There is a pub I would like to be in now so that I could order a pint and drink it slowly. It is a small pub, but the people who drink there are generous with space, so there is always a little room. The ceiling is very high, so I need my glasses to see its witty decoration; the dark shelves behind the bar stretch dustily all the way up to it. There are barstools that swivel, with backs on them; I acknowledge that they are chairs. Each has a red leather cushion, so old and worn with time and bums and spills that it is wine-coloured.

There is one with a small rip beside the brass tacks on the frame.

I am mistress of everything when I sit in this chair. I face the bar, look into the long, stained mirror, observe the arrival of others and see myself, on the spinning barstool, move through time, sink through consciousness, to settle finally at the bottom of a large glass.

I order another. The mirror world makes me ecstatic. The new glistening column of beer rests companionably in my hand. The city is a rush of rain-spattered coats. I lose hold of myself and almost sink into that mirror world of silent drunks, but the chair curves gentle carved arms around me and grounds me with its woodenness. It is so wooden. And such a chair.