Today I moved some furniture around. The old wingback armchair is not as comfortable as it used to be, and that matters more as my back gets older. So it migrated upstairs (thanks to Himself, as it weighs a ton) along with the handsome tilt-top table that has always been too large for our sitting room.

A small rocking chair, a rather battered wicker armchair and a tea table have settled into the vacated space, which has ideal reading light from the big front window. I have ordered new cushions for the wicker armchair from Amazon, as the current ones date from a visit to IKEA circa 1992 and are lightly spattered with paint. (I hear that shabby chic is a style, but not that shabby.) The cats have decided the change is okay.

I carried the tilt-top table upstairs by myself, which would have been a bad mistake if my core muscles were even a little bit weaker. It's a pedestal table with a round top 40 inches in diameter, made of solid mahogany some time in the late 18th century. I unlatched the top so it hung vertical and picked the whole thing up, with my left hand under the pedestal between the feet, the pedestal leaning against my chest caber-style, and my right hand controlling the top.

The table and arrived upstairs without incident. Right at the top of the stairs, as I turned to start sidling into the enormous room over the garage (much more in scale with the table), I took my right hand off the tabletop for some reason, and it started to tip toward the horizontal. I felt my back take the strain as the weight swung over my shoulder, and my body rocked back on my heels (still at the top of the stairs, remember). I then gently put my right hand back where it should have been all along and returned the tabletop to its vertical position.

In a very undignified shuffle, I made it to the new spot by a row of bookcases and put the damnable table down safely. I then unkinked my back and resolved NEVER TO DO THAT AGAIN. At least not when I'm alone in the house.