Life seems to have hit a bit of a lull, after the heady excitement of kitchen installation. Days which were carefully planned to the nth degree have been supplanted by a vaguely directionless existence, the dully repetitive routine of dragging myself out of bed in the grey dawn only to slump all day in front of an unresponsive computer screen at work, and then, at home, to sweat over the cooker all evening. On the plus side, at least the cooker is new.
But that brings its own stress, as it is clearly impossible to cook even the simplest of dishes with getting the new cooker and the new worktop and the new floor spattered by a shower of flying specks and oily globules erupting from the frying pan. Even the humble toaster somehow manages to deposit a slurry of crumbs of at least twice the volume of the slice of bread that went in. And gone are the days when I could wash the dishes in a few seconds, leaving everything to dry on the draining board for the rest of the week: all of a sudden I am compelled by some mysterious force to dry dishes and pans and cutlery and put them back in the cupboard, and not only wipe down work surfaces but even apply polish to bring out their lustrous character. My life is no longer my own.
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