Our House

"Try not to break anything tomorrow, Freya," I shouted down sarcastically to my destructive daughter, as I traipsed up to bed.

We're renting a townhouse in Ventnor for a few months prior to moving somewhere long term. It's different, renting. There are definite advantages: for example, if something needs fixing, such as a leak in the toilet cistern or the roof collapsing, in theory, they send someone round to sort it out. But there are downsides, with things often not the way you would want them. Our temporary abode is a lovely townhouse, with wide, beautifully carpeted staircases leading to two large bedrooms and one smaller one spread over three floors.

However, we're finding some aspects of the house a little illogical in terms of the layout - as though Pablo Picasso had been asked to do the interior design in between touching up Guernica (that's a painting, not his cat); initially, (indulge me here, if you would) the famous Cubist had enjoyed the commission and things had gone well; he'd placed the sofa in the sitting room with its back to the wall and plonked the the TV in the corner with Iberian panache - none of the parts all over the place thing for which he was notorious.

But on the day he was scheduled to do the kitchen, he'd perhaps enjoyed an absinthe or two, and things started to unravel; he just couldn't keep his Cubism out of it. It's a kitchen, Pablo, for goodness sake!

So as a consequence, with things being a bit all over the place, for the current residents the breakages are mounting up, in the main caused by us falling over each other as we try and navigate our way around the appliances. The fridge is a particular pinch point; perhaps in cahoots with the Spanish painter it has stubbornly taken up residence in an alcove in the least logical part of the room (maybe Pablo kept the absinthe in it). There have been some significant skirmishes in its environs, with a number of casualties!

I can't fault the upstairs. The bay window in Freya's room showcases a gorgeous view of the Downs - a view I actually prefer to the sea. The sea is great, but, well - been there done that, as they say. The Downs are different; implausibly steep and incongruously dramatic, and when I walk to the car in the morning they take my breath away. Freya often leaves her curtain open as night draws just to feast her eyes on this view.

I approve. Normally, she's feasting on Instagram messages from her boyfriend, Charlie, so taking in something more wholesome (arguably; she might not concur) is good for her. I don't know why they message on Instagram. I'd thought Instagram was for picture sharing - but it seems you can message on any platform these days. Something is invented to allow you to do something and people start using it for messaging; I think Tik Tok was originally used as a lip syncing thing, and as I say, Instagram for photo sharing. Ironically, the only app young people don't text on these days is the actual text message app itself.

The thing is, these days, as well as doing the thing we're meant to be doing, we have to message about it; if you don't 'share' it, it didn't happen. In five years time, your Hoover will have a message facility so you can share your feelings as you suck up the remnants of the prawn cocktail crisps you enjoyed the previous night. And in six years time, the Hoover will only be for messaging; its dirt collecting days will be over! The messaging has become more important than the 'doing'.

But back to the breakages. The rented house is fine, but things aren't necessarily designed as we would have designed them. It's kind of meant as a holiday house which may partly explain this. The kitchen is particularly annoying; it's a nice enough room at first glance, but its specifications have caused some fractiousness in the month we've been here. It's not especially small, but there's not enough worktop space to put things on. The other day, Freya and I were preparing Saturday dinner: a couple of pizzas for her and her brother and some sea bass for the two people in the house that actually like to eat healthily.

"Freya, get the plates out, will you? No - don't put them that side. And mind the eggs!"

"But they won't fit here - your stupid coffee machine sticks out too much. No one-likes you!"

She normally throws that in when we're enjoying one of our frequent verbal jousts.

"Well just push the kettle back and put the kitchen towel holder the other side. It's not difficult. No, not by the hob - they'll fall into the cat litter! No the other side - by the aubergine! Where's your common sense?"

"I have your genes, remember! There's still not enough room. And what even is an aubergine? I'll put two by the toaster and two by the microwave. "

"Ok but mind the cat food - you nearly tripped over it. And be careful when you carry...."

CRASH!

We've had a few accidents. I got a message from Freya today saying, "Really sorry. I've dropped my Chromebook on a plate and broken it." I drove home thinking she'd broken her Chromebook but actually she'd broken the plate. The English language can be ambiguous

The fridge is very small. It's one of those ones with a tiny freezer on top. Often we'll open the fridge and something will fall out. Not something soft like cheese, of course - something that either breaks or makes a mess. Or both! So far, we've broken a bowl containing the previous day's vegetables (mostly carrots and broccoli), a plate on which resided a wodge or Red Leicester, an unopened jar of red pesto and a large tub of custard; the contents of the latter tumbled out of the fridge like yellow larva from Mount Vesuvius cascading down the mountain.

I suppose it would be a bit glib to suggest the consequences were on a par with the eruption of a real volcano - but you try clearing it up! It's one of the culinary world's greatest inventions but so disgustingly viscous. (I'm sure viscous is an onomatopoeia - if not I'm leading a campaign!) After the incident I was left with the view that in an ideal world, custard should reside either in its tub, in a dish, or in your digestive system. But not all over the kitchen.

Mrs. Griffiths and I jointly attacked the gooey, yellow resultant mess with repugnance.

"Pass me the pack of jay cloths."

"Ok but don't move back - I'm right behind you cleaning the door; oops - there's a bit on your dressing gown!"

"The more you clean the more there seems to be. Does custard breed"

"I'm pretty sure custard is asexual. Bugger - I've stepped in it. I'm just going to wash it off."

"Ok, but don't get custard on the carpet. We might lose our deposit."

That's the other thing about renting a house. You have to pay a deposit. Normally in Britain you're innocent until proven guilty. In the lettings sector it's the other way round. They presume you're going to trash the place - turn it into a refuge for pirates or a drugs' den for murderers or something. So they make you pay a deposit to cover the eventuality that when you give the place back, there won't be blood on the walls and custard on the stairs (the custard example pertained to the earlier incident - I realise that murderers don't normally leave a trail of custard following their murdering; Birds Eye working for Scotland Yard is a nice thought, though!).

Getting the deposit back is uppermost in my mind. It preoccupies me! "Ewan, careful with that drink! Do you have to take your tea upstairs, Freya? And take your shoes off!" "Stop scratching the sofa"

That command was to our cat, Demetrius Trotsky (DT) - I mean the order to stop scratching, not the shoe one.

DT doesn't seem to be aware that the deposit is at stake as he prances around the house lacerating the carpet and upholstery. I sat him down once to explain the concept to him but he seemed to have something more pressing to do and ran off.

The sitting room is mostly a stress free zone. Apart from the TV, of course. Like most households we seem to have more remote controls than appliances. (Why is it called a remote control when you need it near you?)

There's a remote for the TV, one for the Freeview, and the Isle of Wight is 30 years behind so one for the DVD. They all look alike and the one you need is always the one furthest away. Weird things happen when you accidentally put your plate or foot on your remote, like the audio description facility coming on and your having to put up with a disembodied voice informing you that "Barnaby and Jones are walking towards the dead body which is lying on the floor with a massive cheese on top of it.

This actually happened in a Midsomer Murders episode: crushes by a giant cheese; there are worse ways to go, I suppose!

So we like 'Our House': it's not perfect but it's not Madness! It's central, the neighbours are great and it's close to a bus stop. And if the layout isn't absolutely to our taste - well, it gives me something to write about at least.