'Ok I’m off to work, the spare key’s on the table. There’s food in the fridge, help yourself, and text me if you need anything.'
In a whirlwind of trailing scarf and bags, Kirsty is gone, leaving me to ease more slowly into the day.
There’s something special about being trusted to be alone in the home of a friend. The place where they close the door on the world, to furnish and occupy, in a style that is uniquely their own. Even without being physically present, the sense of the person lingers. There’s a slight frisson seeping through the space as I walk into the living room, emoting from the walls, as if the flat is questioning me,
'Who are you, you don’t belong here, where did she go?'
I move into the kitchen. There are breakfast dishes in the sink, and glasses from the night before. We’d talked for a while, then, both tired, turned in for the night.
Kirsty is working, and I am not. So before heading home, I decide that I want to leave the kitchen clean and tidy for her.
The water is hot. Sloshing the liquid detergent into the sink, I grab the Marigolds, and wash through the breakfast dishes. That just leaves the...
Crash!
A large glass slips through my gloved hands. Time seems to slow, as crumbled shards of glass fly across the worktop and clatter to the floor, bouncing across the lino, rattling like escaping beads from a broken necklace, skittering in an instant into every possible crevice of the small space.
My sense of satisfaction from putting the kitchen in order is shattered. That was a distinctive glass, was it a present? I’ve stayed with a friend who’s fed me and given me the run of her flat. Less than an hour after being left alone, I’m wrecking the place!
I find a dustpan and brush, crouch and sweep the fragments from the floor, my brain whirling, where would I find a replacement?
It feels like a lifetime before order is restored in the kitchen. Glass deposited in the bin, and every inch of the worktop and floor wiped and scoured, way beyond its previous state of cleanliness.
So much for having a quiet morning, I have no time to lose. I know Kirsty won’t be home till early evening, but I have a train to catch.
My brain is in overdrive. We’ve have been friends for a long time, but she’s trusted me with her house key, and her parting shot of
'Make yourself at home' doesn’t translate in my head into 'Sure, break stuff, that’s ok'.
Kirsty has always had a keen eye for a bargain. Her flat is full of the kitsch and the quirky. From seventies style kitchen accessories to unusual furnishings in the living room, everything in the flat, like Kirsty herself, is an original.
I do not like the prospect of testing our friendship, by discovering I have broken a precious, or worse, expensive glass.
Outside, there’s a nip in the air, but the sun is out, and there’s a sense of Spring arriving. I should be strolling, savouring the sweetness of the new day, but head down I’m scooting along the street like a runner out of the starting blocks, laser focused.
There are at least two charity shops that I know of in the area, maybe one will have a similar glass. I need to get more bin liners, I couldn’t find any spare in the flat, the rubbish needs to be double bagged for safe disposal. Should I get flowers? Better buy a vase then, what if I can’t find a similar glass? Should I get a mug instead?
My internal monologue seems to communicate an increased urgency to my feet, I quicken my pace.
The first charity shop is small and narrow, the bric-a- brac section is at the back. Dodging past other customers, skirting round the clothes rails, why have I never noticed before how claustrophobic and cramped a charity shop can be! A swift appraisal of the shelves, and I’m moving on in an instant. No large glasses, some vases, £16! Seriously? This is a charity shop!
Back outside and across the road. Darting into a Sainsbury’s Local, still mentally multi-tasking as I go. I need food for the train journey, bin bags, they should have those in here, flowers.
I’m usually in and out of my local supermarket in jig time, but this is a different town and a different store layout. I’m casting along the aisles, squeezing past dithering customers, scanning top to bottom and across the shelves.
Outside, more power walking to the next charity shop. This one is bigger, surely they will have something here? I home in on a large beer glass, instantly rejecting it as too large and heavy. The only other glassware is wine glasses. Kirsty has enough of those. I scan and reject the mug options too. That leaves a vase for the roses I bought from the supermarket. Bingo, I spot a nice one, £4, that’s more like it.
A swift time check as I pay for the vase, then I’m heading back to the flat. There’s a brief tussle with the unfamiliar Yale key at the front door, before I’m in and the roses are arranged in the vase. It’s the best I can do. Now I just need to get to the station and decide how to own up to my misdeed.
'Hi Kirsty, I’m on the train, heading home. I’m so sorry, I accidently broke your glass when I was clearing the breakfast dishes. I looked for a replacement but couldn’t find a similar one, so have left you a small apology gift'.
The response to my text is swift.
'Oh, don’t worry, it was stolen from a pub years ago! Lovely to see you, hope you’ve had a good day today'.
Kirsty hen, you have no idea!
Glass shattered, friendship intact.