My desk is now a little table that, with a little force, swivels around. I think it used to be a hospital table. Food plates with silver lids were laid on it for the bed bound. There it sat, with the plate domes steaming inside themselves next to the orange segments, before being manoeuvered to the patient.
A burst of gravy enhanced vapour would pour out when the silver lid was pulled off and clunked down, wherever – it was hot. Sometimes perhaps there sat a collection of carnations upon the dark brown table. Looking out into the gravelled car park or a field. A relative staring out with the cut flowers.
The table, it looks tired. It also appears hard and practical. Though very beautiful in its own way. It could have sailed from anywhere and around the world four times. Or never left Bristol. And there’s something about the flourish in the screw that makes it grow taller or shorter. It’s swirled like a flower. They didn’t have to do that. The people that made the table. You have to pay a high price for a homemade flourish like that these days.
We got it from the same place we got our college bench. Somewhere in Bristol, where Objects Have To Fend For Themselves. Once prized, or simply used, they sat redundant, until someone saw their potential again. Then the owner would also suddenly see the potential and try to charge top buck.
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Column: Bristol 24-7