Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
As I sit here writing again, I’m struck by the intermittent sound of the kitchen chair making its way methodically around the kitchen, the sound of wood scraping on tile as it ventures forth. No matter where I am in the house – upstairs in my bedroom or in the bathroom, rearranging the cushions on the sofa bed in the dining room, or here, sitting at my computer in the sitting room – I hear it taking off. Sometimes it’s just in short bursts, at other times I’m assuming (from the sounds) that it accomplishes several laps around the counters before it stops to rest.
So, is it surprising that as I take myself off to the kettle for another cup of tea, I find myself wondering where I’ll find it next?
On some occasions, I’ve even found it outside the back door. This is a true feat of nature as there’s quite a lip to negotiate but, I confess, although clearly quite athletic, this is a rarity.
“Is it possessed?” I hear you ask. Or has the woman finally gone mad, thinking that her chair has a life of its own? No, not at all. What I tell you here is entirely true.
There’s a history to this chair though. About 10 years ago when I was walking my dog Arthur and his enormous friend Orla, my autistic Leonberger, I walked past a house to see this painted chair standing next to the bins in a front garden, two days before bin day.
Immediately, my interest was peaked. I recognised it as a pre-1950’s Thonet Bentwood Cafe chair – often hailed as the chair of chairs! Slowing down, I initially walked on past but found myself, only four houses on, turning back to stare at it again over the garden wall. It was simply calling to me, tugging on my inner love of chairs so that I couldn’t just walk past it.
Perhaps now is the time to make a confession…I absolutely confess to having a thing about chairs! Were it not for rigidly practising ‘the one in, one out’ rule, my house would be overrun by them. My particular penchant is for small, Victorian nursing chairs, but I do love a club chair, a carved wooden hall chair, a Captain’s chair, and…let’s be honest, almost any chair with character, history, and that tells a story.
I can often be found in my own world gently stroking a solid wooden seat, the tips of my fingers tenderly exploring the worn dips and patina of the wood, or gently sinking my bottom into the hug of a well padded club chair. I literally just love them! They make me go all warm and fuzzy inside and they definitely have a hold over me, pulling me in and talking to my soul.
Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you. I can be mid-conversation with them when a chair, having caught my attention, will have me rushing off mid-sentence, abandoning them. Of course, sadly they’ll also tell you that this is true of all dogs, silver cutlery, and old carpentry tools – but that’s another story!
Back to my Bentwood chair, I found that I simply couldn’t leave it if it was going begging, and so, wrestling Orla to my side (at 14 stone many people found her intimidating), I went into the front garden and rang their doorbell. The lady who came out initially baulked at seeing Orla, but Arthur (always cuteness himself) stepped forward as our ambassador and she quickly relaxed.
I asked her if she was getting rid of the chair and she told me that she was. I established that there was literally nothing wrong with it and it was sturdy, but was just now redundant to her needs. Asking if I could have it, she immediately said yes, genuinely pleased that it was going on to find a new, loving home where it would still be used.
Anxious not to lose it, I decided to take it there and then. Wrestling it out of the front gate as I juggled an autistic Leonberger, a small Shiba Inu, and a chair with only two hands, I waved goodbye and watched her go back in and shut the door behind her.
This was an extremely stupid move on my part as I could have come back for it. Orla alone required not two but 10 hands, as faced with a paper bag fluttering along the pavement, she could have a 14 stone meltdown. And with Arthur also skittering along as a completely unrelenting object, I almost gave up and abandoned the chair in the middle of the road, so difficult was it to get it home. Of course though, I didn’t!
Whilst we struggled, swore, and bruised ankles and shins so that they were literally black and blue by the time we got home, we did eventually get it into the kitchen. And once repainted with chalk paint, it’s lived in there ever since and is used daily. I still love this little chair 10 years on – it’s so useful!
I use it to exercise with, building up muscle strength in my legs whilst waiting for potatoes to boil; to sit on as I put on my outdoor shoes; to perch on as I chat with friends in the kitchen; or just (especially with my recent hip problems) to take a five minute break when cooking. It’s lightweight, easily moved, and as solid as a rock. So how has it suddenly developed an entire life of its own? Arthur!
Unfortunately, since he’s had dementia he, for reasons only he knows, regularly walks under the chair (trust me, this is new behaviour) and because of its design, takes the chair with him. He doesn’t get stuck, that’s not it as he can clearly walk under it without getting caught and often does, so no, it appears to be entirely deliberate. By physically raising his head up into the seat well and wearing it like a hat, he can take the chair with him as he wanders around the kitchen, hence its constant journeys across the kitchen floor.
Ah well, little things! I’m off to make that cup of tea and who knows where I’ll find my chair, the excitement is almost unbearable!!!
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.