Last week I had a new kitchen fitted. Actually it's still being fitted and may still be being fitted next week. It has become the norm. It's worked in quite well as I finished the rewrite of my second novel for Quercus books on the Monday when the kitchen fitter arrived to be followed the next day by the plasterer and then after that by the plumber, the electrician and the guy with the big van who brings the appliances and the cupboards.
I deliberately planned it this way. I did not plan to have a nasty bug which is now in its fourth week. Nor did I plan to have the weather so bloody cold that I have all the stuff which should be at the caravan downstairs in my house, getting in the way of all the stuff which I emptied out of the kitchen into the dining room and sitting room.
Howard came to sort out the garden and today we finally got a guy from British Gas to mend the boiler. The kitchen fitter discovered what was wrong with it. What talents people have.
Now I'm fussing. I didn't realize that this was what I did. My daughter says it's because I have nothing to do. That isn't true, I am hard at work on my third novel but she's right in a sense. I spent two days going back and forth to Homebase trying to decide which colour between cream and grey ( the cupboards are cream, the floor is grey and the stove, microwave and enormous American fridge are black ) would go on the walls. She did point out to me that since most of the walls are covered it isn't terribly important but since ( it was her idea) the little garden room beside the kitchen where I spent my evenings, writing, drinking wine and attempting to dash back into the kitchen before my culinary offering turns into a cremation, is now going to have the same flooring and wall colour I have turned into Kirsty Allsop and that Sarah woman who goes around sorting other people's houses out. I do appreciate that it is their job and they get paid for it. I don't appreciate that I am being ridiculous.
'You usually say that people who fuss on about their kitchens have nothing worth thinking about,' my daughter told me.
This is true. So what I need to do is get back to doing more writing and forget all about the kitchen. As my daughter said also, 'You'll never use it anyway, so why worry.'
She's right. Never more so than now since I have spent ten days eating M&S food three times a day, the kind that has to be microwaved and am beginning to wonder why people ever bother cooking at all.
So here I am with a beautiful kitchen which I have spent thousands of pounds on whereas I would probably have been just as well off like those new flats in New York which apparently don't have a kitchen at all.