What a way to end a hundred and eighty-six years of faithful service. In the same family all that time for all those generations. I served those generations one by one, with long interludes between of course, till finally the very last of the family, who I had served eighty years before died childless. Her fiancé long dead in Flanders she never married, and childless she outlived all the others. She never consigned me to a store room but visited me regularly to give me a woe filled smile of regret and a lingering, caressing dusting, as unknown by all other than I her tears dried on her cheeks. I would have cried with her had I been able.

Now, other than by me, unmourned she’s gone and finally free from her lifetime of pain. Almost I envy her. The house clearance people, careless unfeeling brutes without any appreciation for such as I, bespoke and of the finest workmanship, with no concept of my financial value and probably in this day and age not even realising what I am have thrown me on a skip as common rubbish. I wonder, will it be landfill or the bonfire?

But wait all is not lost, I am picked up by a young man with a young woman at his side, and wonder of wonders she’s pregnant. I can tell from his stroking, loving finger tips running over my fine surfaces with their polished patina worn from the touches of dozens of pairs of tiny hands whose owners have long gone to meet their maker that he knows not only what I am but appreciates my quality too.

“It’s a toddler’s high-chair, Darling,” he explained as he carefully placed me in the back of his vehicle. “Oak and probably two hundred years old. All it needs is a little beeswax and some tlc.”

The words are music to my ears. I’ve longed for the kiss of beeswax and a gentle cloth. Now I have a caring home and future service too. It’s all I have ever asked for.