The Importance of Armchairs

Hello again! I'd like you to know that I've just had my evening bath and am now sitting in my room on my armchair in my pyjamas feeling considerably more human than I did upon my last entry. Once more I apologise for its poor quality, I hope, from now on, the posts to be better.

So, what have I done since yesterday. Well, unsurprisingly, very little, seeing how it's the summer holidays. I've mainly been enjoying the novelty of having an armchair, a novelty that I'm sure you'll agree does not sound particularly novel. However, I've wanted an armchair for some time now as a place to read and surf the web of an evening. As most of the furniture in my room is either hand-me downs, relics of childhood or improvised out of other pieces of furniture. So, when I heard that one of my parents friends was throwing out an old armchair, I delightedly declared that I would take it off their hands.

However, I had failed to take into consideration several key facts, blinded as I was by the prospect of a chair in my room not either designed for a five year old, so old that it creaked like a galleon under full sail or a converted bed - by which I mean a bed only with cushions. These key facts were: 1. The chair had been left in a damp garage for approximately a year; 2. The chair was in a house a good walk away from my own; 3. The only method I had of transporting it was my own hopelessly out of shape body; 4. My room is up two flights of stairs.

All these facts were in my possession, but each one simply could not assault the image of me parking my rear-end upon plump cushions for a quiet, and above all comfortable read. It was as if the image was Arnold Schwarzenegger and the facts an unending stream of terrorists: However much logic stated that at least one terrorist/fact should be able to take down the lumbering Austrian/image, they just couldn't quite seem to hit it. (I'll admit that that's a stretched simile).

In any case, the next morning the realisation that of the difficulty of this task struck me, like the Bad Guys main henchman shooting Arnie in the leg with a sniper-rifle, obliterating my previous self confidence / his tibia bone. How the hell was I going to do this? I put it off and put it off until it sunk into the bleary recesses of my mind in which everything I plan to do eventually sinks.

However several days ago the sun was shining bright, I had nothing to do and my arse was particularly uncomfortable and so I decided that today was the day I'd go and claim my chair. I became resolute; fixated; the bee was back in my bonnet. I turned stony faced, put on my jacket and hiking boots and said to my sister, lounging around watching Two and a Half Men: "I'll be back." Ignoring her queries as to what the hell I meant, I stepped out into the bright sunshine, headphones on head and began to climb the hill to my friends house.

The trip up, while tiring for my aforementioned out of shape self, was pleasant enough, especially while listening to Abbey Road. I dare-say a slight spring had entered my step as I approached the house. Even opening the garage door in the way I was instructed, surprisingly worked without hiccup. It was only when I looked at the ungainly piece of moss covered furniture that I realised that the whimsy of my escapade had vanished as quickly as if you'd shown Roald Dahl pictures of the current state of the Gulf of Mexico. But what could I do, other then sigh, pick off the worst of the snails and, ignoring the mould, sling the thing over my shoulder.

As I walked back down the hill, drawing strange glances from passer-bys, I reflected that once you had learnt to ignore the smell, it really wasn't that bad. Those crafty Swedes knew how to make lightweight furniture, alright (my apologies to any Swedish readers who were offended by this).

The hill I walked down meant I had a fairly clear view of the surrounding countryside. I happen to glance up during my toils and noticed that despite the glorious sunshine here, over the next hill, it was raining quite considerably. "Gee," I thought "At least it isn't raining here." Too late, I tried to retract that thought, but it had already flown out of my head and into the Universe.

It began to rain.

There was no warm-up period of sort-of-rain. No. God in his infinite power, wisdom, benevolence and desire to personally crush any optimism that might spark within my mind had cracked his mighty knuckles at the sound of my thought and opened the heavens; If we wasn't so malicious I might even believe in him. Big fat drops soaked to and the chair to our cores, but I was steadfast. I was Odysseus, defying the Gods.

As I hauled myself and the chair into my back garden it stopped raining - of course it did. I removed the fabric cover from the chair with as much fury as a man could, and dragged the foam slabs out of it. I then proceeded to scrub the wooden frame with hot water, washing-up liquid and animal ferocity. When it was half clean and half dry I dragged it upstairs into my room, knocking down countless small objects that seem to populate every available surface of our house. I found that no amount of vinegar, salt, lemon juice, washing-up liquid, soap, expensive soap, tears of rage or human blood would wash out the mould from the chair cover. So I flung it into the washing-up basket and instead used the foam slabs and a blanket.

I sat down on my new chair.

So, I imagine, if you haven't left due to boredom by now, that you're wondering if my excursions for the day paid off; was it worth it?

Well, my buttocks and I have come to the unanimous conclusion that: Hell Yeah it Was!

Well, I'm afraid I must say goodbye dear reader and remember to keep your buttocks happy: they're the only pair you'll get.

Good Day