Of collapses and corners.
We’ve been in a floundering pool here, plunging up and down between hope and despair – Mr Pimp’s salt mine having gone suddenly, shockingly and spectacularly belly up last week. No warning, no forecast, no prognostications of doom. One minute the company was fine, the next it was gone. One minute we were trotting along, the next we were two cartoon people, the ground gone beneath our feet, frantically pedaling thin air. A thing of perception and rumour, the corporate world. No more, really, than a house of cards.
The phones between here and there have been ringing red hot. First there was no hope, then there was some, then none again, then a tad, a sliver, a wraith. Then none whatsoever, for ever, without hindrance or let up. In the end the receivers were called in and that seemed so final we expected him back any minute, home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Now he’s staying there a month. Then, who knows – there are rumours this morning (more rumours!) that someone might buy this dead company, wind it up and set it skittering across the table top again.
So where does (what’s left of) my mind go for solace in the middle of all this lunacy? Why, to sculleries of course! Not sculleries as they have become in modern parlance – pantries, or laundries, or even just kitchens by another name – but those shadowed shivery hidey holes where you stuff your scullery maid or channel your own, buried under mountains of greasy pans and potato peelings and plucked feathers. Me, I am an inconvenient mix of the house-proud and the slattern, and love the idea of a sequestered ante-chamber where grungy goings-on can poked away.
In my trawlings I found these, and felt that funny house-love/longing/lust/acquisitiveness. It’s those half-glassed walls that do it for me. Secret and not secret at the same time. Revealed and enclosed…this begins to sound a bit kinkay.
This is Plain English’s Osea Kitchen (though theirs looks to be more of a laundry. Socks – stylists own):
And this is a house on the market in London: I am trying to decide how it would actually, practically work, to have to go into another room to wash pots etc. Whether it would be practical, really, when it came down to it. And whether I could do it without losing my beloved stone arch as entrance into the kitchen, complete with steel and glass pivoting door. Picture of which I would post but for the fact that my new Mac had a fit of conniptions last night and is now withholding pictures. It never raineth but it poureth. Time for a stiff gin and a lie down.