I guess I had it coming. After all those years of me bringing home those fabulous three legged coffee tables, rickety chairs and dining suites found on footpaths. All those tins, bottles and knick knacks from the Shops in the Paddington Antique Centre. After enduring my reuse, recycled, up-use style for so long, I shouldn’t have been surprised that eventually my husband would get his payback.
It was the end of a working week and it had been a long one at that. It had involved all the usual hectic-ness with the added sway of a sick child, long hours at work and an incident that went wrong with a DIY hair colour. Some men might bring home flowers for their wife, maybe takeaway and a bottle of wine, my husband however bought home something a little more unorthodox.
I just couldn’t let them throw him out… he said desperately from behind the wheel his beat up old Jeep. I opened the passenger door and my littlest girl squealed with delight and the older one stood chuffing with laughter. I just stood, and looked…at the full sized skeleton that was buckled into the front seat.
Some say we are hoarders, others say we are thrifty. Clever, talented, an eye for style and a panache for making the ordinary seem a little less so by knowing just what goes well with what. And sometimes we acquire things by accident or circumstance and, for the most time, we can make it work. We can find the new acquisition a perfect pose in our tiny home. But, let me tell you, make no bones about it, a skeleton does not go well in my kitchen.
The kitchen however was the best place for it. Our eclectic rumpus room like kitchen dining space. It was a room in our house that was yet to be renovated. If he was going to ‘live’ anywhere it was there. In front of the wall of art, where we would hang the girl’s innocent and bright drawings of butterflies and gardens and sparkly clag and glitter creations. Where the posters of times tables, planets and flags were stuck with blobs of blu-tak. He took up residence next to the anatomy chart that explained in writing that his hip bone was indeed connected to his thigh bone. That was where he stood.
Watching me cook dinner.
Resigned, I sighed and asked What are we going to call him?
If he was going to hang with us, then he needed a name.
Well… My husband had started sheepishly, like someone who knew all along exactly what they were doing, I’ve been calling him Barry for the last 10 years, so…
Barry it was. Barry Bones. In my kitchen.