I love our dining table.
It may not be beautiful.
It most definitely is not new.
Sometimes, it doesn’t even seem very practical.
But I love it.
It belonged to my grandparents, and as far as I know, they had it for their entire married life.
I hid under it as a playful little boy.
Even then, it seemed old, and dark and mysterious.
I ate countless Sunday lunches on it; my grandmother’s roast beef with vegetables freshly harvested from my grandfather’s garden, accompanied by thick servings of glistening OXO gravy.
There were always plates of homemade tarts, pies or cakes, just there to snack on, fresh from the oven.
I played card games at that table with my grandfather, mother and sister.
There was always a vase on it, laden with flowers from the garden.
The table has extendable leaves on two sides, but these were never opened out in my grandparent’s house. I only ever knew it as a square table, pushed up against the window, to make the most of the limited space in the room.
The two leaves are shiny, because unsurprisingly, they were never used. They look pristine in stark contrast to the centre square of the table, all worn and marked with use and age and love.
This table is a tangible link to my family’s past; I love the fact that my children’s hands touch this table in the same way that mine did when I was their age. My grandparents died before my children were born, and yet, their hands are all over this table, like an imprinted memory.
It is a solid link to the past.
What’s your favourite piece of furniture?