Domesticity. Grist for the mill, but do we really want to hear about it. No, me neither. 'Write about what you know' they say. I am laying down my own personal creative gauntlet. You may not want to hear it, but i'm cranking up the sound anyway. This is high kitchen sink drama an ipod epic, a survival guide for behind closed doors.
Friday Night: Barefoot in the kitchen listening to Edif Piaf 'Ma Vie en Rose'. The air is humid and her sweet sorrow fills me. I am Juliette Bincohe from 'Chocolat' as I stir the Sag Panner. I am the little sparrow as I warble along, a five foot urchin in the back streets of Paris. I am not a fading star at forty, but a tragic Diva plunging the dishes into very hot water.
Friday Night: I want to go out dancing. Imelda May is singing of Handsome Devils and she gets my foot tapping. I dance through the daily grind. Knickers shaken and hung out with a burlesque flourish, I shimmy and lindy hop before I tackle the towels. Domesticity is no obstacle as I lasso a tea towel around my head, i'm getting a little over excited and I haven't even opened the wine. I strut down the short hallway running out of space, I shimmy my shoulders to the sound of dirty trumpets and enter am empty bathroom. Life's too short to clean the loo on a Friday night. A night that will end in broken glass and our four year old son buggering off out with his new friends as we settle down to a night by the disused gas fire.
Saturday Morning: Amy Winehouse 'Frank' as I wash the wine bottles from our night in. 'You should be stronger than me" I croak and wail. I wish i'd washed up the curry things from the night before. I go all South London and sassy, the aubergine cubes clogg the plughole adding a little urban grit as I unplug the sink. Pearl Rose crawls in and tugs at my leg. A bit of Led Zepplin methinks. She's that type of little lady. I hope the rain will stop soon as the accidentally broken window may let water in. No drunken dramas here. Just a heavy hand closing an old sash . Luckily the passing dog walker was not injured. George returned home at 10.30pm off his face on fudge cake, reporting that the neighbours have a boat in their lounge. They do.
Saturday Morning Second Sink Load: My hands are submerged in the boiling water. I can never get the mixer tap thing right. The rain is pummelling the poppy heads in the garden and the trees quiver in the short bursts of breeze. The steam from the water creates mist on the kitchen window. My view of the garden is temporarily blurred. I am listening to Goldfrapp's 'Felt Mountain' her voice mainlines into the quietest part of my soul , the beautiful bit that i'm proud of , the bit that makes me strong. I remember I have to wash my hair before Pearl wakes up and run a bath to the ethereal strains of Goldfrapp's 'Horses Head'. I feel decadent as i wipe the sink with a make up wipe.
Saturday Lunch: Man and boy are back from a Claws and Jaws petting party. Man's eyes are glazed but George got to hold a coackroach. We're all getting on top of each other this wet weekend and the ipod dock has run out of juice. Houmous and pitta prepared to the music of the house. The moan of the washing machine, muffled television , the singing of toys. I am granted a pass out of here and walk to the Union music store. They have free American folk music on a saturday.
Saturday Night Dinner-it's a wrap: Twenty four hours later and Juliette Binoche has left the building. The sky outside is grey and threatens more rain. Morrissey sings of there being a place in the sun for everyone as George saturates the kitchen window with his water pistol. As I slam the onion onto the chopping board there is nothing else for it, its time to get in touch with my masculine side. Cue Led Zepplin and a 'Whole Lotta love' . Nothing beats rockin out when the mood strikes, nothing beats Led Zepplin full stop. A brief respite in the sublime before it's back to the grind. All this excitement has worn me out. I decide to have a quiet night in.
Dance as though no is watching. Don't you dare! Dance as though you have an audience of thousands and a backing band to boot. That way you'll give the performance of a lifetime every time. Women of the nation, shake a tail feather as you unload the dishwasher, samba with the mop , shimmy for England as you stir the pot, inject some drama into the domestic.
I notice that the ipod dock is often in the kitchen when I return from my daily jaunts. The hoovering and washing up done, his large marigolds hanging over the tap.