I offer you a guided tour of Monkey Towers

"What shall I write about?", I asked you, my adoring readers and fans, some weeks ago. The usual replies came: "sausages", "hats, biscuits, crisps", "Schopenhauer's The World as Will and Representation", "cocks you have known", "something as funny as the things you wrote when you were funny, you know, like the Greek statue thing. That sort of funny".

Some of these topicks may come up again in the coming weeks (not Schopenhauer, he's an idiot, and I doubt anything as good as the Greek statue will ever happen to me again), but one idea in particular called to me across the internet and the miles between Montreal and Brussels: Belgian Waffling's suggestion that I take you, my loyal supporters and advocates, on a guided tour of Monkey Towers.

Two things:

1. There are two Monkey Towers: one in Montreal, one in the country. Monkey Towers Montreal is 'mine', Monkey Towers Country is the house the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist to whom I am married bought before I moved here. I will therefore be showing you round Monkey Towers Montreal.

2. It is the perfect suggestion for right now in the situation of time and space in which I find myself, i.e. two weeks after I left my job. We have been away and I have had visitors (of which more another time; it is enough to say the visitor was of extremely high quality and left no trace of herself when she left), and so today is the first real opportunity (if you can call it that) that I have had to have a think, and unfortunately I have just discovered that my brain is empty, apart from a few biscuit crumbs and a copy of Woman's Own from 1972.

Bref (as they still say in some French-speaking countries), I liked the idea and I thought it was good, so here goes.

Today: the kitchen.

Disclaimer: I didn't move or rearrange anything, and it is only vaguely tidy because of visitors, etc.


The kitchen from afar

With your eyes, you will see the door to the back balcony and the $13 IKEA table that is as much use as a sheet of soggy cardboard. The thing for hanging is however OK, as are the shelves (thanks to the pathologist and his massive drill). If anyone wants the hall lights, they're yours if you come and pick them up.

























The kitchen from a bit closer

"Your refrigerator is a bit small", said a Canadian friend. I did not have the heart to tell her that in the Britain my North American refrigerator would probably attract puzzled glances and hushed questions about whether I had re-trained as a butcher.
























The sink

Not much to say really. The tap is mis-plumbed, i.e. the hot side is cold and the cold side is hot. To the left of the shelf is a frame containing a bean picked from a tree in Shoreditch with my friend Louis about five years ago. I should probably finish the washing up.



























Shelf close-up

From left to right: Greek jug bequeathed by friend Rachel upon leaving York University in 1991; old coffee tin, present from friend Emma; leaf tile from Heal's c. 1994 (present from Sophie); tin of sardines from Waitrose; card of a frog that says "The frog has a skin that is smooth and moist" (from dear Louis, see above); three Bournvita mugs, also from dear Louis.



























Stovetop

The stovetop is not gas (grrr), and is from 1972 (approx). British readers may be interested to note the grill on the left. Surprisingly handy, but not that handy. The shelves above contain a combination of tat and useful things, e.g. salt (various).

I do not like the bloody whistling kettle, but I do like the big Bialetti coffee pot and I love with a fury the Finnish cast-iron pot, which was a present from our lovely friend Max who carried it across Montreal (it weighs a ton) the day before our wedding.


























Things in jars on a shelf

I am not very tidy naturally but I like the way things look in jars. I also like small ceramic pigs bought in Chile. The soap says "Lucy" and was a present from my mother-in-law.

























Cookbooks

Lots of my favourite cookbooks are in the country. This is about half of them. ($1 for the person who spots which book I most certainly did not buy for myself.) NB: I do not have any fucking Delia Smith either here or in the country. (In the scales, you will see a year's worth of payslips.)



























Astonishing art

Below with your eyes you will see a picture of the Beatles done by my splendid god-daughter (and/or her mother), and a very excellent postcard sent by my friend Polly (is it just me, or does Marmite icecream sound OK?).














































I am willing to show you the inside of my cupboards if you would like a look, although I must warn you that they contain mainly Marmite, Rio Mare tuna and almost completely empty packets of Bulghur wheat (various).

Tomorrow: somewhere else in the flat.

Pip pip!

NWM

PS. I have not forgotten the badges. They just haven't arrived yet. I will let you know when they have a) arrived; b) been released into the community.