I am not a materialistic person. As a glance at the barely-there contents of my wardrobe would tell you, the accumulation of stuff holds no interest. But there a handful of objects in our house that I really, really love.
One of those is our dining table.
It is a beast of a thing. Seven feet by five. Six sturdy planks of unidentified tropical hardwood, some of which are starting to separate so far that I can fit a whole hand down the resulting gap. The top is covered in scars, scrapes and gashes – each one a story. It holds secrets, this table – layers and layers of history. Continue reading