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The winter virus visits

and has reduced me to ordering food from a well-known purveyor of pizzas. To me, this is the pits, although in my twenties such supplies formed the basis of many a meal (usually a late night supper, usually after skipping dinner, usually because I was drinking in the pub).

The children think this dereliction of maternal duty in the dietary stakes is quite marvellous because the pizza came with ice-cream and a fizzy drink. I am too ill to care, other than that they are fed in some fashion. The youngest remarked that the winter virus can visit her again if this is how she will dine. I said it is not because she is ill that we are reduced to eating this rubbish, but because I am.

In other illness ramifications: the dog was disgusted with his lack of walk for the last 24 hours, until I supplied him with rather more than the remains of an accompanying pasta dish the delivery driver enclosed in the pizza box. It seems the way to everyone’s heart is to become too ill to care anymore and feed them all crap.

And now we are watching Matilda for about the zillionth time in the last decade. After the children’s own unwholesome meal they are obviously in the mood for watching Bruce Bogtrotter eat the ‘entire confection’…

Bruce Bogtrotter with a chocolate confection

Bruce Bogtrotter with a chocolate confection


That’s all the stuff in your kitchen and I don’t have a lot of it to be honest and what’s in there I can’t find anyway because, since it was mainly ripped out and plastered, there is No System. I could introduce an Interim System, but I can’t be bothered because I expect it will be rather like giving birth without the gas and air and then I will only have to do it all again when the kitchen is finished. Although I may make an exception for one of the things you hang your pans off in the ceiling because I left my last one in the flat in Hackney and life’s not been the same since.

It’s an interesting question though: when will the kitchen be finished? How long is a piece of string? And is the string super? Because if so I could dawdle into the realms of quantum physics again and tell you that I am actually living with an ineffable quantity of possible kitchen designs and kitchenalia and the reality could never match that, so maybe it’s going to be better to live with bare walls, a terrible floor, and mashed up sink and draining board than actually commit myself to one final solution.

But then there is Himself who has no truck with such notions and has Measured the Floor. He has not actually measured all of the floor because it runs out into the Edwardian Extrusion which houses two more regular shapes that need measuring and factoring in. I am a numeracy tutor on Monday mornings so all this is within my gift, but I find I like to be in the mood for making measurements at home and as yet the muse has not struck. So, so far, we know the actual kitchen is about 9 foot by 11 foot.

It’s a start.

I think I may be standing in the eye of an irresistible force though because today he has mentioned Taking Time Off. Time is never Taken Off work unless there is DIY to do. To paraphrase the Bard (Twelfth Night) and Roald Dahl (Matilda) I think I am going to have a kitchen floor thrust upon me later this week and there’s nothing I can do about it.

If you know my neighbours, don’t mention any of this though because they are all very sympathetic to my lack of kitchen. I say I am not too preoccupied by it, but they just don’t seem to believe me.