I rescued a lovely antique armchair today, abandoned in the street like a runny nosed orphan. I have been spending the last few hours lovingly disinfecting and cleaning it, in case someone died in it of the consumption or some other equally Gothic ailment.
As soon as I set it down in what will be it’s new throne room and stood back to admire the gilded wood and green tufted velvet upholstery, the neigbour’s cat leapt up and left a potent message there.
As I painstakingly polished and oiled the wood, I imagined how perhaps a defecter from Cosa Nostra was strangled in it, after having accepted an invitation for a sumptious banquet. Perhaps he pissed and shat himself as his life slipped away from him and his eyes began to bulge out of their sockets. I hope he ate well before he died.
Whatever the colourful history of this beautiful green armchair, I can’t wait to sit in it and smoke a pipe, whilst poring over an old dusty leather bound tome, containing adventures from the high seas, inaccurate maps and sea monsters. I may even take a dram of whiskey and laudanum whilst sitting it. Ah, how Dickensian.