Tim Dowling: new chair, new car, old arguments

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/apr/25/new-office-chair-car-tim-dowling

Version 0 of 1.

I’m sitting in my office chair, looking at office chairs online. I love my vintage aluminium chair – it makes me feel like a businessman – but it’s not good for my back. These days, I can only sit in it for short periods before I have to get up and walk around, each step accompanied by a pained exhalation.

“Stop making that noise,” my wife says. “We know your back hurts.”

“Help me pick an office chair,” I say.

“Why should I help you?” she says. She’s still cross about some previous display of gracelessness on my part, something to do with the paperwork for the new car. It’s actually her father who is getting a new car, but he’s giving us his old one. Our old car is being given to our mechanic in lieu of some money we owe him for repairs. Technically, I suppose, he’s confiscating it.

“Right, I’ll just buy a chair on my own, “ I say. “They cost £1,000.”

“You don’t have £1,000,” she says.

It’s another two days before I persuade my wife to look at office chairs with me. “They’re all hideous,” she says. “And expensive.”

“I’m a businessman,” I say. “This is a legitimate business expense.”

“Shouldn’t you go to a shop and sit in lots of chairs before you buy one?”

“Yes,” I say. “And it’s taken me months to accept that I’m never going to do that.”

We settle on a reasonably-priced, ergonomically innovative model. After my wife leaves the room, I read a dozen reviews by people who use this same chair at work. Most of them describe it as an instrument of torture.

An hour later, I find my wife in the kitchen. “I bought the £1,000 office chair,” I say.

“You didn’t,” my wife says.

“But secondhand,” I say. “For less than the other chair cost.”

“I can see you’re pleased with yourself,” she says. “Get out some plates.’”

“That’s the way I do business,” I say.

Forty-eight hours later, I’m sitting in my new chair facing a bewildering array of adjustments: seat height, seat tilt, back rest angle, arm rest position. When my wife comes in, I’m reclined in the attitude of a patient awaiting a dentist.

“How is it?” she says.

“Fine, but I can’t reach the desk,” I say.

She holds up a key. “Do you want to drive our new car?” she asks.

My father-in-law’s former car is unbelievably clean. It’s possible the back seat has never been sat on. I turn the key. The alarm goes off.

“You have to hold in the button as you turn,” my wife says.

“I was holding it,” I say. Then the alarm goes off again.

Eventually, we set off. At the end of the road, my wife reaches over and flicks on my left indicator. I turn to glare at her.

“Just in case you didn’t know where it was,” she says.

After driving around for a bit, I turn into a narrow mews. A man is walking down the centre of it, away from us. He doesn’t move, or even glance back, as we approach.

“What’s he doing?” my wife says.

“I think he has earphones in,” I say.

The man continues to walk, oblivious, with me inching along behind. I’m not certain of the etiquette. My wife reaches across me for the horn.

“Don’t touch that,” I say.

“Are you seriously going to do this all the way down the road?” she asks.

I realise the situation requires decisive action, like with the chair. I apply the brake and turn to my wife. “Yes,” I say. “That is exactly what I’m going to do.”