Tag Archives: Anthropomorphized furniture

A Close Shave

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For a Tuesday morning, the Turner family kitchen seemed a bit casual. Both Doctor and Mrs. Turner were still in their dressing gowns, and little Angela breakfasted in her nightdress, a rare occurrence. Only scholar Timothy Turner seemed ready to face the day, dressed in his school uniform.

“Neither your father nor I will go into the surgery or clinic today, Timothy. Dr. Henderson said your father isn’t to do any lifting or much movement with his hand today, it could start the bleeding again.” She turned in answer to her husband’s growl.  “Patrick, it was an accident. I’m sure Nurse Noakes didn’t mean to cut you. It will heal before you know it.”

“Does it hurt much?” Timothy Turner asked his father. He peered closely at the bandages that immobilized Patrick’s hand.

“Yes. Now leave it be, Tim. You’ll bump it and then it’ll really hurt,” came the tense reply.

Ever the peacemaker, Shelagh intervened. “Timothy, thank you, but you’re not really helping. Your father is not an opportunity to work on your First Aid badge. Leave your father be and go get your bag. The bus won’t wait, and it’s a terribly long walk.”

Sighing, Tim got up from the table. “I was only trying to help. I wasn’t thinking about Scouts at all.” He stopped at the doorway and turned. “But I could get some requirements taken care of, Dad. You know how eager you are for me to make Queen’s Scout.”

“Go, Tim,” ordered the cranky man at the table.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Tim tossed his bag over his shoulder as the door slammed behind him.

Shelagh moved to refill Patrick’s teacup. “He always has an answer for everything, doesn’t he?” she giggled.

Testily, Patrick tapped a piece of toast against his plate.

Hiding a grin, she asked, “Would you like me to butter your toast, dear?”

A pained expression crossed Patrick’s face. “I suppose I have no choice. I can’t do anything with my left hand bound up like this.” He dropped his toast and grumbled. “There’s no way I can see patients with it, or–bloody hell, Shelagh! I can’t drive my car! My car!”

Shelagh waited for the storm to pass and put a tad bit more butter on her husband’s toast than usual. She had wondered when that particular shoe would drop. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and determined her course.

“We’ll get Fred to drive you about this week. It won’t be for long, Patrick. The stitches will be out before you know it.” Lifting Angela from her high chair, she placed her in the playpen, then turned back to her husband. “We have bigger problems to solve, dear. Finish your tea, and then join me down the hall.”

Feeling very sorry for himself, Patrick harumphed and slumped in his chair,  his cheek resting against his right fist. His eyes wandered over to the playpen. Angela, contentedly playing with her favorite giraffe, looked at him seriously.

The ridiculousness of his mood started to sink in. “Sorry Daddy’s such a bear today, Angel Girl. I can’t even pick you up. Doctor’s orders. Though how that Henderson is old enough to have qualified, I’ll never know,” the growl returned. Angela continued to chatter with her giraffe, unfazed.

Shelagh’s voice came down the hall. Sighing heavily, Patrick stood. “Mummy’s calling. Be good and don’t break anything.”

Patrick followed the sound of his wife’s voice, softly singing in the bathroom. He pushed the door open to find Shelagh standing at the sink, steam rising from its full bowl. She held his badger shaving brush and mug in her hands, efficiently swirling the soap into a lather.

“What’s this? You know I can’t shave with my right hand. I’ll simply have to be a bit scruffy for a few days.”

Shelagh smiled, and a looked coyly back. “You know I do like your face a bit scratchy, Patrick, but smooth is nice, too. Besides, I thought you might like to see that sometimes it’s nice to have someone give you a hand.” Her eyes twinkled at her pun.

“Shelagh, love, you know I trust you in all things, but I’m not quite certain I want you to use that safety razor on me. It’s a bit tricky.”

The frothy mug and brush clinked against the surface of the sink’s edge, and Shelagh opened the cabinet. Carefully she removed the abandoned straight razor from its case. “I’m not going to use the safety razor. I’m going to use this instead.”

