After sixteen years of service, Sally has become part of the furniture. In her case, one of those old-fashioned lace squares that a grandmother might drape across the top of a wing-backed armchair. It once was white but has now yellowed with age. And there are a few stains we try to ignore. I'm not sure we'd know how to clean them off anyway. Hand wash? Too much trouble; not worth the effort.
No doubt Sally thinks I'm part of the furniture too: a metal storage cabinet full of graph paper who dreams of being a sleek, mid-century coffee table strewn with art books and a vintage vase. There's some truth in that, I suppose. Or perhaps she doesn't think anything about me at all. I'm invisible to Sally, like the grime that gathers in the corners of our cubicles or the layers of dust falling week after week on the office printers. I guess we're both part the furniture in an unloved house.
So what about the new guy, Colin, with his new ideas and new energy? He's not part of the furniture yet and he probably never will be. Colin wants to be a breath of fresh air but he's more of a sickly-sweet scented candle. He will burn briefly only to find his flame extinguished within a year or two, replaced by one of those traditional legal lamps with a green glass shade. That's what happens if you don't 'go' with our existing decor.
