I have a favourite chair. It’s a bottle-green, plastic-moulded tractor stool, bolted onto a box that covers a gas pipe. The chair is tucked into a corner by the window of a café that’s opposite a laundrette and a bandstand. I used to live seven minutes away by bike and would sit there to have my lunch on a Thursday or Friday nearly every week, forfeiting my place only on the occasion that someone else got there first—and feeling disgruntled when they did. Hi, excuse me, sorry, um, you appear to be sitting in my seat, I’d say in my mind, scowling from a nearby table, because of course I couldn’t make this claim, even if my romantic little habit would have me believe otherwise. How should I know who really owned the chair, anyway?