chifforobe

The new scheme would have to incorporate our 1940s elm-wood chifforobe, a 1960s Edward Wormley walnut highboy and a blond Terence Conran bookcase.

It’s the fast, physical, seven-on-seven court sport in which players try to hurl a ball the size of a honeydew into a net the size of a chifforobe.

I head for the wine bottle on the gozillion-dollar chifforobe but Miss Celia gets to it before me, dumps the rest into her glass.

“I got to get them sheets washed and ironed and then I got to get to this old chifforobe you done let go dry as Texas. And then we cooking—” “No learning lesson today, Minny.”

I mean, she’s got stockings dangling from chairs, pocketbooks on the floor, enough costume jewelry for a whole family of hookers, forty-five pairs of high-heel shoes, underthings, overcoats, panties, brassieres, and a half-empty bottle of white wine on the chifforobe with no coaster under it.