where the writers are

The other evening I was telling a friend how, during a recent visit, my mother insisted in sitting, not in her comfortably upholstered armchair--"that's the man's chair," she told my husband, waving him into it, ignoring me--but in a harder wooden chair. When she stood up the chair slid backwards over the floor and she almost fell on her 90-year-old bum.

I adjusted the wooden chair so that all four legs were firmly on the rug. A matter of an inch or two. I did it when she wasn't looking.

Ten minutes later the two back legs were back on the floor, only the front legs on the rug. We played this little game twice. I lost.

I look around my room. T-shirts in neat stacks, according to the length of their sleeves. The sheaf of lavender laid at an angle on the second pair of sheets (ironed). Jackets with jackets, skirts with skirts.... .



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and I love how those bowls in your kitchen nest so nicely together!