If I win the lottery, I will call a few major symphonies and buy the oboe chair. There’s no reason for it. It’s just so strange, nobody would understand it. And that’s the point. We only write our names in sand. Unless it’s with an oboe, I suppose. And every oboist in that city will strive to sit in the chair I bought for them. Or they could remain standing or sit on the floor, I suppose. How silly that would be, dressing up, bringing out your finest oboe, and sitting on the dirty floor. Go get a chair, dummy!