Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Believe it or not, I don't quite fit the stereotypical notion of a metro-nellie (yeah, right, I hear you say). For instance, my obsession with faux-zebra skin and my Warhol and Mapplethorpe prints aside, I'm not really one for soft furnishings, tasteful interior design and subtle lighting. There are, after all, only a certain number of ways you can stylishly hide the inadequacies of a shoebox in N7, and I exhausted both of them about three years ago.
In terms of housework, I definitely subscribe to Quentin Crisp's four-year rule. Life's too short to be bothered with dust, of the household variety at least. Anyway, when you possess more unread books than is good for you, and you live ten minutes' industrial upwind of King's Cross station, you come to realise that the boys from wallpaper* will never be coming round to feature your cosy pied à terre in their magazine, No, the most you can hope for is a knock on the door from Kim and Aggie.
But I've got a day-off today so decided to attack the eco-system in my kitchen, before it came to resemble a possible set-location for Alien5. And three hours later, I'm glad to say I've worked out such a sweat that I can get out going to the gym today, and my kitchen is clinically spotless. The windows gleam with a tarragon-vinegared and organic lemon-juiced shine, the floor is so shiny you could use it to look up ladies' dresses (if I ever invited that sort of boy back chez Stranger) and I've even discovered the source and vintage of that fusty smell behind the fridge. Why, I've even plonked a vase of flowers in one of the windows. Fragrant, that's me.
The only thing left to be scoured and cleaned is the oven. And it is at this point that you really will have to excuse me, my dears. You see, I've got to head on down to the local offie. For there are certain things in this Stranger's life that can only be faced and attempted when he is very, very drunk indeed…