THE CHAIR(Christopher Long) I am sitting in my study struggling to focus on the student's papers that I have to mark. I am waiting for Rebecca to return from the doctor. I offered to go with her but she said : “I will be fine Jerry, you have lots of work to do and besides it's only a check-up.” ‘Only a check up’ is an understatement; this appointment is potentially life-changing.

I hear the familiar sound of the blue pickup turning into the driveway, time seems to stop after what feels like an eternity. Finally my wife enters the room. I look at her expectantly: “Well, what did he say?” She remains silent. Just standing in the doorway. Her expression is unreadable. I prompt: “What did the doctor say?” “He said that we are having a baby!” she exclaims with her face lighting up. I get up out of my chair and rush to her with open arms. We embrace and I squeeze her tightly. We kiss and I lift her off the ground. She laughs, slapping me playfully and shrieks hysterically : “Let go you idiot, you're crushing the baby!” Putting her down gently, I wipe tears away from her eyes and mine. “This calls for a celebration!!!!” I shout. Walking to the fridge I retrieve a bottle of champagne that had been chilling awaiting this moment. Pouring two glasses, I give her one and we toast to the arrival of our first child.

A few days after, while cooking dinner, Rebecca turns to me and says: “You know, I never realised before just how dark this house is. We should brighten the place up for our new arrival,” she pats her tummy gently. I am about to object but looking around at the crimson walls, white skirting boards and dark brown furnishing I am inclined to agree. I ask: “Are you sure you want to do this?” She nods resolutely.

We spend our afternoons and weekends stripping and rehanging wallpaper, sanding, repainting and binning old furniture. As the days turn into weeks, the interior of our mid-sized house gradually transforms to a joyful family home.

A few months later, with the redecorating nearly complete and Rebecca’s pregnancy starting to show, I am about to dump the rubbish for the final time: “The place looks amazing!” I say as she hands me the last bin bag which I toss into the back of the pickup. Looking at the house she exclaims: “It does! We did a good job. Go team!” giving me a high five and doing a celebration dance. “That was great!” I chuckle. She bows, I get into the truck and start the engine. Rebecca comes around to the driver's door: “Drive safe team captain,” she says. “I will, little cheerleader!” She leans into the truck, kisses me then slams the door. Before moving off I look at the house. The front door is open revealing a freshly painted light blue hallway. I think about how much I love her.

About halfway to my destination a memory about a piece of furniture that I am throwing away comes back to me. A chair which I have not seen in a long time. It began as my high chair and was handmade by my grandfather. However, long before I knew what it was or could comprehend its purpose, I remembered its colour: red, bright red which stood out against the cream coloured walls of my parents kitchen. They were reluctant to use it. I was a very active baby and if I was told to be still, I would throw awful temper tantrums. But as soon as I sat in the high chair, I calmed down. As I grew, the chair changed to accommodate me. The legs got shorter and the seat wider. The back was converted from curved to straight.

When I was a toddler, I spent so long sitting in it eating, painting or drawing that my mother had to bribe me to get down and go to bed. When I reached school age, the red chair changed location from the kitchen to my bedroom. The chair was adapted again. A cushion was added for comfort. I would study for hours only getting up to go to my bookshelf and retrieve the relevant text book. When I wasn't working, I would surf the internet or play computer games. In my early days at the university it got forgotten and moved to the corner of the room where it was a dumping ground for my clothes, laptop and printer. In my second year my passion for study got reignited and the chair returned to its former position and there it stayed until, in a small coffee shop on campus, I met Rebecca.

She was an art student with long dark hair, which cascaded down her back to her waist, hazel eyes and a brilliant smile. It was love at first sight. We were inseparable. Going to art galleries, theatres, museums and cinemas. We ate together at my accommodation with my flatmates, laughing and joking about our day. The red chair became the extra seat as we struggled to fit around the small white camping table. These meals were casual when my flatmates were around, romantic when they were not. The following year we graduated and rented a small flat together. The chair came with us and adopted various roles in the house. Because of the age of the wood the paint faded. I always repainted it the same bright red, spending so much time working on it that Rebecca used to tease me: “You love that chair more than me.”

Three years later we married and moved into our Victorian house. The chair took up residence briefly in my study. One day I lent on the back rest, it snapped and I fell. It was decided to prevent any further accident that it would be moved to the shed. Here, forgotten in the dark damp interior, it became the home of woodlice. The paint began to peel and the legs rotted.

The beeping horn of a motorist interrupts my thoughts and brings me back to the present. “Hey buddy, are you going in?” I wave my apologies to the driver and turn into the entrance of the tip. Stopping the pick-up truck in front of one of the numerous yellow skips I get out and begin to throw away the rubbish. When I come to the splintered piece of wood that served as the seat for the red chair I stop and hold it. My eyes brimming with tears, holding it for so long in fact, that a woodlice begins to crawl over my hand. Flinching I shake my hand to dislodge the creature. It falls to the ground and scurries away. I fling the seat, watching as it disappears over the edge of the skip. Turning slowly, I walk back to the truck leaving my past behind and driving into my future.

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