I don’t know how to even go about explaining the fridge situation in my house – or, in fact, how you can end up with ‘a fridge situation’ in the first place – but here goes.
Last year, I was in charge of doing up the kitchen. We decided that I would do it because it is completely inconceivable that we’d do something like this together. He’d have an opinion about where mugs would go and I’d instantly have to leave the room. Or him.
Maybe you’re in a lovely relationship and can have adorable and calm chats about rugs and where to put some shelves. Maybe you lie in bed deciding between Le Creuset and Tefal pans. It’s certainly possible that you spend the weekends moving furniture around your place casually discussing whether to get a floor light or a magazine rack or a new set of cushions. That’s fantastic, that’s lucky, that’s lovely. That is, however, so very much not my husband and me. We have learnt the hard way that in our world someone has to take control and the other person has to smile and nod and accept how it is.
Twenty-one years ago, we got our first flat and thought that we’d decorate it together. How exciting, I thought; how romantic, he said. We’ll wander round shops and look at wastepaper baskets and choose paint colours, we both gushed. We’ll hold hands at Homebase like in the ads, I said, as we skipped off with a list of stuff to get – kitchen, bathroom, floors, paint, furniture, roof (yes, the flat was falling down). It was going to be super fun. Which toaster shall we get? A two-slicer or a four-? Shall we stop for a sandwich? Shall we do some kissing in Habitat?
That is not, I repeat not, how it worked out. We have very different ideas about houses (we were together for about eight minutes before getting married, it had never come up). I know what I like – wallpaper, cosy, big chairs – even if I have no idea how to choose it or arrange it, whereas he is Danish. In practice, this means that if he’s not talking about Copenhagen then he’s telling me about a Viking stool that’s been made from one piece of pale wood by someone called Sven. He likes colourless, understated, whitewashed. You know all the hygge stuff? Pale pale pale, maybe with a fur throw and candles lit in the day? That.
By the time we’d finished buying stuff for that first flat together it looked like it was having a fight with itself. Green jungle wallpaper (also on ceiling) with rugs and too many pillows (me); white walls, white shelves, white desk (him). Every time anyone walked into a different room (there were only four) they thought they’d had some sort of turn, a spell. Wait, is this the same place? There’s a grandfather clock in this room and one million trinkets but in the other room there’s a digital projection on the wall and an oar leaning against the doorframe. Well, quite.
When we moved into the house that we live in now, we faced facts and decided to simply take it in turns. Whenever something needed doing just one of us would handle it – sometimes it would be him, sometimes me. A decade ago, it was his time, it was his deal. So he went to B&Q and he chatted to the builders about which particular white he wanted on the walls, on the floor, in the bathroom, for the tiles. Don’t panic, it turned out it was all the same white, he didn’t even want different shades. I mean …
Still, we didn’t argue and I was appreciative he was doing it, knowing the second I suggested some William Morris fabric or an embroidered wall hanging it would all go downhill. ‘Off you go babe, keep going,’ I said. He basically created a white shell and then put white things inside it. I liked it, it all worked, it was considerably less visually confusing than our flat had been, but I need to tell you about the kitchen.
I’m going to be serious for a minute – it was a heady mix of dentist surgery and space station. It didn’t have actual buttons anywhere (hidden you see, very Scandinavian) but if someone had appeared and said, ‘Two minutes to take off, Sir,’ or, ‘She’s on her way and she needs urgent root canal,’ nobody would have batted an eyelid. It was white, it was wipe down (we had small children by then) and that was that. There was nowhere to sit apart from four (white) make-up chairs that he’d found, presumably in a make-up department. And one wooden monkey that was hanging off a white shelf in the corner.
Eleven years later, after a lot of wiping down and semisuccessful stain removal and creaky cupboards that didn’t close any more, it was my turn. I have mentioned how bad I am at anything to do with interiors, so I asked my clever friend and she suggested sofas and chairs and window seats and maybe books. Yes! Books everywhere, I said. And colour on the walls. Yippee, I thought and spent an awful lot of time choosing foliage and rugs.
I searched for large salad bowls for a solid three months. I’ll get a new container for tongs and wooden spoons, I thought. This is really terrific. We should all do houses, we should all do kitchens; I’m chucking out this pan from university and getting a new one for eggs. Maybe Architectural Digest will call. ‘Hello? Ah, you’ve heard about it, my tropical forest and busy kitchen? Of course you can come and look at it. Aniston wants exactly the same? Understood.’
It was all going well, things started arriving – trestle table, new fruit bowl, some rugs, a couple of chairs, pink glasses. Oh look, the plant man is here, help me get these in, babe. I subscribed to the New Yorker – so nice to have about – and I couldn’t wait to fill the green vases. He took it all very well and said ‘nice’ and ‘lovely’ every time something new arrived at the door. More non-white furniture? OK, he uttered. (His Danish heart must have been quite tearful at this point but he remained upbeat.)
Everything was there, everything was fantastic, the tortoise (yes, we have a tortoise) was happy as he’d never seen so much colour, so much greenery. However, there was a problem. In my excitement I had simply forgotten about the bit of the kitchen to do with food. Sure, I’d chosen an oven and a cupboard but that was basically it. ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, trying to sound brave. ‘Well, we only really eat roast chicken or bakes anyway and we do have an oven, look!’ I finished brightly.
Have you ever been inside a nursery school? You know they sometimes have those little wooden kitchens in the corner? The kids can put stuff in the fake oven and play with the pretend fish slice. That was basically what I ordered. Everything was fine though, we were still smiling and all was dandy. But then the fridge came. You’ve seen a hotel mini-bar? Great, now you see the problem. To be specific, we now have a fridge that can fit at any one time the following:
- 1 pint of milk
- 3 Diet 7up cans
- 1 piece of cheese (small)
- 1 onion and maybe a cucumber (there is no space for kale – I’m not sad about this)
- Maybe either some fish or some chicken. Up to four single prawns
- A pat of butter (if we put it on the tiny shelf in the door, but this does mean it falls to the ground every time you open the fridge)
Now, I love the whole room so I’m not complaining, but the family do. All. The. Time. There isn’t space for ice so they ask for cold drinks almost constantly; they question whether the carrots will be a bit warm and floppy again (they really do get a little limp) and if more than three people want to eat at one time we have to rely on baked beans. They send me photos, my husband and the big kids, of fridges. They like the massive ones with huge levered doors. They regale me with stories about their friends who have extra freezers just for fish fingers and ice cream.
I would like to take this opportunity to say sorry. I’ll fix it one day, if I can just work out where the plants should go, and in the meantime I’m so happy I’ve given you all something to laugh at, to roast me for. Come to our house you all say when we’re out, we can cook you a singular rasher of bacon, we can make you a tiny slice of tomato. Ha ha. How you laugh. It’s good to be able to take the mick out of your mum, it’s bonding, it’s important. So I suppose what I’m also taking this opportunity to say is, you’re welcome.