Sunday Scribblings - In The Kitchen
The broken chairs have not yet been replaced, so the table is surrounded by a sorry collection, none of them reliable, and all destined for a visit to the recycling centre very, very soon. Two that were Nana’s, two that came with that ill-fated kitchen set eight years ago. I may tell that story another time, but not now.
The table likes its new position, the angled place we found for it after the new flooring was put in a few months ago. There’s a lovely clear triangle to walk about from sink to cooker to fridge, and there is a flow of air about the table. Here is a place to breathe, even if all is not ordered and clear right now. It’s become a manageable kitchen, a place I like, a room I enjoy working in. It’s mine. It no longer serves as office (despite the letters on the table). The rocking-chair is a spot for the dog to snooze on, rather than one for me to sit in while I read. Now that the house is mine to use as I wish, I read with no intrusion from TV or radio in the living-room whenever it suits me, or on the old couch in my study. The kitchen that once was my retreat, my domain, my sanctuary, is no longer a place in which I spend most of my day, but it is still the place I come home to. When I come home, that’s where I go first. It’s when I take my coat off, and switch shoes for slippers; plug in the kettle, there in my kitchen, that I feel myself to be really, completely, at home.