When I visited my dad's house today, I made the executive decision not to sit on the noisiest chair.
Most people don't own a seat that's noticeably more audible than the rest, with the exception of CJ in the Seventies sitcom 'The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin', but he's less relevant on account of being a fictional character who was played by an actor who's long dead; he didn't get where he is today without shuffling off of this mortal coil.
My Dad, however, does. It lulls you into a false sense of security by 'sitting' next to another one that's identical in every way, save the silence. It's leathery, Mastermind-style opulence has no aural accompaniment. Meanwhile, the noisy chair does everything it can to lower your status; creaking and farting practically every moment you're on it, irrespective of how little or often you move. It's the most sensitive and volatile surface on the planet: capable of picking up the subtlest buttock shift (I was very careful with how I spelt that.)
I nearly succumbed to its trap, when my mum (who was there too) put her handbag next to the safe chair, thus cunningly forcing my hand. I parked my bum on the Evil One for a split second, but resulting cacophony made me instantly bail out. I made a beeline for a nearby dining chair, consequently saving face. I long for the day when my dad opts for non-slapstick furniture; I prefer to sit without a soundtrack.