The Cheeky Chair

The Cheeky Chair

Here she comes. It’s old Annie McGoogan. The deadliest domestic in town. Ouch! She plumps me up with a couple of quick punches to my cushion and squirts her cheap polish on my poor wooden wings and arms. She rubs her yellow cloth, full of dust, with great vigour, no regard for the fact that I’m the oldest piece of furniture in Doctor Davidson’s waiting room. The patients called him young Doctor Davidson when I arrived as a brand-new chair with brown velour upholstery and a smooth, shining mahogany veneer. I had strong legs and a firm seat. I’ve been reupholstered many times. My favourite was the blue and yellow daisy pattern in the seventies. Now I’m a stripy grey and cream pattern, but my legs are cracked and wobbly – a bit like Milly McPherson’s mind – she’s the oldest patient to visit the surgery. She once turned up with her cat in her handbag. Another time she sat on me for three hours before realising she wasn’t in the library. You’d think the lack of books would be a give-away with only two Reader's Digests and a Take-a-Break magazine on display.

Now Annie’s got the vacuum out and they’re roaring around the room. Henry Hoover is nearly as ancient as me and picks up nothing. In fact, there’s more fluff on the carpet after he’s rattled around. If you don’t suffer from asthma when you come into the surgery, you’ll sure as hell go home unable to get a breath from the dust in here. The coffee table cringes as Annie scrapes a sticky sweet off the scratched surface. Then she’s off with a flourish to torment the furniture in the Doctor’s own room. The chairs in there will be trembling and the sink stinging with the amount of disinfectant used, by the time Annie's finished.

At nine o’clock on the dot the Doc comes in and prepares for the day ahead, followed by Letty McIvor, the receptionist, who is plump and kindly and slips the kids a wee treat when their mums aren’t looking. First patient in is Frannie Flynn, with her varicose veins and three chins. She gives her name and please God don’t let her sit on me. Nooooo! Jesus, Mary and Jehosafat, I swear she’s put on three stone since last week. She has to lose some weight for her operation. Stomach stapling’s what she’s hoping for. She’s kidding herself. If you look in her massive handbag you’ll see three packets of Wotsits, a family sized bar of chocolate and a cheese and pickle sandwich. That’s just her mid-morning snack. The rolls of doughy blubber on her arms pour over my poor arms and she feels wedged right into my seat. Letty will need to prise her out when she’s called.

 Wiggy Weatherall appears next and sits on one of the modern metal and purple chairs, fit only for skinny people. I remember when he came to the surgery asking for a hair transplant but had to make do with an NHS wig. It sits askew due to the high wind today. He throws a toothy grimace Frannie’s way and she proceeds to regale him with tales of her veins, stomach and wayward daughter. 2

Oh, Lord save us! Here’s Veronica Slattery who should be named sluttery due to the number of children she’s had with different fathers. At the last count there was Dennis the Menace, Pat the Rat, Dodgy Dan, Clatty Clayton and twins Spike and Semolina! The twins’ dad registered them and misheard his daughter’s name which was meant to be Selena. Veronica has two of her brats in tow. One is picking his nose and flicks a bogie onto my back as he passes and the other sneezes onto Frannie, who shifts her considerable weight around my creaking seat. The boys fight over the toys in the corner of the room, while Veronica puffs on her vape, then bites her nails. 

Thank the Saints in heaven! Frannie’s called first, managing to squeeze herself out of me and waddle off. Oh, the relief. But not for long, as Spike takes a runner at my comfy seat and dives right on. He then proceeds to kick my legs with his wellies and pummel my arms with his sticky little fingers. It’s torture as Dennis joins him and they climb all over me, pretending to be wild Indians. Everyone tries to ignore them, until Veronica bawls, “Get off that chair you wee buggers!” Then she mutters to herself, “That new boyfriend of mine’ll be getting the snip and no mistake.”

You don’t half see all the town’s misfits in here. You wouldn’t believe the number of hypochondriacs. Harry O`Donnell thought he had gout or at least an ingrown toenail. What he needed was his eyesight tested. He’d been wearing his son’s shoes by mistake and they’re two sizes too small. The eejit! Mary McPherson came in three times last week thinking she had pneumonia as she was wheezy and sneezy. Turns out she’s allergic to her daughter’s new kitten. Then there’s young Heaven-Lee Brown who just started training as a nursing assistant. She’s had a heart attack, appendicitis, encephalitis, and prostate trouble – all in her teeny, tiny mind of course. Heaven help her patients.   

Anyway, I’m hoping to get out of here some day soon. I dream that one of our patients will be an Antiques Roadshow presenter and discover that I’m really a chair from the bygone days of the Arts and Crafts movement. He will whisk me away for a valuation on TV. Doc Davidson will sell me for great wads of cash, and I will spend the rest of my days being admired in a museum. I’ll never be sat upon by pregnant women with their waters breaking over me, puking babies or teenagers talking tripe on their phones. Someone will softly brush my cushion, polish my wings and legs with beeswax while looking at me lovingly. But who am I kidding? I’ll have to put up with this lot for a long time yet. 

Here comes the worst patient in the world. It’s Wally Watson. His windy problem is silent but violent, he has a dodgy bladder and is deaf as a post. Please don’t sit here, please go to a purple chair. If there is a God, keep off me, Wally. Oh well, it’s a God-damned Godless world.