I bought a bed (well, two futon-sofas) yesterday. I haven’t put it together yet, but even sleeping on the mattress alone was a huge improvement on sleeping on the floor, where I developed a serious neckache and dreamt, amongst other strange things, about driving Santa’s sleigh—pulled by the usual reindeer, plus a fox.
While I was wrestling with option anxiety in the bed shop—if I see another fabric swatch I will have a seizure—I suggested to the nice young woman serving me that what the world needed was some kind of matchmaking agency to fix up people like me, (mainly men, I suspect) who find homemaking as interesting as grading gravel, with people who really cared about co-ordinating soft furnishings (probably mostly women). There wouldn’t be any sexual interaction between the parties; members of group 1 would simply hand over their chequebooks, a floorplan, and some Polaroids of the carpets to the respective members of group 2. It’d be like getting an interior designer in, but cheap. She rather liked this idea and was only too happy to pick out cushions in complementary shades while I figured out how I was going to fit everything in my poxy little hatchback.
Please email me if you are interested in helping me select dining room furniture, cutlery, napkins, and placemats because I could care less whether the motif on the knife-handles picks out the embossing on the blinds.
(Did you know that there’s a shop in Hove where all the bathroom cabinets on display are over £400 and the cheapest one they sell is £255? And they don’t even come round and fit the things! IKEA here I come.)
My God, this ‘Blog’s getting dull.