A while ago, when days were much darker, I wrote this as the beginning of something. The middle is still in progress and the end is definitely a mystery. But for the sake of living more honestly and not squirreling ideas away anymore I’m hitting copy and paste. Page one, paragraph one:
As I watch the boiling water spurt into the mug and bloat the tea bag, it occurs to me that I don’t own any spoons. Or knives or forks. Or dinner plates or pots or glasses or sponges. Chopping knives, frying pans, a bread board and that little thing you keep the plug in are all missing too.
When you find yourself, in the middle of the night, standing in a kitchen so empty that it feels like a Christmas tree without decorations, you begin to wonder. I look at my six champagne glasses, one olive pitter and empty utensil holder (never a more useless trio, even Macgyver himself would blush and shrug) and feel my heart pouring out of my eyes.
My Granny always used to say two things: “Too late, too late she cried, as she waved her wooden leg” and “Well, that’s a Bloody Cheek”. Neither of those expressions were ever very useful in passing wisdom down through the family tree but they are what I think about as I stand in my unintentionally minimalist kitchen at midnight, eating pot noodles with pencil crayons and straining that tea bag with my car key.