Before I had a dining room table, I was obsessed about getting one. I measured the neighbours’ tables and compared prices and moved my lounge furniture around. I was going to invite round all the friends who had fed me at their homes over the years without hope of reciprocation. I was going to cook up wonderful multi-course meals with trendy ingredients like ostrich, flat-leaf Italian parsley and miniature tomatoes. There would be a lot of wine. My solar fairy lights would twinkle in the background of the garden, like synchronised glow worms.
When Saturday morning arrived and it was time to start hunting, the roads were quiet and the sun shone. There was a parking right outside the first shop we went into and my ideal table was waiting inside – the price was right, and for only R100 the man said he would deliver.
A tally since I have had it: number of friends invited over = 0, wine flowing = not, multi-course meals constructed = only on the food channel. Big fat mess of mosaics and frames and ceramics and sunscreen and nail polish and broken jugs and Mighty Boosh dvds and general dumping ground for stuff = <sigh>. If it was Alex’s mess, I could shout at her to tidy up. Since it’s mine, I seem to be able to live with it.
To be continued…