I'm still alive...

Hello there. I have emerged. Like a butterfly (well probably a moth actually) from a chrysalis into a lovely new world. There are shiny things here, twinkly things and absolutely no plaster dust.
I am of course, talking about my new kitchen.

After almost 2 weeks of dealing with 6 foot hairy builders skulking in my pantry, I am finally back in my house and can ditch the pre packed salads in favour of food which actually requires more cutlery than a folding plastic fork and a napkin.

I've spent the last two weeks up to my neck in dust, tiles, lumps of brick and plaster whilst my team of crack builders and their builders' cracks singlehandedly turned my 1980s swedish sauna style hell hole into a shiny, glittery manifestation of loveliness.

The official opening was last night. I thought about inviting the local mayor and the national press to attend an olympics style opening ceremony with sculptures, ceremonial firings of flaming tea towels into golden cutlery trays but instead I settled for a soiree with my family and friends. I also coined a new phrase which sent me into a tailspin of appropriate cutlery etiquette confusion. I invited everyone round for drinks and "substantial nibbles" - you know, more than a peanut, less than a banquet. Just how do you "cutlery" substantial nibbles? Is it just a fork? knife and fork? A spoon? A lemon zester? (Just to put your minds at rest, I settled for knives and forks in a jug for those feeling my cutlery anxiety). Anyway, the catering for my event was not the problem but as I had dropped the box containing my plates during the building works, I had my guests eating off a mixture of soup bowls, ramekin dishes and a roast meats platter. Nigella would depair of me.

However, being back in my own house and not living out of the boot of my car was an absolute delight. I have spent the last few weeks like a cross between Paul Young (wherever i lay my hat, that's my home) and a gypsy. I have not dealt with it well at all. I've felt decidedly uprooted and spent one evening roaming alone in the park near Tom's in floods of tears in a combination of raging PMT and total envy of anyone who had an functioning oven. What is it about PMT that takes a totally normal situation and turns it into a disaster of biblical proportions that makes even war, famine and global annihalation pale into insignificance? There I was, at the beginning of my kitchen fitting, laughing along with the builders and cheerily chucking my overnight bag into my boot every day for a little adventure but after a few days of the hormones sneaking their bonkers little way into my psyche I had turned into a wailing, sobbing hormonal nutjob, tramping around like a displaced person and believing that I'd never ever be able to return to my house again and be forced to live on the streets eating pre packed salads for all eternity.

Luckily, the PMT finally abated, the hormonal fog lifted and i realised that roaming a kids' park crying in the evening was not like a Bronte novel as in those the heroine was crying about lost loves on windswept moors and not snivelling about a lack of soft close drawers in a children's play area covered in dog shit.

I am now back in the safety and comfort of my own home and have spent far too long gazing in awe and wonder at the modern miracle that is "the dishwasher". God how have I lived without one in my life? It is beautiful. It hums and clonks gently whilst inside, the magic dishwashing fairies save my nails and make everything all sparkly and and glistening. I very quickly am becoming a gadget convert although Tom and I almost came to blows in Tesco about a griddle. As he is allergic to milk, he's quite tricky to feed (did you know that even frankfurters contain milk??) and he had decided that all he wanted was a fried egg made on my new griddle fixture on my new oven. MY NEW OVEN!!! Now, I know this is a little bit mental, but my beautiful new shiny oven is almost too nice to cook on. It's a rangemaster"Toledo" with stainless steel splashback and matching extractor. It's all silver and lovely and far far far too nice to have egg fat splattered all over it. Not only this, but my house was still knee deep in plaster and brick dust and I didn't want yet another thing to have to clean. Poor Tom therefore had a ham sandwich instead. I now feel terrible about it. I have been possessed by totally irrational behaviour induced by lovely ovens and dishwashers. The world has gone mad.

Tom's been lovely in all of this. He's been putting me up in "Hotel Tom" and has catered for my every whim, listened to my incessant moaning about my house being wrecked and generally been fabulous. He's even bought me a new kettle and toaster as a "kitchen warming" present. I have repaid him by being mean about an egg. I will go to hell.

We've got a really big week this week. It's my brother's wedding on the 27th (only one week to go!) so this time next week, Tom's chief usher and I'm a bridesmaid. I've also somehow got roped into making the salads for the evening buffet so I'll be a 34 year old twice divorced bridesmaid reeking of spring onion. Nice.

Mum and I went on the hen weekend the other week. Seeing your mother trashed on cocktails, wearing deelyboppers and a novelty t-shirt whilst shouting down a mobile in Covent Garden to your dad about roast lamb is unlikely to be something many people ever experience. We went to see dirty dancing and it was fab. However, mum was a bit confused as, towards the end she leant over and whispered to me, "When's that bit with the potter's wheel?" I had to whisper back that that was in "Ghost". We stayed in the same hotel again and had a lovely day on the Sunday traipsing round the shops, just the two of us and pretending we didn't have a hangover. I also found out that my talent for downing cocktails is obviously inherited and that my mum has hollow legs. Jo had a fab time too although was disappointed that she had to check in her watermelon into the cloakroom as it was classed as a weapon!

Tom and I were in London again last Friday to see Oliver. It was bloomin brillant! I sat on a child's booster seat during the whole performance as I'm such a shortarse and we had a fab time except for my shoes. They were the most uncomfortable bloomin things I've ever had on my feet. I think they were fashioned from barbed wire, razor blades, red hot gravel and a vice. I have never known pain like it and running for the train was not unlike having my poor tootsies set about with a claw hammer. I spent most of the journey barefoot which is never nice on public transport.

So, we've been pretty busy and things are fairly hectic for the next few weeks too. We've got our first IVF appointment on the 9th July and we're off to Yorkshire for a long weekend and an outdoor shakespeare performance on 3rd July and portgual on 11th July. Busy busu busy!

Anyway, am off now to go and stroke my dishwasher and admire my oven again whilst telling Tom he is the best boy in all the world.

Love to you all


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