Last year I returned home from work to find that my house had been completely emptied of its contents. The fold-away bed, that I keep in the spare room for guests, had sold all my possessions to fund its raging meth habit. Further investigation by my sceptical insurance company revealed that the bed had also sold my family into slavery. I am currently working three part-time jobs in the hope of raising enough capital to buy them all back.
Your house and garden furniture will, if presented with an opportunity, kill you as soon as look at you. If you don't believe me then grab the nearest Ouija Board and consult the blood-soaked spectre of General Henry Scott O'Callahan, of the King's Fifth Riflery.
His own armchair shot him in the back, following an argument over who owned a threepenny bit that was lodged partway behind the back of its seat cushion.
Show me one example of an armchair that has ever given so much as a single fuck. You can't, because such a thing doesn't exist and never will. There is a reason why you never hear about any armchair saints, or why an armchair has never been knighted by the Queen for services to the realm.
Now onto the important business of answering questions that I have received from telepathic members of the British public:
Today, Mary from Stoke on Trent enquires: 'Can a human being ever form a meaningful bond with an item of furniture?'
The short answer to your question is an emphatic 'No!'
I once witnessed a wardrobe push in front of its owner and take the last seat in a lifeboat. It was a male wardrobe too; in accordance with centuries of nautical decorum, it should have held station on deck until all the women and children had been accounted for.
As a wooden object the wardrobe would have comfortably floated. It would have been at minimal risk of shark attack and, while adrift on the open ocean, would have been unlikely to suffer the unwanted attention of woodpeckers. The very worst that could have happened to it would be perhaps washing up on a pristine tropical beach, with a few garishly-coloured equatorial whelks clinging to its paneling. These could have been easily removed by a qualified furniture veterinarian.
I was ensickened by the selfish actions of the wardrobe, that I clearly witnessed from my vantage point high on the upturned prow of the cruise liner - The Marigold. Prior to it being sold into prostitution by my meth-crazed camp bed, I kept my own wardrobe chained-up in the basement and only allowed it to store my worn-out or irreparably damaged clothing.
Mary, the only relationship that you can expect with your furniture is one of treachery and backstabbery.
I strongly advise that you start storing all of your clothes in a big heap on your bedroom floor. But be careful, as your clothes also want to embezzle your life savings, and then kill you, and make your death look like suicide, which is why I have started walking around naked.
I hope this is of help in your journey through life.