Ivor’s Chair

In the attic went everything. Ivor left. Use them, he said, on his way out. A coffee table which was once a dining table, now with much shorter legs. A large rug. A couple of book cases and their books. Records. An old sofa and a chair.
The chair. Paint stripper and wire wool in hand. Removing old nails, straps and the straw cushion. It was a country chair, made by someone, somewhere. Someone who liked curves, gently turned legs, a wide fiddle back around the shoulders, arms to rest on, curling out for the hands. It was made to sit on for more than a short while.

New straps for the seat. New cushion which could be removed. Red paint.

It lived in the corner. People took turns to sit on it. It favoured everyone. It seemed to accommodate all sizes of personality. Cats that lived in the house over the years appreciated its generosity, perfect for a large tom or two to snuggle on.

Ivor appeared. An artist and art therapist who would sit at the table, humming and drawing. Mellow man. Keep the chair he said. You made it yours.

It stayed.

After another house move, it was transformed again. Taken back to its natural patina. Soft, dark oak. Fresh fabric for the seat.

Always known as Ivor’s chair.

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