Monday, May 11 ‘09
“Urghhhhhh,” cried Mrs Bennet, biting into her cheese and chutney sandwich. It was not chutney. It was marmalade, which she didn’t like at the best of times, let alone mixed with cheese. It was like drinking what she thought was coffee and discovering it was tea. At least she liked tea. The error was a consequence of not knowing where anything was in her kitchen. Or more accurately not being able to reach the top shelf in her fridge, which now stood several inches higher than it had done in the old kitchen. Over the past few days, cupboards and appliances had been ripped from one set of walls (now resembling an abstract painting mixed with ceramics), to a new set, pristine clean and canvas blank. Drills and banging had caused the little Miss Bennets to squeal in fright. While Miss Kezia climbed as high as she could up her mother’s legs, Miss Rosie threw herself to the floor as if ducking a bomb. It may be the last chapter in the bite-size Pemberley building project but it was proving the messiest and seemed to have an impact on every ounce of living space. Mrs Bennet felt the last eight months had been like a moving expedition. At least if you moved house it only took a day. This had seemed such a long exhausting process. Yet, she knew it was almost at an end. Once the Darcys in the Dirt had picked up their tools and rubble – currently in what was the garage, but soon to be the children’s playroom – then, and only then could the house start reverting back to being a home. Something it hadn’t been for three years, ever since they first went on the market and the bright coloured walls had been “magnolified,” meaning as a result family photos had been put away. Two children later, they still hadn’t returned due to major disruption, dust and general mayhem.
But time was against the builders. They had just eleven days to finish everything before the carpets were laid ready for Mr No Personality surveyor to return to check bite-size Pemberley was finished. If it wasn't, the building society would not release the money needed to pay for it. At present, alongside discarded books, dolls, plastic animals, hair bands, drawings, scribbles, topless felt tip pens and more worryingly Barbie dolls, there were chainsaws, nails, brackets, screws, hammers, and old kitchen parts in the rooms which weren’t yet finished. Outside it was Skip City. The Bennet’s skip was overflowing, as was the one sitting on next-door’s drive, currently full of rubble ready for a conservatory which had once adjoined the Bennet house. It had once acted as a creative hot house for three eager little artists and occasionally a dining room, when the table was clear enough to see what was being eaten.
Where the conservatory used to be, now stood the new dining room, an official part of the bite-size Pemberley, meaning the temperature was just right for the wife in both summer and winter. Mr Bennet was currently sitting at the table, poured over his laptop, working late yet again. Mrs Bennet wasn’t talking to him right now. He couldn’t engage in conversation anyway and had just told her he would either be flying to Dubai or Iran in the coming week. She really hoped it wouldn’t be the latter. Not only was it worryingly dangerous, but by the time he got his necessary visa, it would mean the trip would clash nicely with half-term and his wife’s mood.
She had noticed since Jannie’s good news, that she had returned to her faithful Mr Latte. She could enjoy his company again. It gave her an excuse to get away from her house, which didn't feel her own right now and as she hadn’t been able to cry in front of the Darcy’s in the Dirt throughout the Jannie worry, she knew it would come pouring out at some point. She just hoped it wouldn’t be in the dentist chair again. She was due to have a tooth out, due to an abscess on Thursday, and being a whimp in the presence of dentists, had every reason to cry. But perhaps the Tooth Fairy might leave her some money – enough to buy a stool so she could at least reach the top shelves and be able to check the jar labels. Oh, and to make sure Mr Bennet hadn’t stored any secret supply of chocolate which he knew would be out of her reach. Of course Mrs Bennet blamed him for the marmalade. He was after all the only one who liked it.
Perhaps she could make him a round of cheese and marmalade sandwiches for work tomorrow and see if he noticed!
Showing posts with label kitchen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kitchen. Show all posts
Monday, 11 May 2009
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Ghosts of kitchens past
Thursday, April 30 09
Ghosts of kitchens past echoed around the walls. It made an interesting sight and one which, in places, required a pair of shades. Whatever had possessed her to paint a kitchen sunshine yellow and sky blue? In her defence, it was a decade ago. An era of rag rolling, sponging and vivid colours which clashed, yet no one had been brave enough to admit their effects were painful to the eye. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to offend those who considered them beautiful. At the time, being a creative sort, Mrs Bennet had given her all. Every part of the house had been touched by turquoises, terracotta reds, yellow, vivid blues and sea greens. The gaudy yellow – which had been hidden these past three years by grown-up, sophisticated beige kitchen units – was now once again exposed. Mrs Bennet remembered painting it to hide the mustard offering the owners before her had left behind.
It was 10 years ago. At 29, she hadn’t known what pregnancy meant, hadn’t known her stomach would, over the coming decade, stretch like a contortionist and provide the nurturing home for five offspring. Now at 39, waiting to enter another era, she didn’t like to think what was before her. She was older, greyer, and wrinklier but she had learnt the valuable lesson of living one day at a time. Yet the last seven weeks of watching, waiting and feeling her mother’s pain, had taken its toll. If the biopsy results weren’t good, she wasn’t sure how she could face tomorrow let alone the next 10 years. The unsightly yellow was just that, unsightly, far too bright for her current situation.
