Since February, I am Chair of Brentwood Writers’ Circle…again.

I know, it’s short for chairman, but we don’t use that anymore because it’s sexist so most people now shorten it to chair

Only, when I say I’m chair, to myself, that’s not what pops into my mind. Perhaps it’s because I’m being childlike, childish, my son says, but I often wonder what sort of chair I am.

Am I an easy chair? Some of the kids in the classes I taught in primary school might have thought so and I was sometimes.

Other times I was a hard chair and I wouldn’t let the kids get away with anything. They still liked me as a teacher though and would do the work for me. Perhaps because I was a straight chair. Honest as the day is long, which is always 24 hours. Isn’t it? Only what if it wasn’t and isn’t? What if it’s a different planet with a different day length, a green sky, red rain and leaves that are always blue and violet. Then maybe being honest wouldn’t be so easy… If the day wasn’t so long.

I could be an arm chair with arms to defend myself. From what? Maybe the shadows. Shadows? Yes, the ones that live within us. The ones you sometimes catch out of the corner of your eye. You’ve got to keep an eye on your shadows.

I wouldn’t like being a plastic chair. They’re hard and make you sweaty.

Padded? Ah yes, then I’d be soft and giving.

Electric? Oh no, that would be a dead giveaway.

Ah! A swivel chair, only then I’d be pointing in all directions and undecided which way to go.

A push chair? Hah! Who’s doing the pushing?

Perhaps I’ll be an easy chair after all, with a very solid frame, the iron hand in a velvet glove! So I know what to do when I am Chair of The Brentwood Writers’ Circle. Only don’t tell them I said so.