My gran’s kitchen looks like a Sunday night BBC costume drama. And not in a good way.
For a start it isn’t fitted, and all the bits of furniture are each heading off into their own peculiar version of Dickensian hell.
The dresser is turning that orangey colour that cheap pine goes when it’s been obliterated by layers of varnish; the sink stinks because it’s clogged up with potato peelings and tea bags; the old dressing table she uses as a cupboard has lost a leg and is tilting precariously on a pile of old Watchtower magazines, and then there are the pants.
She won’t buy a washing machine or a tumble dryer, so she hand washes everything and hangs it out on the line.
If it’s raining she gets out the old clothes horse and drapes everything on that.
Except for her woolly pants.
She has a special place for them.
She hangs them over the grill pan and toasts them until they’re concrete sculptures, stiff with all the encrusted soap that she doesn’t rinse out properly.
The whole room is a mess.
And then there are the notes.
