O Mensa(Simon Willis) When Arthur Hicks pushed his empty dinner plate away, he suddenly felt as if the table had taken a dislike to him. The satisfaction of a meal enjoyed was overshadowed by the distinct sensation of hostility from the dining room table. Arthur told himself not to be so silly. The table had been in his family for three generations, but it was no antique. This piece of furniture had served Arthur’s family as the centre for Christmas and Easter celebrations. Children of all shapes and sizes had clustered around it like baby scorpions on their mother for decades to celebrate birthdays. On one occasion, this same table had witnessed an emergency operation in 1963, when Dr Myers performed a splenectomy on Grandma Hicks leaving her with a compromised immune system. But we will not go into that. On another occasion, this table supported the remains of Great-grandfather Hicks who had fought in two world wars and was an active member of the community as a rat catcher in the days when rat poisons were expensive German imports. Friends, relatives and acquaintances of all heights and hues filed around the old man’s coffin for three weeks during the Kingston-upon-Hull grave diggers’ strike of 1947. Now the table seemed to be thoroughly displeased with its role in the Hicks household.

Arthur rose, took up his plate and went into the kitchen. All the while, he felt the table’s hostility follow him through the doorway. It was as if the table was disgusted by Arthur, but it incapable of expressing that disgust except through silent loathing and baleful looks. Arthur smiled to himself at the thought of a table looking at him. It was utterly absurd. He told himself again not to be so silly. Yet, as he rinsed his plate in hot water from the brass tap, the torrent of water gushed and landed in a spoon, which sent up a spray of water in all directions. Some of the water splashed on Arthur’s waistcoat. He looked down at the blotches on his clothing and at that moment he felt as if the table in the next room was laughing at him. Yes, laughing. But no belly laughs or uncontrollable guffaws. Rather, the table was giggling like a class of children who notice that their teacher has his pullover on back-to-front or pronounces the word ‘compass’ with a long ‘a’ as in ‘father’. Arthur went back into the dining room to remove the salt and pepper shakers and tablecloth from the table, whose giggling suddenly stopped as Arthur entered. At least that table’s got a sense of guilt, he thought. Then he told himself again not to be ridiculous.

‘Next you’ll be looking under the bed so see if there’s a wicked witch down there,’ he said to himself aloud, chuckling.
Having installed himself in his armchair, which had accommodated several generations of Hickses, Arthur unfolded the newspaper and turned straight to the small advertisements. He never read those pages. However, it was as if something in the back of his mind was controlling his choice of reading. Instead of learning about Hull’s recent defeat against Southampton on Wednesday and the replacement of Hull’s manager with someone who actually knew what a football looked like, let alone know about the game in general, he was scanning the ‘wanted’ ads that wished to hear from persons who could supply gentlemen’s bicycles, spare parts for classic cars, children’s educational toys, or leather-covered three-piece suites. Nobody out there, however, seemed to want a dining room table. He looked up at the table and felt its nasty stare. He even stood up, went to the table and looked under the leaves to see if there was a pair of eyes. Of course, there were no eyes, but still Arthur felt the table’s enmity towards him.

‘What have I done to you?’ he said, addressing the table. ‘Oh lord! This sounds stupid!’ Arthur thought, so he sat down, fished out the remote control from under the cushion and switched on the television.
A portrait of a very young Winston Churchill flashed on the screen. The voice over cut in relating Churchill’s first evening at preparatory school. Cut to an oak-panelled school library where a middle-aged presenter, whose delivery was staccato with peculiar stress patterns, stood, earnestly gazing through thick spectacles into the camera with the conviction that his brusque phrases would be indelibly imprinted on viewers’ minds.
‘His teacher told him, this is a Latin grammar,’ the presenter began, brandishing a textbook. ‘Churchill was told to learn it. The teacher is said to have pointed to a list of words with different endings.
‘Churchill was clearly at a loss as to what it all meant. He read the list aloud to the teacher and then the boy plucked up the courage to ask what the purpose of this activity was.
‘According to Churchill’s autobiography, the teacher replied, “Mensa means a table.”
‘The 8-year-old Churchill then asked, “Why does mensa also mean ‘O table’? What does ‘O table’ mean?”
‘The teacher then explained, “O table — you would use that in addressing a table, in invoking a table.” Whereupon the boy Churchill retorted that he never spoke to tables and that —’

