I’ve decided what I want in life: I want to want a 12-place dining table.
Note the above. I don’t want a 12-place dining table; I want to want a 12-place dining table. Because wanting to want a 12-place dining table brings so many things to the, er y’know, that it’s worth wanting.
Wanting a table capable of seating 12 for dinner means you’ve achieved quite a few other things in life. It means you’ve got a house with space for a huge dining table, for one thing. It means you’ve got a minimum of 6 friends (5 of whom have partners) you’d want to invite over for dinner. It of course means you feel yourself to be a capable enough cook to process 12 human beings through starter, mains and dessert, with enough cutlery in the drawer to not have to stagger the courses while you frantically grapple with Fairy Liquid in the background. Damn, I know some restaurants that can’t handle that.
What riles me now is that I’ve got a kitchen capable of it, but not a table. (There aren’t many 60sq m Zone 2 townhouses whose kitchen has four glorious metres of worktop and a six-ring range cooker, but I put them in mine.) Damn. I’ve been so happy in this house. It takes just an hour a week to keep spotless; this private mews is so secure I can practically leave the door flapping open; the wooden floors and freestanding furniture (what little furniture I have, anyway) mean it laughs in the face of dust. I remodelled this place to be my private capsule, the place where I recharge after night’s sport, a crypt for a 21st century vampire. And now, it has to go – or at least be added to, part of a portfolio instead of the main show. Damn.