like the sort of person who owns a needlessly extravagant canopied loveseat with elaborate wrought-iron detailing and charming little drinks tables. She's considered dragging it down to the sidewalk to tacitly invite passersby to make off with it, but it's heavy and awkward enough that she's not sure how it made its way up the porch stairs in the first place and if she tried getting it back down them by herself she would probably die an ignoble death, crushed by falling kitsch. She could pay someone to take it off her hands, but that would cost money. So instead she just glares venomously at it every time she leaves the house to get groceries, which is perhaps not the world's most reasonable compromise, but it's where she's at.