Arthur changed channel.
The round-faced female presenter with piercing eyes was listening to a well-spoken gentleman about an item of furniture he had brought along with him to the antiques road show.
Arthur wondered how on earth people lugged huge sideboards and bulky writing desks to these venues. Ching-ching! for the local man-with-a-van, he supposed. The camera panned out to reveal a table that resembled the one in the painting ‘When did you last see your father?’ with its massive turned legs and joists at floor level.
‘This wonderful table looks as if it has been in your family for, well, you tell me—’ the presenter began.
‘At least three centuries. As you can see here…’ the owner pointed a stubby finger to a stain. ‘Someone has tried to remove blood left there after an operation was performed on this very table.’
‘Really? A 17th century operating table?’
‘It was on this table that my great-great-great-grandmother had her spleen removed, leaving her with a compromised immune system. For this reason, a splenectomy is performed only when truly necessary. However, the benefits are that it can resolve several health issues such as blood diseases, cancer—’
The presenter interrupted by pointing out concentric curved scratches as if a heavy object had been turned around a few degrees.
‘That’s where they removed the coffin of my late great-grandfather during the Kingston-upon-Hull gravediggers’ strike of 1947 when all funeral parlours were closed—’
Fuming, Arthur went up to his bedroom. Through the banisters he caught a glimpse of the dining room table seething with resentment. Arthur glared back. He did not know why.

Arthur took his breakfast in the pokey kitchen. The dining room table seemed indifferent. Or perhaps it had not yet awoken. He slammed his half-full bowl of cereal, splashing a few drops of homogenized milk on the formica work top as if to upbraid himself for his silly thoughts. He covered his face with his hands, shutting out the rest of the household and told himself to “get a grip”. Soon he was at the railway station, flicking through the display on his smart phone. His eyes widened and his grip tightened angrily around the device when he came across Wikihow: how to make a gateleg table. The next frame showed a turned table leg.
‘You will find a number of uses for this 36-inch work table leg with block,’ the web site authors cheerfully announced. ‘Leg is made of paint-grade Eastern white pine and machined to a classic design that will complement any design style.’ The absence of ‘the’ before ‘leg’ disturbed him to the extent that he felt he must see a doctor. What would he tell him? He could imagine Dr Myers, whose grandfather had performed the 1963 splenectomy, smiling as if humoring a bothersome child, patting him on the forearm and telling him to “keep taking the tables — sorry! The tablets”.
The sentence ‘You will find a number of uses for this 36-inch work table leg with block’ echoed through his thoughts as the train rounded the curve, decelerated and primly squeaked to a halt. He could see himself red-faced with an angry rictus pounding the surface of his dining room table with ‘this 36-inch work table leg with block’.
‘Pull yourself together, will you?’ he admonished himself aloud later, drawing stares from two strap-hanging passengers. He sensed their unwanted attention and continued fingering through his smart phone display.
He stumbled a website specializing in alternative versions of famous literature. Further investigation revealed ‘Metamorphosis’ by Franz Kafka, retold by ‘sickmind13’.
“When Gregor Samsa awoke from a dreamless, peaceful sleep, he found himself transformed into a dining room table.”
More useful than “a giant insect”, thought Arthur.

Arthur viewed the prospect of going to a furniture shop as one considers a visit to the doctor or a stay in hospital. He noticed a giggling young couple – newlyweds or engaged, or maybe ‘Just Cohabiting’ by the look of them – with their retractable carpenter’s ruler making for the bed section. He wished he could be as blissful and as anticipatory as they. He skulked towards the dining room furniture. The pine tables stood snootily, daring anyone to buy them. He approached a modern, minimalist 59 x 36 x 30-inch item and furtively felt the surface with his left hand.
‘Nice piece this one. Very popular.’
A startled Arthur looked up at the youthful features of a salesman who was taller than Nature had intended.
‘Y-yes,’ Arthur blurted.
‘Although for my money you can’t beat a nice round table,’ the salesman enthused.
‘A round table?’
‘Oh, yes, a round one. A round table is so much more sympathetic, so much more caring and accommodating than some of these rectangular horrors that are hangovers from the days of Queen Victoria.’
‘A round—’
The black-suited salesman pushed the lick of hair over his forehead and warmed to his theme, motioning Arthur to a “nice round table”.
‘Indeed,’ the salesman resumed, ‘I expect you’ve got one of those mock 17th century horrors like the one in that painting ‘When did you last see your father?’
Arthur nodded, hoping that the salesman would gloss over the unpleasant topic.
‘Yes…The heavy turned legs, the floor-level joists and the leaves that are so awkward to pull out for special occasions that you wish you never had any relatives to invite.’
Arthur, who had now ceased to listen, was about to open his mouth to excuse himself.
‘And those ghastly old men sitting at that table and the girl in tears,’ the salesman said.
‘What ghastly old men? What girl in tears?’ inquired Arthur.
‘Why, the ones in that painting,’ the salesman countered.
‘What painting?
‘The ‘When did you last see your father?’ one.’
‘Oh, I see.’ But Arthur did not see. He wanted to part company with the salesman who was beginning to irritate him. No wonder he hated furniture warehouse outlets.
‘You couldn’t do that painting with a round table, could you? I mean, Arthur and the knights of the round table have a cheerful, positive ring to them. Round table…Mm. Round.’
Arthur thanked the salesman for his time and beat a retreat to the main entrance, where a pretty girl in a tight dress tried to hand him a leaflet advertising oak furniture.
‘Easy term loans,’ she chirruped.
Arthur imagined representatives of debt collection agency armed to the teeth with table- and chair legs made of oak.

