P - A Suspension Of Hostilities

A Suspension Of Hostilities

A retro classic. That's what the assistant told me when I bought Chair.
She looked the part alright - electric blue plastic suspended by a
thick linked chain of purest steel, the whole completed by a lemon
cushion so tangy, it made you scrunch up your face. I loved
Chair.

I couldn't believe she had to go. Claire said that she wasn't
practical. She said that she was immature, that she was dangerous.
Weird really, but those are the qualities that first attracted me to
Claire. Still, like most women, Claire has one set of rules for
herself, one set for everyone else. Giving up this chair would be like
giving up my best friend. That said, since I started seeing Claire, my
friends seem to have drifted away. Was it something I said? Of course
not. Couples socialise with couples. It's an unwritten rule of
relationships that if one partner has many single friends, then they
shall forsake those friends for the good of the pair. But Chair was my
friend. Thick and thin. Good times and bad.

Chair defined me. I used to swing in her, and spin, and curl up. She
was protective of me. She wrapped herself around me, keeping me safe
and cocooned from the outside world. When I was low, she was my mother.
When I was high, she was the mate who never lets you down. I was never
selfish with her though. I was never jealous. I liked to see my mates
in there - she never failed to bring out the child in my mates. I liked
to see my girlfriends in there ( I especially liked to see my
girlfriends in there) - she never failed to bring out the exhibitionist
in my girlfriends. Claire was the most outrageous of them all. I always
believed that Claire loved her as much as I did. I got that wrong,
obviously.

Things changed for the three of us when we found we were pregnant. I
was reading in Chair when I was given the news. I jumped out obviously,
more from shock than joy it has to be said, and Claire jumped right in
and started spinning around like a crazy person. 'Oh, won't it be
brilliant,' she said. 'It'll be fantastic,' I agreed. (Actually, I
wasn't sure about that. All I really wanted to do was climb inside
Chair, trace some largish circles around the floor, and think about
it.) 'Do you think you could get out of Chair now?' I asked, but very,
very politely. The look on Claire's face right at that moment should
have told me to smile, apologise and put the kettle on... but sadly it
didn't. I wasn't being prissy and precious; I just needed Chair right
then, and Claire, if she really loved me should have understood. But
she didn't understand, and it was then that the war began.

All wars are vicious. History has enough examples of man's inhumanity
to man, but very few examples of woman's inhumanity to chair. This was
a nasty, bloody, downright sadistic war of attrition between the forces
of love on the one side (my lovely, lovely Chair), and the weight of
responsibility on the other (my pregnant girlfriend... who, I might add
was losing interest on a daily basis in all those things I held dear
between us, like sex, scanties and make-up.) And I was caught in the
middle. A one man UN stuck in a mine-field that hadn't been cleared
(come on, who cares about mines now that Di's gone.) 'Help,' I
whimpered, but nobody listened. I was the UN after all.

It started slowly. At first I would come in from work, and head
straight for a spin in my usual fashion, only to find Cushion
struggling for breath under a half-ton of glossies. Now, glossies in
themselves are not a problem. Chair suffered for years with Loaded,
then FHM (when I grew up a bit) and GQ (when I had a date), but this
was too much. There were Cosmo's on top of Marie Claire's on top of
Hello's on top of Bella's... Bella's for godsakes. This wasn't covered
by the Geneva Convention. It was just cruel. I cleared them away, with
a smile plastered onto my face, saying 'oh, you've forgotten your mags
love,' and getting the reply, 'oh, so that's where I left them this
morning.' This morning. That was, like, hours ago. BITCH! Poor Cushion.
I didn't want to sit on her after that for the rest of the night. I
thought she needed the time to recover. She probably thought I didn't
love her anymore. I should have said something to Cushion, but didn't,
and my non-verbal communication skills were obviously lacking, so for
the reminder of the evening Chair turned to the wall in a show of
solidarity to her fluffy friend, who resolutely refused to plump
up.

It got worse. One day I got back just in time to see Cushion's final
gasp. Claire had stabbed her in cold blood. Well, she hadn't actually
stabbed her, that would have been way too psycho, even for the
hormonally enraged Claire. But it did look like it. Claire had peeled
and sliced an apple and left the knife in one of Cushion's folds so
just the handle could be seen. Claire was munching on the apple pieces
while she was waiting for her blood-red nail varnish to dry. Yes, it
seems obvious now, but I was under a lot of pressure at the time... I
absolutely exploded. 'You've killed Cushion!' Looking back, I probably
could have chosen something less pathetic to say, but I was cross, very
cross. Claire, as a final insult, burst out laughing. 'Of course I
haven't darling. I would never hurt your cushion or chair. I know how
much they mean to you. I've just been a little clumsy.' I'd never
considered hitting a woman before, let alone a pregnant woman, who was
now expanding considerably by the way, but I was very close right then.
All I could do was look for my jacket, which was stupid as I was still
wearing it (I'd just come in, remember), endure the fresh burst of
giggles this provoked and storm off down the pub. Sat nursing a pint, I
thought, 'you've done it again, you daft bastard. You've seen what
she's done, and you've immediately walked away.' I WAS the UN.

