'Air' to the throne
All of my cats loved airing cupboards.
They migrated there in winter. The routine was the same; they would eat breakfast, nip outside to perform a covert bowel evacuation in next door’s garden, scrape ashamedly over the mess and then scurry back in through the cat flap with icy cold coat, straight past everyone in the kitchen, ignoring the chorus of delighted greetings, trotting straight up the stairs to Bedfordshire.
Meanwhile I, ashen faced, would be getting ready to go to wretched school with a churning, nervous tummy and feeling unrelenting envy towards my cat.
Upon my return home from hell my first priority would be a routine sweep of the house to seek out some furry comfort. Having looked on each bed and each lap I knew where pussy would be. Pulling open those venetian airing cupboard doors I would be met with my two favourite things; the warm waft of fresh washing and curled atop it a roasted, furry, purring bundle. My visiting of the airing cupboard became like a pilgrimage to some kind of religious shrine, the scent calmed me and to behold my god all contented and relaxed on his or her throne filled me with peace. My arrival always prompted God to stretch and yawn and I would plunge my face into the piping hot fur and breathe in purest comfort. The scent of washing and of washing enwrapped cat is a fragrance Jo Malone really needs to work on.
In my daily grind I see a lot of airing cupboards. Photographing and floorplanning people’s homes is what (just barely) pays for my wine and nibbles and in every house I visit, without fail I will have to measure the airing cupboard. I may in fact hold a world record for the sheer number of airing cupboards I have inhaled. I have no idea if the vendors are aware of the high that the washing scent gives me. Do I emerge from their cupboards with dilated pupils, or nostrils? Do they think I get off on the smell of their smalls? I am thinking of creating a book filled with surreptitiously taken photos of the nation’s airing cupboards. This book instead of being on the coffee table must be stowed in an airing cupboard where it can be infused with the scent of its subject.
I have lately found myself particularly drawn to my own airing cupboard. On particularly low mornings I will open the door to hunt out a pair of oven fresh knickers with the same ashen face that I wore before school, hear the reassuring sound of the boiler chugging, feel the cuddle of mumsy air and want to curl up on a shelf, fall asleep and wait for someone who worships me to come and plunge their face into my belly after school.
'Air' to the throne
All of my cats loved airing cupboards.
They migrated there in winter. The routine was the same; they would eat breakfast, nip outside to perform a covert bowel evacuation in next door’s garden, scrape ashamedly over the mess and then scurry back in through the cat flap with icy cold coat, straight past everyone in the kitchen, ignoring the chorus of delighted greetings, trotting straight up the stairs to Bedfordshire.
Meanwhile I, ashen faced, would be getting ready to go to wretched school with a churning, nervous tummy and feeling unrelenting envy towards my cat.
Upon my return home from hell my first priority would be a routine sweep of the house to seek out some furry comfort. Having looked on each bed and each lap I knew where pussy would be. Pulling open those venetian airing cupboard doors I would be met with my two favourite things; the warm waft of fresh washing and curled atop it a roasted, furry, purring bundle. My visiting of the airing cupboard became like a pilgrimage to some kind of religious shrine, the scent calmed me and to behold my god all contented and relaxed on his or her throne filled me with peace. My arrival always prompted God to stretch and yawn and I would plunge my face into the piping hot fur and breathe in purest comfort. The scent of washing and of washing enwrapped cat is a fragrance Jo Malone really needs to work on.
In my daily grind I see a lot of airing cupboards. Photographing and floorplanning people’s homes is what (just barely) pays for my wine and nibbles and in every house I visit, without fail I will have to measure the airing cupboard. I may in fact hold a world record for the sheer number of airing cupboards I have inhaled. I have no idea if the vendors are aware of the high that the washing scent gives me. Do I emerge from their cupboards with dilated pupils, or nostrils? Do they think I get off on the smell of their smalls? I am thinking of creating a book filled with surreptitiously taken photos of the nation’s airing cupboards. This book instead of being on the coffee table must be stowed in an airing cupboard where it can be infused with the scent of its subject.
I have lately found myself particularly drawn to my own airing cupboard. On particularly low mornings I will open the door to hunt out a pair of oven fresh knickers with the same ashen face that I wore before school, hear the reassuring sound of the boiler chugging, feel the cuddle of mumsy air and want to curl up on a shelf, fall asleep and wait for someone who worships me to come and plunge their face into my belly after school.