The kitchen is the engine house, the hub, the thorax around which the other chambers flutter. I sit at the table and type. It’s a huge table and very popular with the inmates. It serves its purpose but is also very good at cards and jigsaws and homework. Opposite me is a huge chimney which once housed a range, but now hosts cupboards and a mirror. A shelf runs the full width saddled by a slab of pitch pine, on which sits my accumo-collection.
Repaired honey jar, in brown glazed pot. Bees stuck randomly, little wings in relief.
Gruesome green monkey jug.
Huge oil painting of my great grandmother looking pensive holding a posy. Every single person who comes here exclaims their displeasure at this picture. It is a little like a Scooby Doo prop, where unblinking eyes follow Shaggy and Velma around the room, but I like its mystery, the tale it tells. And of course, it’s not my great grandmother, I bought it at a car boot sale in Trafford Park.
Tin Tin print.
Mickey Mouse c 1952, bendy, cracked skin, outstretched arms.
Two satusuma vases maybe from a shipwrecked cargo schooner, more likely a factory in Taiwan.
Minimalist it is not.
And now, I am off to clean the rubble and shipwreck that was once my home. I haven’t written about it, far too depressing. My faith in the trades now the size of a speck of sawdust. Colin continues tomorrow with Brady. Plumbing and joinery, we are months away from the beginning of the end. Colin amuses me, he has taken a verbosity tablet and doesn’t draw breath.
He was quizzing me about mature studentdom. Last year, this great burly man with hands like bananas registered at his local college.
Oh right, that’s good, to do what?
Dentistry. He said.
* * * * * * *
That was akin to hard labour in outer Serbia. At least 3cwt of filthy detritus flung into a skip which I know they won’t be able to take away. Crampons needed to reach the top of the pile. Tidying up after so called artisans with absolutely no respect for my humble abode. Cigarettes stubbed out and ground into the Victorian parquet. Lucozade bottles and crisp packets dropped wherever. But not in the bin. I could go on, but won’t.
The big question is, will this make any difference to the way Colin and Brady approach their task?
Nope, not a hope in hell.
Back now in panic mode. A film treatment to write for a film not yet imagined. Tricky one that. Will re-read Tsarkovsky and Margaret Tait for inspiration – -see Luxonline – and Mamet to cheer me up. And then I shall delve into scopophilia, maybe this could be a voyeuristic film, it may well be, as scopophilia is pertinent to the psychology of objects, I may kill two secretly observed birds with one stone.