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Why do I feel like a new kitchen is a gift for me?

Photo by Dmitry Zvolskiy on

My kitchen is old and nasty, and I’m not its first or second owner. When we moved in, the kitchen was made of ginger wood, you know the kind, the pine that was a favourite in the 90’s. The kind of woody kitchen Jim Bowen gave away on Bulls Eye to a lucky darts team. So, we gave it a makeover; had the doors painted, new worktops and new tiles and it looked as refreshed as a botoxed movie star. But that was a good few years ago now. 

Since then, I have been clambering for a whole new kitchen. The makeover was meant to be a temporary fix not a forever solution. And yes, I do know that kitchens cost money. But it’s not the financial or even the actuality of having it done, it’s the feeling that it’s ‘for me’ that is causing me to feel upset.

Why is it for me? 

New clothes are for me. Make up, hair, outings are for me. Part of our home is not for me any more than a new mop would be or a garage door. So why can’t I shake the feeling?

We’ve had plans drawn up and are pleased with the direction we’re headed in, but I can’t make a final decision until we’ve been to see it in real life. The internet is all well and good, but before we depart with the kind of sums a kitchen commands, I want to visit a showroom. 

We have an appointment.

I feel like I need to get in touch with the kitchen showroom and say, “can we all schmooze my husband please, brief all the staff and even the units themselves to be on best behaviour and to show themselves in their best light?”

Ridiculous! I need as much schmoozing as him, he doesn’t really care, he just wants to know how much it’s going to cost (we are both chipping in may I add).

So if I do (big if) get a new kitchen, will I be entitled to only allow the rest of the fam in when it suits me?

Perhaps I should have a strict door policy: If your name’s not down then you’re not coming in, or, if your hands are filthy, go and clean them before you consider entering. Or even, no, I don’t fancy it.

I’ll have service hours drawn up and printed, like a hotel. Breakfast seating times and so on: 6am — 8am weekdays, 7.30 – 10am weekends. Not that I’ll be cooking, they can help themselves and clean up, but only in the hours that suit me, not like bloody lockdown when you could turn your back and the kitchen was like a tip again.

I will be the custodian of the new kitchen. Like Victor Meldrew shouting from the door that they are trespassing, him about his lawn, me about my Amtico. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I’m coming around to this kitchen being for me notion. My house – my rules. My kitchen – my very strict rules that will see you getting a ban if you don’t clear up, and to an acceptable standard.

Okay, I’m happy to have the kitchen for me, for my Christmas and birthday gifts, and to put my bank card on the table too.

But one last thing, “put the kettle on would you,” while you’re still allowed free access.

1990’s pine kitchen (not mine thankfully)

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