|Have a seat princess. In 60 years we can all eat cake!|
I couldn't sit in the same chair for 60 years. I'm a theatre lover and even by the end of act one my arse needs to get up during interval, stretch my legs, grab a drink, sit in a different chair, look at different faces, talk to a million people and tell them what I really think before returning to that same theatre chair to spend the remainder of act 2 swapping my weight from waxed cheek to cheek, crossing and uncrossing alternating legs. All the while, probably due to my fidgety appearance, I might be looking a little disinterested in the theatrics in front of me, but genuinely I could be quite enjoying the spectacle.... just not enjoying sitting in the same chair.
I actually couldn't even look at the same chair for 60 years. I recall taking an antique French side table to be spray painted high gloss white by the car paint man. I then organised holes to be cut along the back of the newly painted table top to allow for insertion of halogen up-lights. These lights were utilised to create a new mood and atmosphere in the living room. They illuminated the purpose-built-to-scale new mirror hanging above whose frame wasn't allowed to be PAINTED white, but instead had to be sent to the same car paint sprayer to allow for continuity in the whites (especially when lit). If I was the one having to look at it for the next few years, it had to be to my exact specifications, otherwise I certainly couldn't look at it for 5 minutes, let alone 60 years.
I certainly couldn't allow someone else to decide the style or colour of the chair I might be required to sit in for 60 years. I called three meetings trying to decipher whether the fabric on my preferred sofa was the correct tweed. Does this tweed say who I am? Does this tweed project who I aspire to be? Does this tweed suit my lifestyle and more importantly suit the already photographed and mood boarded elements I'd so far purchased to decorate my new bachelor pad? Under no circumstances could I allow someone else to decide such an important decision for me.
So to any queen out there mid-twenties, if you're on holidays in Kenya acting like a little princess and you get an email to say your dad's left you a chair and he wants you to go sit on it for as long as bloody possible and you manage to sit on it for 60 bloody years.... we should throw you a rockin' party and give everyone who has watched you sit on that chair a day off work and let them eat cake. The day off work would be to celebrate your GAGA poker face and the cake would be a sweet consolation prize cause MAYBE you didn't even like the look of that uncomfortable old chair in the first place.