Craic On

My friend Sceptic Tank thinks that a house should be minimal. I think that a house is not a home without stuff. The stuff I like is not the stuff she likes. My old creaking furniture is one thing but why would anyone who can’t see much want to fill up their house with china? It’s a good question and weirdly, I know the answer. My house is full of the china of my long dead realities. This is the reason I am so attached to it. Every morning I pour milk into small jug that my Mother bought in a Cornish craft shop during a summer in which we rattled round south west England in a camper van singing endless renditions of “There’s a Hole in my Bucket.” I remember the moment, and every morning, when I take the jug out of the cupboard, a warm feeling washes over me. If a single jug can do this, imagine what an tea service has to offer. I know the answer to this too, having spent many wasted hours arranging Granny’s tea service on a shelf that is just the right height in just the right spot for all to admire but me.