the best pieces of furniture in my house are the armchairs. one is small and pink and deceptively comfortable; the other is massive and brown and hideous but promises plush faux-velvet squidginess from across any room. (it is also, secretly, a recliner.) each one comes from a grandfather, looted stubbornly from the ‘chuck’ pile when their houses were cleared, and humped from rental-house to rental-house; the first things manouevred in through narrow doorways to stamp ‘mine’ somewhere new. I know the brown one was “his chair”. I’m not sure about the pink one.