That's my chair, my rug and my cushion and Sydney appears to be playing dead when I try and get her out.
This poem seems to set out the situation quite well;
Squatter's Rights(Richard Shaw)
Get this clear,
This is my chair.
I sit here.
We can share;
When I'm not home,
It's your chair.
If I use it
When you're out?
Except Sydney doesn't go out.
(a don't stop till you drop production)
Contact me: firstname.lastname@example.org