Audrey and I made the mistake of wandering past Reg’s house this morning.
‘Hey, Lawrence, come and look at this!’ He pulled me inside to show me his new recliner.
He was drunk. Ugly and drunk. His sweaty face was like a Big Mac in a bucket of beer. He had a large tumbler of whiskey in one hand and was swaying slightly on his feet. He pointed at the chair with his free hand and simply said: ‘Hah!
I responded thus: ‘That’s some chair, Reg. I’m so impressed I think I might do a little dance.’
‘You’re so funny, Lawrence. Actually, that’s Norwegian leather, that is.’ When he spoke it sounded like an out-of-tune piano.
‘Norwegian? My God! I am quite literally almost completely slightly stricken with amazement and wonder.’
‘Don’t take the piss. Here, have a whiskey and experience the pure marvel of a recliner made by angels. Sit. Sit!’
I refused the alcohol but sat down in the stupid chair. It was indeed quite satisfyingly comfortable.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I am never sure how to describe or define the subtleties of emotion your newest household acquisitions produce in me, Reg, but on this occasion, I can say this: this chair is so exquisitely cosy I fear I may begin to weep.’
‘It’s my whiskey chair.’
‘You sit here every evening with a big glass of Scotch and just watch the world go by? Sounds delightful, Reg.’
‘Every morning, afternoon, and evening. You should order one. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘Nice idea, but I don’t think my liver would take it.’
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