Pointless peripherals aside, most of my weekend was spent in pursuit of a replacement seat for my director's chair. You know, the folding kind you see on film sets with the actor's name stencilled on the back.
I purchased it from Cargo Homestores three years ago, and, as I have explained to store managers from The Pier to John Lewis, bought the frame and the canvas seat and back separately. Cargo have discontinued the line, however, and didn't have any leftover seats in their stockroom (or so I was told; as the bloke I spoke to had just sold a £2000 coffee table he may not have been too interested in flogging cheap chairs piecemeal).
Nowhere else that makes the things will sell me the canvas parts without the chair. I see their point, as the entire caboodle costs £12.50 in John Lewis. I just resent throwing away the whole damn chair because of some ripped fabric. Typing on my knees isn't much fun either.
Today my search led me to Ikea. Some people loathe Ikea on principle, but I am a big fan. I like how cheap everything is, I like the bright colours and I like the way every item has a silly Swedish name; I want a 'Jerker' computer desk. Mostly I like dreaming of the day when I will have a charming unfurnished flat of my very own to fill with adult-sized bunk beds and funky shower curtains.
Still no joy on the chair seat, but at least I got to spend an afternoon having middle-class fun. I bought five orange coathangers named Helsig, a storage jar to hold rice, and, I blush to name it, a tea-light holder. Also some very nice Swedish cider made from pears, which they really shouldn't sell to people who have to go home and self-assemble three-piece suites.