Apart from the serious lack of wisdom of choosing a wooden worktop over granite (I hate granite, but I may hate my severely scratched wood more eventually) I am pretty pleased by how nice the kitchen is to work in. I obeyed the basic ergonomic triangle rule but every day I am secretly happy at the perfect placing of the bin for catching the teabag after I've added milk. In our old house I used to feel like Gretel dropping breadcrumbs as I dripped teabags over from counter to bin, leaving a tawny trail over the hated white tiles.

Many decisions about this kitchen were made less with regard to practicality than with regard to emotion. I hate porcelain floors, and don't like wearing slippers, so we chose the most kitchen-unfriendly flooring, oak parquet. Ditto wooden counters (mitigated by a bit of stainless steel, to be fair). The String System was chosen in order to make the kitchen look less like a kitchen. I don't know if these decisions are part of the reason it's such a lovely room or if it's just the sun slanting through the windows when we have our breakfast.




We haven't even sat down in the living room yet. We're hunkering down in bed or sitting in the kitchen or the garden at the moment. I suppose each room will have its moment. The living room, with an open fire, will be the winter room.



For the moment every ray of sunshine (and there aren't actually very many at the moment) summons us outside. We originally had the table out by the side of the house, but in fact the gardeners (who were having a bit of a Ground Force moment) moved it round to the back and it's much nicer there, really private. Cyril and I have drunk many glasses of whisky there since we got back. Especially last night, as I explained the source and consequences of the leak.



The real silver lining to yesterday's leak only revealed itself later on in the evening. The boiler now appears to work. This is either a) a mystery of mystical proportions or b) (bad thought) something to do with the leak. We're waiting for the plumber to get back to decide which. We have been having innumerable hot baths and showers ever since. For some of us (no names, but they are all under 5 feet tall) these were the first real ablutions for almost two weeks. Thank god for ripe camembert, that great masker of stinky boy smell.