The Darcys in the Dirt were dismantling units and moving them to the back of the house. Ironically that morning, the kitchen had looked immaculate and the tidiest it had been since Mr and Mrs Bennet had lived there.
Now it was battered and bruised. Drawers lay on work surfaces, no longer attached to brackets; holes and rubble appeared where they hadn’t been seen before; and unsightly yet impressively large cobwebs were now on show for all to see. A tumble dryer sat in the middle of the lounge, and boxes full of cereals, food, saucepans, oven cleaner, bleach and tea towels were scattered wherever there was an empty floor space. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an exciting place to explore for the little Miss Bennets. They had already attacked one box and enjoyed drumming a few saucepans with wooden spoons.
Mrs Bennet did enjoy having the Darcys in the Dirt around. Spag and Bol willingly accepted them as extra faces to study and grin at. But having her house pulled about whilst her emotions were also experiencing a battering was a further strain on Mrs Bennet’s nerves, if she was honest.
It was biopsy day. And her nerves were in tatters. She had sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours, but had been forced to leave her mum, dad and sister in order to pick up the little Miss Twin Bennets, who were being looked after by a friend. Walking away not knowing, had been awful. Walking into a house, which was feeling the effects of upheaval, echoed her anguish. The phone was relentlessly ringing. She knew it would be Jannie’s friends and her own wanting to know the results. She had no wish to talk to them.
On the fifth call, she felt the need to pick up the receiver.
“It’s me. I just had to ring you myself. It’s the best news I could have had today. It hasn’t spread and they're convinced they’ve caught it all,” the voice of Jannie sang in her ear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t hear anymore. She dissolved into tears. The worry, the weight of what might have been, the waiting, the hoping, erupted into an emotional torrent. Her precious mum, the grandmother of her children, was going to be alright. The bright yellow exposed in her kitchen was now bearable. Mrs Bennet could now even consider it as a sunshine yellow. Her bubble, last seen floating over Bristol had returned. Jannie’s hope was back, and so was hers.
Ghosts of kitchens past echoed around the walls. It made an interesting sight and one which, in places, required a pair of shades. Whatever had possessed her to paint a kitchen sunshine yellow and sky blue? In her defence, it was a decade ago. An era of rag rolling, sponging and vivid colours which clashed, yet no one had been brave enough to admit their effects were painful to the eye. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to offend those who considered them beautiful. At the time, being a creative sort, Mrs Bennet had given her all. Every part of the house had been touched by turquoises, terracotta reds, yellow, vivid blues and sea greens. The gaudy yellow – which had been hidden these past three years by grown-up, sophisticated beige kitchen units – was now once again exposed. Mrs Bennet remembered painting it to hide the mustard offering the owners before her had left behind.
It was 10 years ago. At 29, she hadn’t known what pregnancy meant, hadn’t known her stomach would, over the coming decade, stretch like a contortionist and provide the nurturing home for five offspring. Now at 39, waiting to enter another era, she didn’t like to think what was before her. She was older, greyer, and wrinklier but she had learnt the valuable lesson of living one day at a time. Yet the last seven weeks of watching, waiting and feeling her mother’s pain, had taken its toll. If the biopsy results weren’t good, she wasn’t sure how she could face tomorrow let alone the next 10 years. The unsightly yellow was just that, unsightly, far too bright for her current situation.
The Darcys in the Dirt were dismantling units and moving them to the back of the house. Ironically that morning, the kitchen had looked immaculate and the tidiest it had been since Mr and Mrs Bennet had lived there.
Now it was battered and bruised. Drawers lay on work surfaces, no longer attached to brackets; holes and rubble appeared where they hadn’t been seen before; and unsightly yet impressively large cobwebs were now on show for all to see. A tumble dryer sat in the middle of the lounge, and boxes full of cereals, food, saucepans, oven cleaner, bleach and tea towels were scattered wherever there was an empty floor space. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an exciting place to explore for the little Miss Bennets. They had already attacked one box and enjoyed drumming a few saucepans with wooden spoons.
Mrs Bennet did enjoy having the Darcys in the Dirt around. Spag and Bol willingly accepted them as extra faces to study and grin at. But having her house pulled about whilst her emotions were also experiencing a battering was a further strain on Mrs Bennet’s nerves, if she was honest.
It was biopsy day. And her nerves were in tatters. She had sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours, but had been forced to leave her mum, dad and sister in order to pick up the little Miss Twin Bennets, who were being looked after by a friend. Walking away not knowing, had been awful. Walking into a house, which was feeling the effects of upheaval, echoed her anguish. The phone was relentlessly ringing. She knew it would be Jannie’s friends and her own wanting to know the results. She had no wish to talk to them.
On the fifth call, she felt the need to pick up the receiver.
“It’s me. I just had to ring you myself. It’s the best news I could have had today. It hasn’t spread and they're convinced they’ve caught it all,” the voice of Jannie sang in her ear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t hear anymore. She dissolved into tears. The worry, the weight of what might have been, the waiting, the hoping, erupted into an emotional torrent. Her precious mum, the grandmother of her children, was going to be alright. The bright yellow exposed in her kitchen was now bearable. Mrs Bennet could now even consider it as a sunshine yellow. Her bubble, last seen floating over Bristol had returned. Jannie’s hope was back, and so was hers.
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