In love with my Kitchen

'I love meatballs Mummy' says Tall Girl, shovelling down her supper last night. 'I think we should have them on the menu every week'

'Me too' splutters Small Sprog, through another mouthful.

I smile to myself. At last, a meal they agree on, something they both like, no 'Jack Sprat', for they never agree on a meal, satisfying one often leads to howls of revulsion from the other!

I enjoyed making the meal too, perhaps it showed in the eating. Stirring the rich tomatoey sauce slowly on the stove, chopping onions, crushing juicy garlic, watching it bubble in the pan. I can't remember enjoying cooking a meal that much for a long time, in my kitchen, my own space.

We all eat with glee, candles lit, music playing. The new kitchen table, a John Lewis indulgence, laid with my favourite bright mats. A pot of bright 'tet-a-tet' daffodils in the centre.

After the children have gone upstairs, after clearing up, I replace the lit candle with my favourite glass fruit bowl, fold the napkins, take stock. I flick the light switch, smile at the effect of the homely glow, the arrangement, my things, the way I like them, the atmosphere, the calm.

I take a deep breath, count my considerable blessings, turn out the light once more and head to bed. How strange it is to be here, after so long, strange but very, very good indeed.