I had previously thought it to be a universal truth that men do not care about interior decorating
They are indifferent to wallpaper, have no emotional connection with scatter cushions, and have yet to work out the true purpose of a throw. The world of décor is no more than a money pit of frills and knick-knacks about which they could not care less.
For the most part, women seem irritated by this. We hold up swatches of fabric, insisting that he must know if he prefers the green or the blue! The spots or the stripes! The silk or the velvet! We roll our eyes as he declares feebly that they are “all nice”, before pleading that in truth, beyond describing its function, he has nothing helpful to say about pillow cases at all.
I’ve had this conversation with various men, and have learned to cope with their collective indifference by not giving a damn. I buy the stuff, and absent any violent protest, we keep the stuff. I am one of those rarest of females who doesn’t care that they don’t care. In fact it’s fair to say I’ve started to enjoy being left to do exactly what I want.
And so I wonder how it came to pass that I am married to the only man on the planet who has developed independent thought in the arena of soft furnishings. I don’t want someone with a point of view. I’m quite happy to do this alone, or at best with someone who appears to have considered all the options before concluding that they wholeheartedly agree with me. It is a constant source of fury that the gods have not blessed me with such a man.
Take lighting, for example. He wants chandeliers, which I think look a bit pompous outside of a castle, and cast a harsh light. We agreed only after I had presented a full treatise on the benefits of lampshades versus dimmer switches, which included a field trip to the shop selling the shades, it being insufficient for him to view them on line.
Similar debates have occurred in relation to curtains (I lost, we’re getting blinds), a new bedstead (too late I realise his ulterior motive for agreeing to one with bars) and bathroom tiles (we got it down to a choice of two and in desperation did “rock paper scissors” for the winner).
As a result it has taken us a year to do up two rooms in a house that needs total refurbishment. We have yet to tackle the wardrobes (they need new door handles, a view met with incredulity by husband, who considers it absurd that I bought furniture with an integral part I violently dislike), the fireplace (I used to like it, I’ve gone off it), and the downstairs cupboard (it probably should be a loo, but where on earth will I keep my coat collection?)