Bar stools
Yesterday, we bought bar stools.
It’s gripping stuff, I know, but I’ll try to keep the suspense to a reasonable level and get more or less to the point. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t really have a point, apart from bleating from the rooftops that we bought bar stools.
We got them used, from someone in Elizabeth’s company who was moving and had determined that they were at a stage in their life where bar stools had ceased to be important, but were not yet at a stage where they became important again. So the price was right, even if the journey into Manhattan to pick them up was a hellacious descent into taxicab-infested chaos.
On returning, we set them up by our counter-slash-bar, and Diggory and I sat down to raise a Corona and test them out. So far, so good; they were a proper height, the seats were comfortable, and it was noticably better then hunching broodily over said counter. The cushions were pink, but in the evening light that didn’t bother me so much. At best, I’d just get used to it; at worst, we’d replace them with something a little less My Little Pony.
This morning, however, my opinion began to form a little more strongly along a particular line. I was groggily ambling down the stairs, having just crawled out of bed to escape the braying of the DJ on our alarm clock radio, when I rounded the corner and was confronted with the full view of our living room and kitchen.
I had forgotten that we had bar stools now, and most certainly forgotten that they were pink, and in the quickening morning light those pink cushions were a whole lot more vibrant than I recalled from the previous night. It felt like someone had leapt up and punched me in the eyeball with a lipstick-smeared fist. This was not good for my constitution at that particular time of day, in that particular state of mind.
We will likely need to call a house meeting tonight, to discuss the concept of getting new cushions for these chairs, and the urgency with which they should be procured.
photo credit: tomsaint11
