When the woman in the upstairs flat was in her bedroom tv phase (we're talking Drum Line and Full Metal Jacket at 11pm on school nights) I took to the popular village coffee shop to get out of here. So did everybody else in town.
When it's filled to the rafters, the overflow crowd lands in the Famous One (you know the one) across the street. I met some nice people there, like The Working Screenwriter. And I got some gift certificates and met the manager.
Then my spine got out of control, and the grey plastic chairs there were exactl.y the perfect size for my short legs and unhappy back. Perfect for reading in front of the window with coffee. Okay, yes, I ate the scones; we're talking chairs here.
Then suddenly they renovate. My beloved chairs are making someone happy in an alley somewhere. The renovator apparently went to the same sale as the local library for the rock-hard Pappa Bear wooden chairs. (Have you ever seen Edith Ann in her giant rocker from Laugh-in days? That's me in Starbucks with my short legs sticking out in front of me.) The grim monastery chairs are even too heavy for me to move.
I persuaded myself that I may be only one of three short people whose feet don't reach the floor. Instead, I'm noticing there are plenty of us.
Then last week I met a taller woman whose feet do touch the floor, and she also hates the chairs.
So I hurled an e-mail to customer service, who didn't seem to read it, but gave me some coupons for coffee I can drink standing up.
The question here is, would I only embarrass myself if I brought my own chair? Or would some stand up and cheer? Think I'll write to the big boss coffee man and get his opinion.
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