I never thought I would have lived to see the day when pushing a trolley around a very quiet branch of B&Q would make me feel productive and serene at the same time. Especially serene. I wrote about it not long ago with a dribble of bile at the corner of my mouth. Yet, today I went with a carefully prepared shopping list and left walking on air, perhaps so by the flapping of £ 63 straight out of my purse. It’s great how it always makes me feel better, regardless of whether things are good or bad.
The bathroom is progressing nicely and should be done before the weekend is out (correction: it will be done before the weekend is out because my birthday is on Monday and I am determined to take a shower in a freshly decorated bathroom). I also picked up a few more pieces in order to make a start on the kitchen. My kitchen is even more of a hole than my bathroom. I know this seems impossible but, trust me, it’s true. This is true also in relative terms; after all, how big do you need a bathroom to be? The kitchen however is another thing entirely; you need space in it, if only in order to be able to chop a leek without the rounds scattering themselves from the non-existent worktop. Well my kitchen is that sort of kitchen. It’s either the toaster or the microwave (it’s the toaster). It’s either the kettle or the KitchenAid (sadly, it’s the kettle). It’s either a sink or a dishwasher (even more sadly, it is the sink).
I cannot knock walls down on a whim and when I thought I wouldn’t do it on a whim but with a pro kitchen fitter, his quote of £ 12,000 provided me with enough cold feet to last me a lifetime at the Equator. Bloody hell, I could have a Hermès alligator Kelly bag with gold hardware for that amount of money, fuck the kitchen! And so I have decided to do the very best I can with what I have which, ok, isn’t very much considering I cannot extend my worktops like they are elastic bands. But I can create an impression of space by painting the walls lemon and by sprucing up the cupboards with an equally happy shade of paint. I will have to carefully peel Jovi’s pictures off, which I hate doing mainly because I hate moving thing I love just the way they are, and get cleaning, scrubbing, sanding and painting. Hey, if it works for the people who inhabit quaint tiny cottages in the pages of Period Living, surely it can work for me too.
