This is one of the rooms I grew up in. The Long Room it was called. At the far end of the house, where it served no purpose at all, other than somewhere my father could turn up the music really loudly and not wake us. And chain smoke his cigarettes, held in a mystifying long black cigarette holder. The cigarettes he smoked could only be bought in duty free. When he ran out and was not travelling he would buy a ticket to Paris, drive to the airport, check in, walk through, buy the cigarettes, turn around and have his waiting chauffeur drive him back to London.
I have just inherited those two fauteuil in the back there, upholstered in purple wool. Will I really be able to do them justice? After their lives spent in the vibrating, exciting world of David Hicks?