Someone else's kitchen and first world problems
This is Anna's and Ben's kitchen. They live here with their 12 year old son Jack. Every morning when Anna walks into the kitchen to make her first coffee (which will be followed by 2 more before lunch) she is simultaneously filled with gratitude and guilt. The fact that this is where she lives is simply too much to contain. The interior designer (came highly recommended by a neighbour. Anna assumed the neighbour’s recommendation came after personal experience. It didn’t.) tried, she really did, to get to know Anna and Ben, to diagnose their personal style and taste from the generic ‘contemporary’ and ‘classic’ preferences that they continued to offer her. Perhaps they had no style? The designer assured them that they did. She was so confident that Anna succumbed and had to admit that the final result was striking. The walls were fashionably painted a dark bottle green (purchased at a small fortune per can), the cupboards an understated chalky white shaker style with tasteful brass knobs. The dining table was the heaviest of reclaimed oak and it sat confidently by the bay windows where the light rested on it so beautifully. the ceiling pendants were ordered especially from Italy and hung strategically to provide light where light was needed. It worked perfectly and effortlessly. It was elegant, tasteful and impressive. But it wasn’t Annas kitchen. Its timeless country glamour made Anna feel feral and uncivilised in comparison. She found herself scattering stuff all over the generous island immediately after the cleaner had left for the week. She couldn’t sit down until some opened bills, Jacks homework and various types of mobile phone chargers were laid out all tangled together along with a cold cup of half empty coffee mug just to be safe. Anna hoped she’ll learn to feel comfortable this kitchen. Maybe when it begins to fray at the edges, when it has some scratches and scars it will feel more like her own home. But this is the definition of first world problems, isn’t it?