Dear Floor!*

When I first saw you I knew that we had to live together. You were beautiful, simple and a modern take on classic flagstones. You took my breath away - and that was just your price.

We had been living with rough concrete for too long while we finished the rest of the renovations - sweeping resulted in clouds of dust and the same dingy, dusty appearance. When I saw you, you seemed to be the perfect antidote. Clean fresh limestone that could be cared for and would make my home sparkle.

You did not come cheap, but I wanted you and knew that I must follow my heart. I had to juggle, to re prioritise and to plead but I got you. You arrived and eventually you went down (when has anything ever happened quickly in this household).

There you were in pristine sparkling form for A's 21st, and somehow our young guest failed to appreciate your magnificence. D liberally pebble dashed you with his excess red wine (no details here, it was messy and I don't want to remind you of your baser moments).

I wonder if you think of all the other more glamorous homes that you could have found. In stead of a castle or designer condominium, I secured you for my tiny tumbledown seventeenth century cottage.

I do my best to keep you in the condition to which you would like to become accustomed, but no matter how often I mop an enthusiastic border collie is never going to appreciate the merits of a saintly sparkle. In fact the only sparkle that is constant is the glitter that misses S's craft desk and that you seem to cunningly save for me and hide from my sweeping.

I appreciate that you do your best to show off your natural good looks and sophistication. It must be a tough job and I am sure that you feel under appreciated. You have to believe me when I say that knowing that you are there, even under the veneer of puppy paw prints, I maintain my conviction that you are beautiful!

I may walk all over you (sorry, that line had to surface) but I still respect you.


*Inspired by http://itsasmallworldafterallfamily.wordpress.com/2010/02/18/a-letter-to-my-bed/ and the Sleep is for the Weak writing workshop