Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 14, 2019

No matter how accomplished or mature you are, you still revert to your old ways when you return to the family home.

There are certain things I’ll always do when I get back to the Maguire House. I’ll kick my thongs off at the front door and not put them on again until I leave. I’ll open the pantry, freezer and fridge to take stock of the good food in the house. I’ll tidy the clutter on the counter.

And when it comes to eat, I’ll revert back to the pretty, territorial teen who fiercely defended her seat at the Maguire Table.

Each mealtime, I’m seated at the shorter side of the long, rectangular table with my back to the fireplace.  Depending on your way of looking at the world, you could say I’m at the head of the table.

It’s a commanding position that means I’m sometimes backlit by flames, which paints quite a badarse picture, come to think of it. It makes me sound like some kind of matriarch on a quest for world domination, which I quite like.

Sitting opposite me, at the other end of the table, is my father.

Come winter, Dad moves my chair from the end of the table so he can gaze into the fireplace and, I don’t know, think about burning his enemies or something.

When the cold winds blow, he attempts to dethrone me and have me relinquish my position at the table for his own personal gain.

To which I say, bugger that. You chose to bring me into this world; you now must now live with the consequences of your decisions. And one of the consequences of that decision – along with a lifetime supply of happiness, sass and excessively cheesy risotto (the secret ingredient is about half a block of Bega!) – is seeing my freckly face at the end of the dinner table.

This stoush becomes a matter of pride, for my position will not be simply scrapped from the seating plan like a third cousin’s problematic boyfriend with bad sideburns on an already overcrowded wedding guest list.

It’s not just about a simple chair, but the acknowledgment of my belonging in the family.

And while I have been known to occasionally break ranks of a breakfast time to be closer to the butter and honey, that end seat is my dominion.

I’m not the only one who has such an emotional tie to a vinyl-covered chair.

Each of the Original Six (which is a super cool way to my immediate family, which makes us sound like a team of super heroes rather than a bunch of short-than-average, slightly-pink Caucasians who all apparently say “off” funny) has their positions, which have been voluntarily enforced for at least two decades.  I don’t know how we came to sit in these positions; I don’t believe we ever discussed who was supposed to sit where. We just did. Each and every mealtime.

I don’t want to say “we knew our place” because it has some very uncomfortable connotations of gender roles and power imbalances and what have you, but we did.

But it’s not just about my personal power struggle or my superiority complex.

It also just made things easier when it came to setting the table.

Because setting the table required intimate knowledge of each family member. The butter dish had to be kept away from my younger sister, who would pick at the butter with her tiny fingernail. My father had to be given the small but long-handled spoon for dessert, as it allows for a stylish wrist flick and forces him to take smaller bites, thus dragging out the eating experience. Another sister has a particular fondness for a certain butter knife. Mum likes to gnaw the bones of our “finished” chops, so the scrap plate is best placed by her.

Everything had its place, but for a reason.

And while the Original Six has a few new characters, they’re also adapting to the unofficial-but-strictly-enforced seating plan system. Thankfully, the table Dad scored from a relative whose workplace was getting rid of stuff is big enough to squeeze around more people between the six seats, so there’s no need for a separate table for the outsiders.

I’m not going to shy away from it – I like my power position at the end of the table. It’s a skerrick of superiority I will continue to cling to as my self-esteem withers with age and each realisation of my unfulfilled potential. I will be struck down with the blow of a sword before I renounce my title.

Unless of course a guest has popped over for a cuppa and a piece of fruitcake, in which case I’ll gladly abdicate to give the impression that I’m a reasonable person who has more important things to care about than where she sits at a table.