She only liked chairs. Hard-backed chairs, sofas, ornate antiques, chaise longues, divans, you name it, she had it. She didn’t have a bed, and she had no tables or desks. Her books tottered in great dangerous stacks on shelves made of chairs she had tied together with wire and bolted to the wall. She kept tools, light-bulbs, gardening equipment and crockery in the window seat.
When she died I inherited the lot. I’d expressed no previous interest in her furniture. As I child I was awed by her house, and frightened of the dangling spiders and drifting cobwebs strung across the places where the chairs were stacked to the ceiling.
I had the place professionally cleaned, with strict instructions not to move anything. It was amazing to behold the difference when it was clean. The wood of the chairs shone, and I could make out the skeleton genius in the way she’d planned their arrangement.
I live there now, and I wouldn’t change a thing.