WEDGED LIKE A SARDINE

Luky;
Years ago one of my sporadic attempts at self-improvement led me into the office of a music teacher. 
I took my second daughter with me to lend moral support.

Toiling up the staircase, I ruefully contemplated my previous endeavours to keep from turning stale. 
The slimming society had done its part to teach me to lose weight, but I hadn't done mine. 
The exercises had proved too strenuous for a person of my comfort-loving habits.

My eldest daughter and myself had attended two years of singing lessons, and now our singing teacher had joined the ranks of working girls. 
I was once again at a loose end. So why not take up the organ?

As I approached the door, I could hear that the teacher was on the telephone, so I knocked and went in.
"I agree", he was saying earnestly into the receiver, waving his hand as though the person on the other end of the line could see it.
"It has always been my contention that ... Don't sit on that chair!"

Now how could he see that the other person was sitting down, I wondered vaguely. 
Was he clairvoyant in addition to his musical gifts?  
I had chosen a comfortable-looking chair next to his desk, and as he yelled I fell right through it.

Wedged like a sardine, most of me on the floor, I looked up at him and realised the horrible truth. 
It wasn't the person on the other end of the line he had yelled at, it was me. 
I was more surprised than hurt, stuck there like a sardine, and having taken one concerned look at my face he continued talking on the phone.

"No, I wasn't talking to you. A lady just sat down on the chair beside my desk that has no bottom. But she's all right." 
All right? How could he fail to see that I simply couldn't get up out of the chair?

My daughter tried manfully to pull me up, but she is a skinny little thing, taking more after her Irish forebears than her sturdier Dutch ones.
I contemplated resting my arms on the arm rests, but suddenly they too looked as though they too might splinter if I contracted my mighty muscles.
And I couldn't do that to the music master, because he must have had a reason for placing that chair where it was.

I could hardly believe that it stood there just as a booby trap for prospective pupils.
So I just stayed put, hopeful that he couldn't stay on the phone forever.

The door opened and a beautiful young girl appeared. 
"Could I talk to Mr So-and-so?" she asked shyly.
"By all means", I said, "But do you think you could give me a hand up first? I appear to be stuck."
She regarded me uncomprehendingly, and I subsided morosely. I have my pride.

A delighted cry came from the music master: "Danielle!" (or whatever her name was).
"Well, I never. Sorry, a friend of mine has just come in - I haven't seen her for six months. 
I'll call you back."

To heck with you and chair, I thought acidly, when he had put the phone down and he and Danielle stood smiling at one another. 
If it breaks even further, you can pay to have it fixed.
I leaned my elbows on the armrests, gave a mighty heave and presto, I was standing up, much to my daughter's relief. 
"Are you all right, Mom?" she whispered.
"I'm fine", I replied curtly, and strode out of the office, head held high - although my huffy departure was apparently not noticed either by the music teacher or by Danielle.

I did not take up the organ after all. I decided to go in for flower arranging instead.