I’m having a bit of a Goldilocks moment.
My favourite kitchen / writing chair has collapsed, after many years service and much ominous groaning / creaking; I am bereft. Comfy for typing, reading and even occasional lounging – I fear I will not see its like again.
Look out for a pyre of wicker, floating on the North Dublin canal, en route to Chair Valhalla. Poems will be written, songs will be sung, in its honour.
This is a grave setback, as clearly no writing proper can be attempted without a suitably empathic chair. I’ve dragged various others from around the house and tried them out in its place but none will do – one is too tall, another too short, one too hard, another too narrow. A writing chair needs to be just right.
Maybe A Week in Words will distract me from the dilemma.