Eva Bradley: Ode to a singular chair

Eva Bradley.

I've always been a fidgety worker. Although I love nothing better than sitting down at the start of a new working day and cracking into the to-do list, staying put is another matter entirely.

It's not that I don't do long days; it's more that I do them with ants in my pants.

There's always a stapler to grab, a printout to file, a coffee to be purchased. And of course my colleague's chair to be bumped every time I do these things.

Lately, though, I've found a way to sit down and stay down. In fact it's proven so effective that even after I shut down my computer yesterday evening and prepared to go home, I simply couldn't rise from my chair for at least 15 minutes.

That's how long it takes for my new massage chair to complete its cycle.

Where to begin talking about my massage chair? Shall I compare it to a summer's day? It is definitely more lovely and more temperate. In fact, it's just about better than the object of any love poem or devoted utterance ever made in the history of time.

Quite simply (and literally), I cannot be parted from it.

As one of life's indulgences, and as a remedy for long hours spent lugging heavy camera bags about then hunching in front of Photoshop, I used to get an hour-long massage every week.

But as any working parent will know, finding a spare hour for self-indulgence even once a year is a push, let alone once a week.

Multi-tasking is the key to a successful life. And, just as I have learned to discuss the finer details of wedding planning with one hand holding my phone and the other reaching for a clean nappy, so too have I become adept at spoiling myself rotten while working hard at the same time.

True, my massage chair is not quite in the league of a pair of highly skilled hands, but it's a bloody good second-best, especially when you can enjoy it while still having both hands free to write an email.

But just like all multi-tasking situations, there are a few downsides to deal with. Conveniently, though, the small team that sits either side of me bears the brunt of these. To their credit they have found remarkably creative ways to zone out from the noise of a vibrating chair and its occupant, who tends to be highly vocal in a not entirely professional manner when the chair really hits the spot.

My small son is less patient, which is why the chair (more of a large chair-shaped pad) ended up at work instead of its original location, which was strapped to the chair where he is read his bedtime story.

Toddlers generally don't like their mothers doing anything at all unless it's all about them, let alone getting a massage while they're supposed to be focusing on reading The Hungry Caterpillar (for the hundredth time that week).

The unexpected upshot is that my posture while working has become faultless, due to the need to sit upright and maximise the pressure of the chair.

I've also stopped being the sort of annoying wife who nuzzles up to her husband kitten-like in the hope of scoring a quick squeeze ... of the shoulder blades.

But of course I've also had to be careful not to become the sort of wife who lets it slip that her one true love is in danger of being pushed off his perch in favour of a vibrating chair.