‘Chair,’ said the free ad in the local paper. ‘Wing backed. Fireproof. As new. Never been sat in. £25.’ I rang the number and the owner suggested I went round and had a look at it right away. He sounded elderly and a bit desperate.
The address he gave was a modest bungalow in the village. Five minutes later I was pressing on his doorbell. I didn’t know him. The interior of his bungalow was in a terrible mess. The furniture was piled in heaps rather than arranged for use. A nest of blankets on a leather sofa indicated his sleeping place. The carpet was strewn with old letters, photographs, bills. It was difficult not to tread on them.
He was in the process of moving out, he explained, as he steered me through the piles to where the chair was. His wife had suddenly died, he said, and he was selling up and going to live in the Midlands to be near their only daughter.
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