Check that shit out. That's my kitchen. That's my organic recycling tub. That's my alien visitation. Why these cliché-faced other worlders have chosen me to be their spokesman is anyone's guess but I suspect it has more that a little to do with both my immense readership and my pretty hair. Just that single apparition so far, but I have no doubt that soon other messages will be forthcoming, and included in them, orders. Orders to keep cooking the dinners, to continue with the washing and folding of clothes, to seek out Ryan Tubridy and punch him in the snozzle.
I love my new kitchen. From where this picture was taken, I can, with minimal weight-shifting, reach just about everything that I might need in the preparation and cleaning up of an evening meal. To my left the dishwasher. Above me, plates, glasses, bowls. Below me, foodstuffs. And to my right, as varied a range of stabbing instruments I mean cutlery as any man might require. The fridge calls for a step or two, but stepping once or twice I can do. It's walking for miles to put away a plate that I have a problem with. The kitchen in the old place was so small that delft had to be stored halfway across the enragingly open-planned downstairs room, giving the unloading of a dishwasher the feel of a hike down the length of Appalachian trail, minus the beauty and ravenous bears. One adept at chopping on a postage stamp would have been perfectly content. And if you like bad trumpet practice, I assume it was you that foolishly snapped the property up. Three months after moving, I still feel vaguely blessed every time I find myself with the space to silently slice a mushroom, to make a lunch without packing a lunch.
Yeah, that's it. I love my kitchen. It has aliens in it.