Patrick’s eyebrows came down in consternation. “My straight razor? How…?”

“I am a nurse, Patrick,” Shelagh huffed. “Of course I know how to use it. Now, sit down and let me help you.” In moments she had him sitting, a dry towel covering his injured hand and a hot, wet towel wrapped about his face.

“That should get that beard a bit softer. Now sit still and relax. I’ll go check on Angela and then we’ll get started.”

Small footsteps disappeared down the hall and Patrick found himself grinning beneath the steam towel. Shelagh certainly managed him well. “Imagine if she went into politics. She’d have the whole country in order by noontime!”

The effects of the warm towel began to ease the tension in his shoulders as well, and Patrick forgot about his wounded hand. By the time Shelagh returned and removed it, his bad mood had completely melted away.

“I’ve given her the toy telephone, she’ll be busy for a good long time.” Shelagh used the towel to rub his cheeks a bit. “She may be picking up some habits from watching me in the surgery!”

The froth in the mug had dissipated a bit, so Shelagh gave it a few more swirls. His eyes watched her as she began to soap his face with the rich lather. Her lips pressed together a bit as always when she concentrated, and he fought a grin.

She placed the brush and mug down and reached for the straight razor. As she gave it a few strokes on the honing block he asked, “Why don’t you use the safety razor?”

Shelagh shook her head in disapproval as she gently turned his face to begin. Slowly, she ran the blade down the curve of his cheek.  “I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it feels in my hand, and I can’t get the same closeness. I cut myself with it once. I haven’t used it since.”

The blade glided over the contours of his face, and she stopped to make short strokes above his lip. He tightened his mouth to give her better access to the tight corners there, then shifted his face to the other side. She moved the blade slowly, but purposefully, her touch light.

Shelagh turned to rinse the foam from the blade and he asked, “What do you mean, cut yourself?”

“My leg. I cut myself just above my right ankle last month. You remember, the plaster kept sticking to my stockings?”

An image began to form in his head. “You mean you use my straight razor to shave your legs?” His voice hadn’t cracked like that in a very long time.

Seemingly unaware of the change occurring in her husband, Shelagh turned his face to the side and began on his left cheek. “Yes.” She paused to trace the curve of his nostril. “It’s so sharp I hardly need to shave more than once a week. Now, Patrick, please still your throat. I can’t put the blade there if you’re going to swallow so hard.”

“Sorry,” he gulped.

Eyes twinkling, Shelagh finished the last stroke and cleaned the blade, then turned to rub the last vestiges of foamy soap with the cooled towel.

“There now, doesn’t that feel better?” She stood before him, her hands holding his face as her fingers smoothed over his cheeks. “Not scruffy at all.”

“I thought you liked me scruffy,” he murmured.

Shelagh nuzzled her own smooth cheek against his. “I like you any way I can have you, dearest.”

Patrick’s good hand found its way beneath her dressing gown and he ran his fingers up the length of her leg.

“Smooth,” he whispered against her lips.

“Not for very long, Patrick. I think I may need you to repay the favor when your stitches come out.”

“Yes. my love. Always happy to lend a hand.”

 

Sixty-Minute Challenge, Prompt One: Sitting Pretty

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This is part of what will be a 3-part exercise in insanity. I write slowly, and need to push some of my boundaries. So, with a free Saturday, I decided to ask my Tumblr friends (come join us- follow the Call the Midwife tag, we’re there) to send in prompts for me to write responses to in 60 minutes. One down, two to go.

This prompt technically breaks the “No Turnadette” rule, but hey, give the people what they want.

Turnadettefangirl said: Okay, a fic where a piece of furniture is the main POV 😉 The gold sofa, the hatch, the bed. Those have witnessed a lotta Turner family drama (and joy)

I used to have it easy. I was a lucky sofa, and I knew it. Years ago, in the furniture store, the old second hand furniture would tell tales of terror and abuse.

