Lessons from a Dining Chair

I realised today that the ugly, functional furniture you find in offices – the sort of thing that turns your stomach and instantly depresses you – has its purpose.

Don't get me wrong. I have not defected to the "ergonomics beats aesthetics any day!" camp. But my back is distractingly stiff both from trying to work on my laptop from every portable chair in the house (albeit each at a different time), and from repeatedly manouvering said chairs into my newly set-up home office/studio.

My dogs have lain recklessly on the hard floor, shaking their heads at each of my countless Goldilocks moments: Too high! Too low! Too hard! Too soft! Too reclined! Too upright! And (ouch), Too heavy!

And I, reduced to a blob of bad posture and premature aches and pains, have perched, in sweaty resignation, on my husband's exercise ball, wondering all the while how I got to this (wobbly) stage.

Dare I say it? Today, during fleeting moments of utter weakness (mostly induced by rolling grandly off the large rubber ball headlong into my bookshelves), I have – momentarily, only momentarily! – been haunted by thoughts of the damned blue chair I left behind with that old day-job.

Yes, thoughts of it,: Its ungodly, unbreathable, ridiculously synthetic (as fake as the plastic plants I used to vent my frustrations – and cold tea – on) fabric; its stupid skitterish wheels; its sticky-outty feet that have scratched the toes of every pair of leather pumps I own, have crossed my mind, inspiring – I sheepishly admit – tiny gusts of something akin to wistful nostalgia.



Tch. And I thought it was just the free stationery I'd miss.