Our house is full of chairs for different occasions. The dining room has six formal chairs that make you sit upright, even if the wine and gravity pull you down. Their backs are gothic in design and whilst the overall contour is a comfortable shape, if you start to slide down, you can pinch the flab on your back in their angular carvings. There’s also the piano stool in the dining room which was my granny’s. It must be a hundred years old and the padding in its seat shifts with my bottom as my arms reach enthusiastically up and down the octaves. Its material is gold and blue striped with suspicious water marks. In the corner is a Parker Knoll rocking chair and although it is different now, I remember the pea green bobbly material that used to cover it. I would sit at the big window overlooking the green around which our road made a crescent, watching the traffic moving up and down the street beyond. Granny had sat there too until she died. There were no net curtains and the house was furnished in seventies brown with brown parquet flooring so that when you rocked, the woods made a satisfying clicking noise as they met and parted. From outside, the window looked black but my granny’s white hair rocked backwards and forwards and I could hear the clicking in my head before I got to the driveway. Up in the loft is a white wicker chair belonging to her; Lloyd Loom I think it’s called and I don’t know what to do with it.
The funniest chair I remember is the G Plan one on castors. The vicar came to see my Granny, sat down on it in the living room and shot into the dining room.