So, here's the new chair, set nicely in its new home.
It was a bit of an odyssey, buying that chair. We had to drive out to Highway 1 to one of the many furniture stores there, which I had trolled previously in search of a bed (not for me). My companion started out by sitting in the enormous leather beast chairs, which I would have been fine with, had the chair the remotest possibility of fitting into the chair nook in my office. He asked what style chair I wanted, as it was my office. My answer: any chair that fits, and also cradles you so comfortably you will be peaceful there. Perhaps a chair with a built-in cone of silence. Just kidding about that last thing - sort of. The reason for the comment isn't because I don't like hearing him talk, it's that I enjoy hearing him talk much more than I enjoy biting my fingernails and trying to write something. The odds are already stacked up against me. The last thing I need is an attractive, charming person in a chair nearby, just dying to tell me something interesting. It's sort of like going on a diet while living with a very talented pasty chef who specializes in croissants. Talking to you, my dear, is like eating a croissant. So, please shut up when you're sitting in the chair.
It's a somewhat attractive chair, in that standard attractive but spill proof fabric kind of way. I'd briefly flirted with upholstering it in an English garden print to coordinate with the rest of my English Garden style apartment. The only thing not at all English Garden style is the gallery, which is full of unsettling photographs, one of which was of a door in an insane asylum somewhere, taken by Ayngel Kaye (I hope I've spelled that correctly). I've had that photo since the SF WorldCon was in Boston, and it's a treasure. I have other photos in the gallery that do not say, "English Garden," but the space is coming together as uniquely mine. I have the teapot set that is supposed to look like a charming set of frogs, but really looks like elder denizens of Innsmouth, ready to suck your soul out of your eyeballs. I don't know; maybe I'm exaggerating. You tell me.
The living space continues to be cold, but so long as I have the boiler steaming and the valve open, my office is as snug as one could wish. I kind of wish I had bought some of those note cards that I disparaged in the Art as Commodity post to put up on the mostly empty bulletin boards, but I'm reminding myself that I'm leaving them purposely blank so I can employ the Tim Powers method of story building. It involves index cards, the arranging and rearranging of index cards to create the story's architecture. He told an amusing story about the cat walking through and rearranging the note cards, and creating an improvement in the flow of story, so I'm a little anxious that pinning up the index cards might remove this fortuitous type of thing. But the cat was caught, on the first day, sharpening her claws on the excruciatingly expensive new chair and so has been banished from the kingdom of the third floor until she can get her act together, which may end up being never.
The chair is my hope, in a way. It says that my companion thinks it's worth that ungodly sum to have a comfy place to amuse himself while I write. As you can see, it's not a leather monstrosity; it's a combination chair. Enough of a wing chair to satisfy my aesthetic taste, and enough of a squashy, rocker-recliner to satisfy his comfort needs, or anyone's comfort needs, who chooses to sit there, including other companions, or the dog. The dog who promptly puked on the chair on the first day, but he did not get exiled, as we had purchased the stain-protection plan. If only there were a cat-claw protection plan.