Tales From the Box

So I read stories all the time, in magazines and on blogs, about people finding these absolutely beautiful pieces of furniture “on the side of the road”. They’re usually an actual, genuine designer piece from the 1950′s or something, although occasionally the finder is unlucky enough to have only found a replica. I always read these stories with a grain of salt (sidebar: are you picturing me sitting on the couch with my laptop, holding my hand out with a grain of salt in it? No? Just me then). I mean, the stories are so common. Where is this mythical neighbourhood where all the trendy people live that no longer want their designer furniture and just put it out on the side of the road?

And then it happened. To me. Yep, truly. I had driven my car down to the mechanic for a service and was walking home with the Widg in his pram (it’s only a 20 minute walk). It was council pick-up week, so there was lots of rubbish and unwanted junk out the front of everyone’s houses, the occasional piece of tattered or broken furniture. So when I saw this sideboard, I assumed there was something wrong with it.

I bravely walked up the driveway to see if the residents were home, and there was an electrician out the front doing some repair work. We got chatting, and the homeowner came out to join in the frivolity. To cut a long story short, the sideboard was in perfect condition, I was welcome to take it, but how would I get it home? It was too big to fit in my station wagon (which was at the mechanic’s anyway) and was way too heavy for me to lift it into the car (and the Widg wouldn’t be much help). So I offered the electrician $20 to drive it home for me in his ute. By the time the Widg and I had walked home, the sideboard was sitting under our front verandah.

It’s certainly not a “genuine designer” piece or anything. But I really like it. I decided to put it upstairs in the hallway (remember this space?). It fits the space perfectly, and it currently holds all of our bed linens and towels.

I guess one man’s trash is this gal’s treasure (the husband’s opinion certainly leans towards “trash” on this one).