About 10 years ago, I became the smug owner of a Hans Wagner Wishbone Chair. The idea was that as each year passed, I would accumulate another one and eventually have collected enough for a dining set.
The chair took pride of place in my one bedroom flat in Brixton, alongside my coffee table books, scented candles and object ‘dart that decorated my life in those days.
Fast forward to the present day and the chair is having somewhat of a hiatus, relegated to the bedroom for fear of being trashed by our 3 year son or being abused by our cat who has discovered the woven seat makes a convenient scratching post when he’s feeling too fat and lazy to go outside to find an actual tree. Or me, using the poor bastard as the ubiquitous bedroom clothes dump.
Everyday poses the threat of pasta sauce, wee, poo and general human detritus being hurled in any given direction. If it can’t be fixed with a wet wipe, it’s being put away until our son loses the desire to eat every meal sitting in the den he created with the sofa cushions.
Maybe my great aunt in Hong Kong who covered her sofa in plastic was onto something.
Seriously, what is the point of having anything ‘nice’ in the house if said treasures are not living the lives intended for them.
The shops that sell nice stuff don’t want our sort taking up precious space in their beautifully merchandised premises. I used to love a weekend mooch around such places checking out the latest aspirational offerings to accessorise my tragically bourgeois lifestyle.
We went lighting shopping yesterday, in Heals, with our son. Crystal chandeliers, glass bulbs, floor lamps and freestanding mirrors everywhere….you get the picture.
Ikea it is then.