“Hold on, it’s the clock.”
“Hang on, the phone’s gone again.”
“No – the dogs! Quickly get the dogs… I’m on the phooooonnnne!”
The telephone used to be on the table at Grandma’s. And this clock above it chimes every quarter hour. It’s wound each Sunday before dinner and it has interrupted many a phone call.
When Linus lived in London, we would spend hours upon hours on the phone (this was before Skype remember) with clock chimes punctuating our talks.
So between waiting for the clock to finish sounding, the phone lines to work properly and “someone to stop those dogs barking now, I’m on the phone to Linus, please someone else sort them” I have spent a lot of time by this table.
I love old battered furniture (which is lucky as that’s all ours is). I love pieces with a history, even if it’s not mine. A good table deserves a few scars, and where the puppies chewed the chairs. I like to look anew at what is around us, and see our lives laid and lived out through our things. The wardrobe I dragged around 2 countries and 3 counties, only to take an abrupt dislike to and sell later. The first table my father made, the chest which was the dressing up box and now holds (guess what?) books!