Today

On my kitchen table is a biography of Stalin, a medical form for university, a mismatched pair of socks, one red, one orange, an unopened Brora catalogue, a congratulatory letter from a retired Oxford don, three broken pens, a stray noodle from last night’s supper, some dead batteries, a torn up envelope with a face drawn on it, an empty cheque book, four apples, yesterday’s Guardian, two torches, a hanger, five pounds in loose change, an iphone and a cat. All around, pushed in neatly, are the chairs I’ve collected over the years, old wooden ones – they have a name but I forget what it is - each painted a different bright colour – red, blue, yellow – you used to be able to pick them up all over the place for practically nothing.

It was such a big deal to me– more than any other thing I had to choose for this house. I wanted it to be a place for homework, and ironing, and reading, and chatting and eating. Something solid to bring us together – when I took a huge gamble and got married again. I remember thinking about that, flicking through endless catalogues, wondering whether I’d done the right thing.

It didn’t take all that much time before it became pretty clear that I hadn’t at all, - in fact the table took so long to be delivered, that I remember sitting on the floor, trying to fix the legs on, with that horrible sinking feeling you get when you know you’ve really fucked up. I did keep on trying – I didn’t give up straightaway, but it didn’t get any better, and in the end he left. The table’s still here though, and it lived up to all my expectations and became pretty much as I’d imagined it would be, except it was just for the three of us instead.

It’s grubby. Someone needs to get a bowl of hot water and some soap and give it a good scrub to take the ink stains and paint flecks off. It’s been well loved and very well used. When it’s dry again, it needs another coat of linseed oil, and then the lovely pale gold of the beech will come back, getting slightly darker with each year. It’s designed to last a long time, a good sturdy solid thing that’ll get better and better as it ages.

I won’t be around to appreciate it though, because very soon there won’t be three of us anymore, or even two like it’s been during term times for the past four years. In a month it’ll just be me, and as soon as they’ve all gone I’ll be moving on. I want to find a good home for the table so I think I’ll make a point of giving it away, not selling it. Hopefully I’ll find someone else who could really do with a place to put all their dead batteries and broken pens. I hope they’ll love it as much as we’ve done.

So anyway, I’m not sure what comes next; it’s been half a lifetime since I didn’t have to be responsible, and I’m very lucky, I know I am; I can do just about anything and go just about anywhere, but it all feels a bit flat since this morning because that’s when I found out that I don’t think I’ll be able to do the thing I wanted most. And that’s why I’m leaving the mess right now. Perhaps I’ll feel like doing it in the morning.