I would like to put on the record: the chair is mine. Yes. My chair. The big, squishy, stripy one I’ve spent years sculpting to the exact curvature of my magnificent body. A throne. A masterpiece.
The cushions are always in the way, of course - small, persistent inconveniences I tolerate.
And she’s here again. The nutty one. Perched on the arm of my chair, nose in a book, feet resting on a pile of others as if that’s what books are for. Humans are endlessly inventive when it comes to misusing objects.
But she’s content, turning pages, and there are specks of twinkly book‑dust floating around us. And I - curled in the warm dip of the chair - have become the heart of a small, perfect universe. Although not for long… Mousy has just turned up. I bet he’s waiting to steal MY chair.
You know, thinking about it, my chair is probably big enough for all of us, really. (Just don’t ever tell them I said that.)
