WRITER Leanne Cloudsdale
Luke lived opposite my senior school, in a post-war semi-detached house with an immaculately tended Ford Fiesta XR2i (Mark II) parked on the driveway. The whole place felt so spacious and modern in comparison to the home that I’d grown up in. Smooth skimmed, plastered walls, each room painted with an expertly chosen hue of matt emulsion. His mum was an auburn haired social worker – fiery and intelligent, quick-witted and brilliant to be around. She turned a blind eye to our dope smoking, and rarely complained about us loafing around watching re-runs of Columbo, or the inevitable microscopic burns we inflicted on her Habitat sofa. As well as introducing me to middle class pantry stalwarts such as pesto and Parmesan, she occasionally made us fresh coffee, poured with gusto from a recently plunged cafetiere. Raised on instant Nescafé, the acquisition of my first piece of Bodum kitchenware was a tormented and blundering foray into the clandestine world of Britain’s middle classes. I opted for the instantly recognizable Bodum Chambord 8 Cup, arguably the world’s most famous French press coffee maker. It’s coming up to 15 years old now, but still looks every bit as resplendent as the day it was carefully lifted from the box. The model was first patented by Frenchmen Mayer and Delforge in 1852, and the design spent the next century being refined by various coffee aficionados from Italy – Calimani (1929), Cassol (1935) and finally Bondanini (1958), whose enhancements are encapsulated in the double wall glass version we still use to this day.