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There's a bed in almost everyone's memory. The one at your grandparents' house that seemed to swallow you when you sank into the mattress. The one in the flat you moved into after university, where the first proper mornings of adult life happened. The one in the film you can't quite remember but keep referring to anyway – the one with the impossibly soft headboard someone leaned back against for a scene that has stayed with you for years.

There's a particular sound to family Sunday lunches. The scrape of chairs being pulled out. The clink of the second bottle being opened before anyone asked. The moment your grandmother said "just one more" and reached for the middle drawer of the sideboard – the one that held the third leaf of the dining table, the one only ever pulled out for Christmas and christenings.

There's a certain chair in almost every family memory. The one your grandfather claimed after Sunday lunch and no one dared to move him from. The one your father fell into at 7 p.m. still in his work clothes. The one your grandmother read her paperbacks in with the lamp on until midnight. That chair – the one that reclined, in some form, and became the shape of the person who owned it – is the ancestor of today's recliner chair.

The Central Perk sofa was orange. The one in your grandmother's flat was brown corduroy with slightly worn armrests. The one in your student house came from a friend of a friend's cousin and had cigarette burns no one talked about. The sofa in your first proper flat was the first piece of furniture that ever felt like yours – the one you actually chose, the one that came from a shop rather than a skip, the one that finally sat in the middle of the room like it belonged to a version of you who had grown up a bit.

Every living room has a soundtrack. Not a literal one – the room where your grandmother made coffee on Sunday afternoons, the room where your parents watched films late into the evening, the room in your student flat where you played your first vinyl loud enough to worry the neighbours. Each of them had a colour that stayed with you. The warm yellow of a 1970s kitchen wall. The deep green of a childhood library. The soft blush of a bedroom in a much-watched film. Colour holds memory better than almost anything else.

The coffee table is the room's quiet centre. It carries the morning espresso, the after-dinner book, the candle that flickers when the lamp goes off, the magazine someone left open last week. Compared to the sofa, it gets less attention in furniture decisions – which is a shame, because the coffee table you choose shapes how the whole living room actually works.

There's a particular quiet a bedroom has when the furniture works. The bed sits in the right place, the chest of drawers is the right height for your morning rhythm, the nightstand actually holds what you reach for at midnight. Get this combination right and the room becomes a quiet place to land at the end of the day. Get it wrong and you're forever moving past it without quite settling in.

A white sofa lives in a particular reputation. People who haven't owned one assume it's a beautiful disaster waiting to happen – one glass of red wine, one muddy child, one curious cat away from catastrophe. People who have actually lived with one know it's more practical than its image suggests, particularly with modern fabrics and a few sensible habits.

There's a small piece of furniture in most well-styled living rooms that does more than people realise. It props up tired feet at the end of the day, becomes extra seating when someone unexpectedly stops by, holds the blanket no one quite knows where to put, and occasionally turns into a coffee table when there's a film to watch. That piece is the ottoman – the quiet workhorse of the modern living room.