I had a good day about two weeks ago.
I bought a third-hand IKEA table. Saw an ad for it on a website for Anglo-Saxons in Madrid. Some man named Ben was selling it for ten euros. It sounded like a good buy, and during the weekend we drove over to retrieve it. When we walked into Ben’s tiny eighth floor flat, overflowing with junk and odds and enns and technical stuff and food and dirty plates, he said he’d bought it second hand from some other guy. We took the table home, saying that if it was really really ruined we’d decoupage it. We didn’t yet, but we might.
Anyway the table settled in our living room and I started settling around it. It has a lower shelf which is nice for stashing things that you’re not using right now, and it’s the perfect size: the computer fits; the jars of pens, pencils, hair-chopsticks and brushes fit; the happy ladies purse plant fits; the sketchbook fits; the mug of tea fits. On one of the table’s first days in the house the sun was seeping into the room and I was so pleased I felt I had to take a photo.