Yard sale across the street yesterday. I got this hideous purplish-red armchair with throw cushions and a horrid machine-sewn floral pattern. It's from some bygone decade, in a style for which there will never be a retro fad, horribly misproportioned even for an example of the style it embodies, and missing one of the two slipcovers for the arms. It's also quite possibly the most astonishingly comfortable piece of furniture I've ever sat in. It's the kind of chair you sink into and don't want to move from, except that five minutes later you're so revitalized by the epxerience you don't feel tired any more and are up and bouncing and ready to go run a marathon.
The thing that gets me is, if this was the chair they sold, how much more amazingly comfortable must the chairs they're keeping be. I'm half tempted to go figure out which apartment they live in and burgle the place for the chairs.