where art collides

coffee table

The coffee table is functional, though its intention is in the main decorative in its place in front of the fireplace. This is a room seldom frequented by the family because, sad though it may be, the television is elsewhere. As a result I, its only real inhabitant, use and abuse it as I wish within the limits of toleration set by my wife Anne.

I have the fire lit as I sit to write this and the decorative coffee table is covered with the refuse of the family. The contents of a school bag is strewn over it together with a trumpet case and a book, “Silverfin” by Charlie Higson.

The shelf underneath the table is covered with sheet music, mostly jazz that Joe and I occasionally get out and play. Joe is the other main occupant of this room. It is where he practices his trumpet. His music stand is a permanent fixture in the corner near the double doors to the conservatory.

This is a very comfortable room with three comfortable settees of varying sizes. Two of them are big enough to stretch out for a good sleep. It is also a very cool room on a hot summer’s day beautifully complementing the heat in the conservatory.

Anne likes to bring guests in here during the day, at which point the coffee table does become functional, for putting down cups of coffee in fact. She has, I think, grown accustomed to the fact that the underside is now home to the music though this wouldn’t be her preference.

This is not to say that nobody else uses the room. We just don’t typically sit in it as a family. We are fortunate to have a house that can comfortably lose a few members of this large family and even a guest or two. On the Saturday of the Lincoln Christmas Market the room comes into its own as host of the annual Davies carol singing party. Everyone gathers round the fire and sings carols until we have had enough.

Friday night isn’t normally music night in our house. Tonight the younger lads are X-Boxing, Anne is out school PTA quizzing, Hannah is dancing and Tom is radioing. So tonight I have a bottle or two of beer, twitter and Windows Media Player.

The rain is doing its best to drown out the music but I have it on as loud as the little USB speakers will allow.

Everyone’s a Winner, Hot Chocolate
Moondance, Van Morrison
Mustang Sally, The Commitments
Riders on the Storm, The Doors
Sweet Dreams (Are made of this), Eurythmics
Hotel California, The Eagles

I remember during my first year at Bangor University I left my Frank Sinatra’s Greatest Hits LP on the deck on the windowsill. The next day was a hot one and I came back to find the record completely warped. I think I must have gone out and bought another one. Frank was pretty indispensable.

The first two LPs I bought were the Soundtrack of the Stud Movie and Sgt Pepper. Sgt Pepper is still one of the greatest records ever made. The Stud will be long forgotten.

Ne Me Quitte Pas, Jacques Brell
Is She Really Going Out with Him, Joe Jackson
My Baby Just Cares for Me, Nina Simone
Girl From Ipanema, Toquinho E Vinicius
Child in Time, Deep Purple

All classics. Now listening to some modern dance music – no idea what you call it. It’s Tom’s last Friday Night show on SirenFM. Not my kind of thing, the music, but he is my son, and he is leaving home to go to Warwick University tomorrow.

The hard drive whirrs. I could hear humming in another room. Tuneful contentment. The kitchen emanating warmth. Now the humming has stopped. They are all in bed. The brain is clear and the hard drive whirrs, keeping me connected. My lifeline to everywhere.

A few essentials hang from the airer and around the room there are signs of preparation. Supplies for a prolonged trip. The build up to departure. Tom is leaving us. I can hear the clock. For the first time ever as far as I can recall. It isn’t much of a competition, hard drive and clock.

The wooden block calendar on the windowsill still says 16th August. Time drags. The pile of papers in my “In Tray” on the worktop has reached unmanageable proportions. There will have to be a sort out. Manyana.

Some bowls have been left out ready for breakfast, and a few plastic beakers. This is a great, lived in, working kitchen. A jumble of utility and ornament, tidiness and random scatter. The jug of water is empty. Time for bed.