It was a simple Wednesday afternoon at university. I had finished my Public Affairs class after an interesting, if relatively dull, trip to Surrey County Council.
I had just found out that there was a branch of Subway on campus, and in an attempt to cure my hunger, I headed over to the fast-food outlet.
After walking back to the postgraduate cafe to devour my Italian BMT, I waited for some people to leave their seats so I could sit near my friends.
I confidently strode over to the now vacant chair with a sense of urgency and a wanting to eat this warm and juicy 6 inch sub.
I sat down and subsequently tumbled onto the floor. The floor gave way like a flimsy piece of paper.
Embarrassed and humiliated, I looked at the broken chair on the floor with a look of puzzlement to give off an air of control over the situation. I hoped my face looked like one of passing the blame onto the chair.
My friends were laughing like hyenas and I stood in a passive-aggressive manner. The chair had let me down like a disappointed father.
The manager of the cafe gave me the e-mail address of the university cafe manager to complain, yet I have still to do this and tell of my anger.
Whenever I go to sit on a chair, I now have to check time and time again to ensure my safe sitting can ensue.