“Look at my back leg,” the tallboy moaned. “Two brothers fighting took that one. I’ve had this old board to hold me up since.”

“My scratches,” wailed the dining room table. “I’ll never be glossy and polished again!”

But it was the old sofa on the corner that earned the most pity. Its upholstery torn and stained, cotton wool peeping out and missing an entire cushion, the old couch had seen it all.

“A family of thirteen,” the old voice croaked. “One beast jumped on me and broke my spine, another pulled out the horsehair for a school project, and I won’t even tell you the details of the season the entire bunch of them had the stomach flu.”

When I was purchased by a quiet couple, starting out their marriage, I considered myself lucky. The man was out all the time, and the woman seemed to prefer to spend her time with the piano bench.

I didn’t mind. Life was easy.

The day they brought home a baby, I worried. “My bright covers! My arms! This child will be the ruin of me!”

But the boy left me alone. The floor was his domain. Each day he would amass a collection of blocks and cars and small animals and build great cities. Each day he would spill something, too. I never spent much effort getting to know the carpets in those years. They never stayed long enough.

By the time the boy became slightly less clumsy, he had moved to the table and chairs near me. He was a serious boy, and rarely had any friends over. He would sit quietly and do schoolwork or read. I wondered why he looked so sad.

Then the man began to spend his nights on the couch. I never saw the woman, though I could hear her talking quietly with the others in the private rooms. I wasn’t a proper place for a grown man to sleep, though I must admit he did rarely spend a full night stretched out over me. His nights were spent out of the flat, or pacing the floor. Even the nights he spent in the bedroom, I doubt he got any rest.

Eventually, he returned to the bedroom. The flat was silent through the day and I was left to my thoughts. In the evenings, the boy would stay at his place at the table, whilst the man sat in one of the matching chairs, silently smoking.

They didn’t talk much, not really, though it felt as if there was so much to be said. The man worked and smoked, the boy read and played his music. Sometimes, I would see one watch the other, a helpless expression on his face. Neither ever sat upon me, and after ten years, I looked as good as new.

 

I was grateful; I was a handsome couch, and could last for decades. There was little chance I would end up old and worn out at a second-hand shop. The few times a visitor came by, I was always admired. It is possible that I grew vain.

After months of no visitors, life in the flat changed very suddenly. The boy and the man had a new friend. A quiet, small young woman, she soon found a comfortable spot on the handsome gold sofa near the lamp. Her visits became frequent, and though I began to see much more use, she was careful to care for me properly. She made sure my cushions were rotated, and soon after she came to live in the flat, I was vacuumed frequently.

It seemed that I was, if you’ll pardon the expression, “sitting pretty.”

Oh, how wrong I was. The woman was little, and took excellent care of me. But suddenly, it wasn’t enough for the man to be home, he sat upon me, as well. And not on his proper cushion on the other half. No, the man insisted on sitting as close as possible to his new favorite. Right over two cushions. At the same time! The man had no thought for symmetry or wear! I began to show signs of use.

Perhaps if the man and woman had been content to sit still, it would not have been so defeating. But they never seemed to be settled in one spot for long. Once the boy left of an evening, they would shift and nudge and thump. Their giggles and sighs only infuriated me more.

And shoes! They completely forgot themselves and for the first time ever, shoes scraped against my beautiful cushions. I was furious. The shoes had to go.

And then the shoes went.

My friend, I blush to tell you that the shoes were only to first of many items to be removed. More than one morning I was awakened by the presence of a cufflink poking through my fabric. The deep corners and recesses of my shape became the lost and found of the detritus of their shenanigans.

So now, no longer the proud, handsome showpiece, fit for the display window of the best furniture retailers, I am an ordinary, faded gold sofa.

And the worst of all, further proof of my disastrous decline, I have discovered the fact that will most assuredly put me in the back corner of the saddest of all charity shops.

Now they have a baby.