* handwritten notes by my sister, Katrina 
  
It’s funny how objects can become so important to you. In my life I usually become attached to objects that provide comfort, like couches. No matter how shitty my day or severe my hangover I always feel comforted lying on my couch in front of the telly with a 1.25 litre bottle of Coke and a cardboard box full of Cheezels.  

[Some philosopher hypothesized that, over the years, objects become more and more like the person using them and the person becomes more and more like the object. I think that might be true to some small extent] 

I recently discovered that the table at my Nanna’s beachhouse had been replaced by a new table and I felt sick in the stomach. That table symbolized a whole lot of feelings I have about that house. Every time I sat around that table I was comfortable. No matter what else was happening in my life, the beach house was comfortable because it was always the same. The same smell, the same barbecue and the same big, strong kitchen table.  

The table had a cool lino top with a grey, marbled pattern, but we rarely saw the table top. It was always covered with a brightly coloured, floral tablecloth. All Nanna's tablecloths were made of seersucker - a puckered, wrinkly fabric (Can you still buy it?) My favourite had purple and aqua flowers. 

Our holidays at McCrae seemed endless. The routine of the day (beach, lunch, beach, tea) was punctuated only by visitors. Visitors didn't spend much time at the beach - they only ever seemed to sit around the table, despite the beautiful weather. Visitors would mean a trip to the bakery where we would buy long johns and an elephants foot. These delicacies would sit on the far kitchen bench, until the main part of lunch was over. 

Fresh lettuce, various luncheon meats, sliced tomatoes, pickles and vivid purple beetroot were laid out in coloured plastic-glass dishes all over the table. The beetroot was always in the red -glass dish to match the dark blood colour of its juice. In the afternoons Nanna used to eat fresh white bread with jam and cream (I think she still does but less often now because of the medical discovery of Cholesterol) (It was actually cream with sugar sprinkled on top)  

Time spent at the table was always long, simply because once there you were literally boxed in - only the two seats near the sink had easy access to the rest of kitchen - if you were sitting on any of the other seats, you would always be climbing over people or crawling under the table. Nevertheless, this was far from an inconvenience. In fact, it was an advantage to be boxed in. You could sit all through a meal and legitimately call out orders to those in the accessible seats. Because of this arrangement, kids spent more time crawling under the table, through the legs of adults and cracking their heads than anything else. 

Papa once taught me how to make and enjoy a tomato sauce sandwich.(He taught me potato cake sandwich too). Mum scolded him for encouraging me on such a questionable diet, but I could tell she thought it was pretty funny and cool at the same time. 

On the window side of the table, there was a long bench seat with two big cushions. Me and my sister used to play "sandwiches" on it. The person who was the sandwich would lie flat out and the other would place one of the long cushions on top and lay on top of that.  

The table has been replaced by a table that actually looks quite good. For the sake of this story it would have made a nice ending to say how modern and shiny and out of place it looks. But it doesn’t. It looks like its always been there.  

That might be the saddest part.