Scarlett Johansson's Bottom (and other distractions in my kitchen)

Welcome to my kitchen. It is full of wonderful and weird things - cookies, squash balls, wrinkly satsumas, a snowglobe from Aveiro in Portugal, more cookies, a peacock feather, a CD case full of the 00's equivalent of a mixed tape, a Marmite birthday card, even more cookies (seriously, relatives, marriage has not killed our interest in all items other than snacks. We still like book vouchers, if you're really that stuck).

This is my favourite place in my home; warm, sweet-smelling, plant-decorated - it's the only place I'm almost definitely not going to be lazy, because there's always something that needs doing. If it's not the trailing cables of hair-straighteners that really have nowhere else to live, then it's the laundry that needs picking up before the protruding wire on the hamper takes out someone's toe. If it's not sorting recycling and wishing the back door opened a bit more easily so you didn't get attacked by juice cartons every time you try to take stuff out, it's re-alphabetising the CD collection (oh who am I kidding? I wouldn't even know where to start with that one).

The fact of the matter is that wherever people lead their busy and often haphazard lives, there will be a hub or base for their activities, and my hub is my kitchen. In its weekend-sun-bathed centre I can co-exist with marmalade jars waiting to be filled with marmalade, and parking tickets which for some reason haven't made it to the bin but I can't throw them away because I can't find the bin bags, and I can, dare I say it, find some serenity. I am the ruler of my green-walled kingdom and as mesmerisingly messy as it can get, I always know I have the power to put it to rights, and that it primarily exists for my use and pleasure rather than to taunt me with ideals of Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen'd interiors and sparkling flatware. This is a home, not a department store. I live in it - I do not glide through in evening wear and smile lidlessly into the distance holding shiny saucepans I will never use. There is excessive and impractical wearing of high heels, I'll give you that, but a well-heeled woman can take on the world with a smile, and I sometimes need that kind of bravery when the washing up has been left for a while.

And then, of course, there is Scarlett Johansson's bottom. Don't pretend you haven't been waiting to find out how that factors into the equation - and I know some of you have already scrolled down in search of pictures. I'm hoping that disappointment will give way to amusement when I reveal that (as you can most likely guess) I don't actually keep the *real* Scarlett Johansson in my kitchen, but I did once attempt to draw her...

One Saturday morning I decided I ought to justify the expense of assorted art materials which I had bought myself, so I got out the pencils and, feeling absurdly brave, dived straight into what I believe they politely term 'life art'. Having never attended a class (I was invited to gatecrash one at uni but I didn't feel confident that my amateur daubs and I wouldn't be thrown out of an official degree level class by a not-to-be-hoodwinked professor), I gingerly ventured google-ward. Yes, I know, it's dangerous territory when you no longer have parental guidance built into your browser. After a relatively minimal number of mishaps I happened upon a photograph that had been on the cover of Vanity Fair, featuring the lovely Scarlett alongside Keira Knightley, both in the altogether. It was, in the words of a certain beloved governess, a very good place to start, as was my kitchen (see what I did there - a subtle reminder of previous subject-matter to tie my ramblings into some semblance of sense. Thank you, home education).

You see, this is one of the problematic delights of my kitchen - the I-can-do-anything attitude it gives me when it's clean and tidy inspires some overly optimistic undertakings. Like the time I said to my MIL, 'of course I can make some marmalade!' Three weeks, forty-three jars later when I was still cleaning stickiness off every surface, it didn't seem so clever. Similarly, the DIY birthday cards for grandparents - didn't I know I had left the ability to effectively cut tiny shapes out of craft paper back in my village primary school? And don't get me started on assorted birthday cake disasters. Still, an AS level in art had to have proved something, right? So there I sat, with Scarlett gazing out of the laptop screen and willing me to do her justice. My attempt at the body was passable. The face? I had to crop it out:

 It required persistence and some heavy shading, but I wasn't too disappointed at all with the finished product, and it promptly went on display, an imperfect trophy to add to the room's collection of items representing effort and adventure. Considered too highbrow to adorn the wall of quiz (see a future post), too dangerous to display in walkways after a friend stumbled into a wall upon noticing the sketch, and, after an unexpected visit from The Man's parents, too scandalous for prominent placement, artistically-headless Scarlett now lives blu-tacked to the *back* of one of my kitchen doors. In this way I can enjoy her presence safe in the knowledge that she will not cause affront or injury (as if such things were possible for her!)(okay, I could believe the latter - she was pretty bad-ass in The Avengers).

So. Please do watch this space for further posts from my domestic hub, a.k.a. the haven of misplaced pizza slicers, lonely fruit bowls denizens, heart-shaped mugs, and, let's not forget, those cookies. I cannot guarantee to feature Ms Johansson further, but if there is a general demand I would be churlish to ignore it. And, should you ever be in the neighbourhood and desirous of helping me out with the cookie collection over some french roast coffee, you can always meet her for yourself.