He did, he said it right to my face, barely pausing to draw breath.
After long discussion about logistics and who would be available to pick up corsages and hired suits and courier them from one venue to another and which pre-party and how they’d get there and how there was a bus arranged to take them from the pre-party to Formal and which after-party and how they’d get there from Formal and whether he could genuinely tell his girlfriend he simply didn’t want to travel in a small group in a car driven by a friend of a friend (or whether he’d have to bring out the parental refusal to countenance allowing him to travel with an unknown young driver, which was certainly his parents’ reaction) but would prefer to travel with a crowd on public transport back to the after-party they’d decided upon and where they’d then sleep the night and be picked up the next morning rather than catch a bus because it would be a late night so they’d be tired and they’d have suits and extra clothes to cart with them but where there weren’t enough tables (he’s partied there before), my Boy said that: “I’ll need our trestle.” Then he went on with discussing whether or not there was any need to take food to either the pre or after party and if so what and how we could get it there, as if all were well with the world and he hadn’t just uttered a blasphemy.
It’s not actually a trestle but a table with folding legs. Overlooking that, it’s not “our” trestle. It’s MY trestle. It’s specifically my sewing table, bought for that specific purpose. And it’s presently sort of deep in bits of fabric and notions and patterns and pieces of tracing paper and a couple of half-completed knitting projects and a tin of scissors and my sewing machine (because it’s where I work; the photo was taken late last year when things were running hot with all the Christmas crafting) and what have you and “WHERE WILL I PUT ALL OF THAT IF YOU TAKE IT AWAY FROM ME?” I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. He needs our trestle. I’m still reeling from that simple statement. He needs our trestle. Dr B didn’t blink or bat an eyelid. I doubt if he even registered the significance of what was said. Nothing is sacred or single-use-specific.
Funnily enough, I add in a bemused way and in an effort to shed light on the workings of the male mind, it’s not “our” clothesline, although all our clothes – and a very goodly number of them are indeed THEIR cycling and rowing clothes – hang on it to dry, but always “my” clothesline. What’s on it is never “our” laundry, but “my” laundry, even when none of it belongs to me and could correctly be described as mine. I think I’m seeing a trend here though I can’t quite crack what it is. It’s not usefulness because the clothesline is useful to them when they need somewhere to hang wet towels after a ride or a trip to the beach, and the clean clothes that come off it are certainly useful to them.
Yes, the table has in the past been seconded for other uses, even occasionally at my suggestion. I’ve regretted my generosity because the table has come back somewhat the worse for wear. I need a table with a good, smooth surface so that delicate fabrics don’t snag on chips and irregularities in the surface, cuts in the edging or the pieces of gaffer tape that Dr B uses to mend everything (all of which are now part of the table). I don’t actually have that much of a problem with multi-use articles and I’m sure I’ll be able to find somewhere to put all my bits and pieces, though it will mean an interruption to work. I need a certain amount of space to manoeuvre for cutting out fabric and sewing and while I might be able to sew bits at a time without too much drama using the former computer desk that served as my sewing table for a long time, I cannot cut out on the floor and expect to get precise results (not when the floor is as wobbly as ours).
Were you going to suggest the dining table? That was why I asked for the sewing table in the first place: you cannot clear the dining table long enough to see its surface and there is an extent to which, I believe, it shouldn’t be necessary to interrupt dining for sewing and vice versa. Dr B has a pile at his end of things and woe betide anyone who breathes on a stray piece of paper and moves its place. I get school notices to sign and fill in. Boy gets other school and rowing forms. In fairness, we’re like that because the dining table is where our important conversations take place and our daily planning sessions occur. That’s where this particular conversation/planning session was taking place. So, no. That really is not the answer.
I’m wondering though, if it’s “our” trestle which can be manhandled and roughed up in the name of other people’s good times, could I maybe get a new table for us that would necessarily and logically then become my table, specifically my sewing table? That seems to be the way the transition works: if it’s mine, they think it’s theirs. If it’s ours, they think it’s mine. Might that be a way of guaranteeing that I don’t have to semi-pack up in the middle of a project to accommodate somebody else’s project?