So, my first entry on Open Salon; I should tell you a bit about myself shouldn’t I? Well, my name is Kirsty, I grew up in a small town the Midlands UK, I currently reside in Saudi Arabia, I like chocolate …  

Blah, blah, blah. 

Who hasn’t heard that before right? 

These facts are just things that contribute to me, they’re not actually me. I’ve thought long and hard about how to introduce myself to you properly and show you the “real me”, to coin a phrase. To regale you with my life story so far would make your eyebrows walk off your forehead in protest of the boredom. My life hasn’t exactly been interesting in the classical sense; the most interesting things about me and my biography thus far (can you have a biography at 22?) are the things that have gone wrong.  

I have a plethora of cock up chapters that I think you might find interesting. Should I start with the time I capsized the boat? Or the time I ended up, unintentionally, impersonating John Belushi in my wellies and my PJ’s? No, I think you need to warm up to me before I unleash the true extent of my clumsy, bizarre nature.  

I think I’ll ease you in with the tale of the origin of a phobia I have. I don’t have many; in actual fact I only have two. The first is as generic as your average introduction – bugs. Anything with more than six legs makes my skin turn inside out, sweat to run in waterfalls and collect in my inside out feet, and my heart to beat faster than Lance Armstrong on a bike after accidently crashing through a cocaine factory.  

It’s the second phobia you should be interested in though. The one that’s almost as weird as those people who are afraid of baked beans and cotton wool.  

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. 

I was roughly seven-years-old when my mother, my grandmother and I made a trip to our local branch of a well known furniture store. My grandma was redecorating again and wanted a new sofa to match the wallpaper. I loved these kinds of stores; still do actually. You can’t beat the smell of the leather intermingled with the calming drugs they pipe out of the vents with the wobbling notes of some scratched CD. 

As I sauntered behind the two arguing matriarchs of my small family, in a drug/leather/shopping induced stupor, I happened across the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A green leather and deep red wood rocking chair bedecked in shining brass studs. I stopped to stare at it in awe struck wonder. You wouldn’t believe how wonderfully comfortable and appealing it looked as it sat there, beckoning me with its carved, rolled arms. 

“The rocking chair’s for display, not for playing with so you just stay where you are whilst me and your mom go and talk to the man about a sofa.” 

My grandma’s cigarette voice rasping close to my ear startled me a little. Sit on it? I hadn’t even thought of plonking my pathetic, unworthy bum on such a perfect specimen of craftsmanship. I was now though. My patent Clarks shoes moved of their own accord, the words ‘do not sit on it’, fresh in my ears, mocked by the forward motion of my scabbed legs.  

Looking left, then right to check for store assistants, vigilant mothers and vigilante grandmothers I made a final dash for the cold leather that squeaked a welcome as I clambered into the chair’s embrace. A spectrum of delight exploded within my skinny frame when I realized this was no ordinary rocking chair. My ungraceful victory climb had begun the motion – not just backwards and forwards, oh no. This chair swiveled on a beautiful pivot too!  

I was having a ball on this new generation rocker. Forwards, back, side to side - the store a whirl of color, leather, foam ceiling and nylon carpet. Brilliant! Every twist and turn flung me more than I had bargained for and the momentum showed no sign of slowing. Faster and faster, more and more violent the chair grew. It was awesome.  

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the cracked, smoke damaged cry of my grandmother tore my perfect moment apart rather viciously. I jumped back in the chair, a final thrust of force to the crazy motion. An extra push that the chair was not prepared for. Backwards it went; arse over tit with a silly girl tangled in its clutches.  

Wallop. Crash. Bang.

Bruises.

Shouting.

Humiliation.  

Worse…No ice cream.  

I’ve had a genuine fear of rocking chairs ever since.

Not as innocent as it looks you know!