The few friends I had left, and most of the couples that were
sympathetic to Chair, gradually withered away. Claire's 'ad-fabs' and
'medea-types' slowly gained ground, drawn into the flat by some weird
form of 'Cosmosis'. They were choking the supply lines to Chair, and
she was suffering. My mates made her feel good. They came round, threw
themselves in, and went - 'wheeeeeeeee!' Claire's friends (or leeching
bastards if you were to give them their scientific name) came round and
went - 'oh, you've still got that thing. It's so not now. Can you bring
me a stool from the kitchen, I can't sit there, this is Armani, you
don't pay thousands for extra creases.' (Bastards.) They made Chair
feel bad, and she would increasingly turn round until she was facing
the wall. Eventually she was spending most of her time in a wall-facing
huff. And my hands were tied. I had to at least give the impression of
impartiality. I was the UN remember, and the UN are crap. But don't
think that I wasn't storing all this bitterness for any messy divorce a
couple of years down the line. I was. Oh yes, it was all noted in my
secret war journal.

Well, this couldn't go on. I had an offspring due to be launched into
the world in a couple of months time, and following Claire's showing
during the first and second trimester (I'd read some books), the kid
would need me to be decisive and protective. I was determined to show
how decisive and protective I could be. My life as a role model started
here. I was drawing a line in the sand, and I wasn't taking prisoners.
I was looking into the whites of Claire's eyes with my rifle cocked
(Zulu had been on telly that afternoon.) 'Be a man,' I told myself.
'Claire will respect you for it... eventually.'

Preparation was the key. I made sure that all available seats were
accommodating heavy objects. Except one. I positioned myself before
Chair and said, 'this is it Chair. This is Versailles. This is Rome.'
Claire came in. She was red-faced and sweaty from the steps outside.
(Sorry, she was of course rosy and glowing.) She smiled at me. This
wasn't right, it was almost like an old smile. I smiled back, and for
the first time in quite a while, I meant it. 'Sit down,' I said, 'we've
got to sort this out. This is ridiculous.' No argument, just that same
smile. 'I know,' she said. 'I've been thinking the same thing.'
(Careful now, this is psychological warfare.) She looked around, and
sat down... in Chair. Her smile widened. 'I've missed this chair, you
know.' (What's going on? Keep your guard up. Did I see razor blades on
the back of her dress?) 'Do you remember the fun you and I used to have
in this chair?' (What?) 'You know, it's more than likely that I
conceived in this chair.' (Ooh, low blow.)

I was thrown completely off balance. This was an about face of
monumental proportions, and now, in the depths of my confusion, as she
started to swing Chair back and forth, I was remembering how attractive
my girlfriend was. It was unsettling. More unsettling was the image
before me. I was looking at a bizarre tableau of birth gone mad. It
looked like this heavily pregnant woman was herself emerging from a
giant egg. Or worse, with a slight tilt to my head, it seemed that
Chair was trying to eat Claire. And that made me feel uneasy, disloyal.
I made the thought vanish. 'It's going well. Don't muddy the waters,' I
thought.

Claire continued to swing. She was half-in, half-out thanks to her
impressive width, so she was able to reach the floor with her feet and
push. Her smile was becoming a laugh, and I was getting caught up in
her madness. 'I love this chair,' she said pushing harder. 'Slow down,
don't go mad.' 'I love this chair.' 'Stop it Claire.' 'I won't hurt
it.' 'I'm not worried about the damn chair, I'm thinking about...' I
never got the chance to finish the sentence. (It was 'you' in case you
were wondering.) Chair was waiting. Chair had been waiting for months
for the perfect opportunity to hurt my Claire. Chair's chain snapped. I
hated Chair at that moment.

Claire, Chair, Cushion and chain all came crashing to the floor. Then
they rolled. Then Claire tried to get out. Then Chair rolled some more
so Claire couldn't get out. Then tears of anger filled my eyes. 'GET
THE FUCK OFF HER NOW,' I screamed. Then I dived over to the heap that
was legs, plastic and steel, pulled Claire to me, and held her -
certainly tighter than I'd ever held anyone before - possibly tighter
than was sensible for a woman in her condition. 'Are you alright?' I
was really, really scared. 'Are you alright?' Claire nodded. 'I'm
okay.' She smiled, 'I told you that chair was dangerous.' I allowed her
that. I put her to bed. I was less worried now, but that only meant my
anger was growing. I left the bedroom. 'Come with me Chair. You and I
need to have a little chat.'

Outside, the only heavy implement I could find was a garden fork. It
looked new. 'Surely I must have done some gardening? I've been here
over five years.' My first blow cracked Chair's skull. 'That's for
trying to hurt my baby.' My second blow punched a hole through the
electric blue bone. 'That's for not taking the hand of peace when it's
offered.' My third and final blow split that egg into bits (or whatever
the technical term for 'bits' is.) 'And that's for assuming that I
don't worship the ground that woman walks on, just because I'm pissed
at her most of the time.' I kicked at the pieces. 'That's what makes us
human.' I went back inside and called the doctor, just for the
reassurance factor. Then I went and sat with my girlfriend, holding her
hand until he arrived.

And as I sat there, I started to wish that I'd just kicked Chair around
the garden, before stuffing her in the back of the shed. I'd smashed
her. No more Chair. Stupid really, she'd have made a great swing for my
child. I looked at Claire. This was all her fault. I let go of her hand
and moved towards the door. I turned to face her. All I could think to
say was, 'dammit Claire, why did you make me do that?'