The house was an interesting one. It was comprised of about 5 rooms, in total of which my brother and I occupied only 2.
When we first moved in the other 3 had been enthusiastically – but briefly -investigated in a frantic race to claim shotgun over the best possible personal space. However, after being showered by giant daddy-long-legs and ensnared in their invisible wisps of web, our initial burst of enthusiam faltered and dimmed, mirrowing the dreary gloom of the dark, one-windowed spider infested rooms.
Their dark and forbodding depths taunted us on a subconscious level, and after a while it was a joint, unspoken consent between my brother and I that led to their hurried conversion to storage, improvised boarding up of the doors and tiny windows, and thereafter, the followed lack of acknowlegdement of their existence.
Which, incidently, is how we came to live in the remaining two rooms – the entrance hall and the kitchen.
The kitchen – which I initially had serious doubts about – ultimately came to be my favourite space – a true sanctuary – and an interesting, if not rather eccentric one at that.
It was painted yellow (bright yellow) and housed an old farm-style zinc sink and an even older rusted argar stove. (that sadly did not not work due to a rather essential lack of chimney)
Nonetheless, as this was my first real ‘home away from home’ – my parents housed beneath a separate section of roof entirely – and owing to the fact that we were already restricted to the only remaining 2 rooms, I tried to convert the primitive bare kitchen into a more homely one; finding old pots and pans and placing them next to the useless cooker and attempting to cleanse away the thick film of months worth of accumulated and never ending dust.
Despite my attempts at creating a more homely kitchen feel, in the end our kitchen was about as far from what normal people would consider homely. In fact, I daresay it would barely even make it into the ‘functional’ category. (Unless of course it was to be judged as a fully functional potting shed. Or nursery. In fact, the word jungle comes to mind when trying to best describe this unusaul space.)
For, this lovely, bright kitchen was never bathed in the escaping aroma of fresh veg stewing on the stove, or of fish sizzling away in a pan, or of smoke escaping the open mouth of the argar cooker – for it was never even lit.
No, alas, I don’t think this kitchen was ever host to a meal, or come to think of it, ever offered a single morsel of food to house and protect until ready for consumption.
No. In the greater scheme of things, this kitchen was destined for far greater things, and, as I have already mentioned, later became my sanctuary. A place in which my thoughts and mild eccentricities were allowed to play out their self- directed, self-starring dramas against the blank screen of this strange yet promising room.