bringing it all back home now plays. i am sat, as i was saying, at the kitchen window on a chair that was given to me – as a sort of thank you & farewell, an aide-memoire, i suppose – by my boss of many years (& one of the dearest & most inspirational, considered, calm & quietly kind & generous persons i have yet met; a friend, certainly, but that strange & rare kind of ally that one never fully fathoms or unravels to any great extent; a stranger to some degree – even after three decades – beyond knowing, firmly, that they always have your best interest at heart & would work wonders to ensure that this remains the case), george. it is a piece of furniture that i often retire to for an hour or so, to write, to read, to sip, to dream, to contemplate cooking, upon. it is a modern (ish; mid-1990s) take on something i would describe as ‘art deco’: a cutting chair, for sure; it has a bar of chrome beneath the seat, above the five low bowed feet, that, when pumped with the foot, allows for some height reconfiguration. it is dark chocolate leatherette in colour & make up, over (i see lately) firm yellow foam, with wonderfully smooth curved & simple chrome arm rests. it is very comfortable & amuses me to wonder at the number of bums that have sat upon it over the years in that hair salon in croydon. and that it now resides here, in a kitchen in tyne & wear.