To make amends to anyone whose stomach is churning after my description of the woefully-toxic kitchen, I am going to tell you about my bookcase.
It is the ubiquitous bookcase-named-after-a-goat, purchased solely to house the embarassingly large stash of house mags I accumulate . In these magazines are pictures of other people's kitchens, houses, lives... the ones where the living is effortlessly easy, and the stylist has primped the place for hours.
Somewhere between these magazines and my kitchen-from-hell stands my work in progress. An inherited 90's throwback, some of which I freecycled in favour of freestanding sideboards, with a pretty whitewashed brick wall (it was practical thermal insulation I stripped off, I learn later). And then it sort of morphed into a repository for all my vintage bits and pieces, and remains a more-than-one's-a-crowd nightmare where you have to be a contortionist to use the oven.
In the absence of a) cash, b) willpower and c) diy competence, I have ironically hung a fantastic 50's English Electric Company advert on the wall: "Whatever the size of your home, you've room for a refrigerator". As well as a black n white photo of Keef over the oven...
Maybe somewhere there's a mathematician with the inclination to come up with a formula to calculate how much time and money I've wasted on magazines x the amount I hate my kitchen. Until then, I think I just live in the wrong house...
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