Last week I had the pleasure of trying out a chair brought in by people from Gloster, the company that makes tony outdoor furniture. It was so sink-down living room comfy that it was perfectly dreadful to return to my desk with its little grey number on casters, no matter how ergonomically correct. The havana armchair
The Havana Armchair
I tried was scarily upholstered in white, but I was assured by a Gloster rep in an adorable British accent that spillage (I was imagining myself with a nice glass of Pinot Noir and Christopher Hitchens' saucy new memoir) is a non-issue, it wipes off so well. The Gloster folks also told us modular furniture is coming back big time. But remembering some lean years in which I made do with an evilly stained, orphaned third of a modular couch that always looked like a lone piece of jigsaw puzzle, I don't know that a modular set is in my future. Gloster was first known for its teak furniture, and that's swell stuff, especially if you like tasteful restraint, but what really hit my hot button was the scoop nest.
The Bronze Scoop Nest
Think of all the middle-aged accouterments one of these babies could handle when you curl up in it: literary book, schlocky book, magazine, prescription blended bifocal sunglasses, sunscreen, wee drinkie, cellphone, legal pad and paper (in the unlikely event of pensive thoughts tumbling from cerebellum to page). I guess "pensive thoughts" is kind of redundant -- nitpickers might insist it means thoughtful thoughts -- but if I was as relaxed as I think one of these curvaceous little nests would make me, I would swat the nitpickers with my People magazine (gotta find out why Al and Tipper split) and tell them to sue me, wouldn't you?