Over lunch at the pub, Kenneth noticed that Arthur seemed more worried and depressed than usual. Arthur’s answers to his colleague’s queries ranged from a dismissive ‘I’m OK’ to a testy ‘I said I’m all right. Just leave off, will you?’
‘All right. I’m only trying to help,’ Kenneth sighed. ‘You spend too much time on your own. When was the last time you went out with us?’
By “us” Kenneth meant his mates at the local football club. Arthur had no patience with the same old jokes, the worn-out banter and the hackneyed comments about various parts of the female anatomy sported by two of the most attractive women at the office.
‘I know, why don’t you take up a hobby?’ Kenneth suggested. He was not really interested in Arthur’s possible answer.
‘Lenny’s son’s taken up karate. He’s got really good at it. Might make black belt in a matter of weeks. He’s taken to it like a duck to water. He’s learnt all the moves. I was round Lenny’s over the weekend and he called his boy out and he showed me everything he’d learned. He can chop a piece of wood in half. Soon, he’ll be able to smash bricks with his hand. Get this, the kid went over to their dining room table and said he could smash it with his head. ‘Course Lenny told him to come away and stop talking nonsense. Smash the dining room table with his head, eh? That’d be something, wouldn’t it? Erm…Arthur…Where’re you going?...The gents is over there. Arthur? Arthur! Oh.’

As soon as he opened the front door, the dining room table’s malevolence wafted out like the smell of cooking, only this odour was far from appetizing. He gingerly stepped into the kitchen, as if he did not want to be seen by the table. He took out a can of baked beans from the cupboard and a tin-opener and spoon from the cutlery drawer, and sneaked upstairs like a child that was afraid of being waylaid by an abusive parent. He crept into his bedroom. His right hand, trembling with rage and apprehension, tried to manipulate the tin opener and pierce the can. After a few attempts, he tossed the implement across the room. It landed harmlessly in the corner under the bed. He retrieved it and stomped down the stairs to the dining room.

Holding the tin-opener and arms akimbo, he stood with his legs slightly apart and facing the dining room table, which was adorned by a lace doily – incidentally, made by his grandmother (she of the 1963 splenectomy) – and a bowl of plastic flowers.
‘I’m fed up with you!’ he bellowed at the table. ‘I will not be dictated to by a piece of furniture!’ he could hardly believe what he was saying. The image of a young Winston Churchill burst into his head. The dictum “O table — you would use that in addressing a table, in invoking a table.” repeated itself almost endlessly, segueing into “You will find a number of uses for this 36-inch work table leg with block.”
‘No table’s going to get the better of me!’ he bawled, raising the tin-opener like a dagger above his head and, having violently swept the splenectomy-grandmotherly-crafted doily and bowl of plastic flowers onto the floor with his left arm, stabbed the table with the pointed end of the tin-opener several times. The tin-opener eventually bent and was therefore useless for further violence.

Meanwhile, their curiosity aroused by the clamorous monologue that was slightly muffled by double-glazing, the neighbours on both sides poked their heads like ferrets over their respective privet hedges and forsythia sprays, awaiting further developments. Arthur stormed out of the house. The door of the conservatory slammed into the side windows cracking them. He strode into the shed, where he found a wood axe. Swinging this implement as if limbering up for the effort that was to be expended in the dining room, Arthur disappeared back inside the house. Seconds later, the neighbours could hear the sound of wood being split and broken and Arthur’s voice lecturing the offending piece of furniture on its having ‘gone too far with this nasty attitude’ and its daring ‘not show any respect for anyone’. After the lecturing and chopping and cursing abated, Arthur came out of the house with an armful of timber, which he deposited perfunctorily onto the lawn. Eventually, having completed the pile of wood that was once the sullen dining room table, he disappeared into the shed again and re-emerged with a can of paraffin. This he emptied liberally on the pyre, onto which he tossed a lighted match. Then came a woof! Black smoke tipped the flames that cheerfully licked the floor-level joists, the heavy turned legs and the leaves that were now piled like a dismembered human skeleton – the table that would no more seethe with resentment under Arthur’s bedroom.

The neighbours looked on and tutted, saying that surely no one was allowed to make bonfires except on the allotments down the road, and even then, only after 6 p.m. Arthur looked at one set of neighbours and leant forward slightly.
He then straightened, surveyed his neighbours’ windows and, raising his head heavenward, he burst into off-key song.
‘Baby come’n’light my fire…try to set the night on fi-ire…’
Just at that moment, an armchair chortled in the sitting room.

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