The moment I enter the kitchen I feel as if my perspective has been subtly altered. I wake up; I slow down; I remember things I’d forgotten.
Sometimes, of course, I think, ‘oh, sod it, the washing up,’ or even, ‘ooh, tea…’ But it shakes things up.
Because of the slightly unusual layout of our flat, the kitchen is in the middle, between the bedroom at the front and the living room at the back. It’s comparatively dark – its only natural light seeps in from other rooms – but I walk in there from the front and the wash of light from the french windows is a surprise. Going the other way, from the conservatory or the living room into the kitchen, the darkness is soothing, cooling. Entering the kitchen from my study takes me out of my cocoon and back to the world outside.
It’s a hub, a portal. It moves me from darkness to light, and from light to darkness; from work to rest, from sleep to action. Even though neither of us spends very much time in it, it’s the centre of the home.