Has anyone else noticed the proliferation of over-designed objets d’arte masquerading as household equipment? I mean such temptations as a glorious pale blue enamel bucket offered by John Lewis. It has the word with ‘pail’ stencilled on the side and one can only assume that such artefacts are mostly bought by those who do not use them and therefore need the helpful labelling. Still, this is the type of bucket that I actually wouldn’t mind my Other Half seeing me use. And its small enough to fit under the sink. (Unfortunately this also means tidying up under the sink so that it is fit to house such a thing of beauty.) So I succumb. It is half price after all so I can feel quite smug each time I see the bucket at full price elsewhere. It’s always nice to not pay quite full odds for such overpriced stuff. I’m sure my OH would have different views on my ‘bargain’ and its ‘necessity’, so I don’t mention anything about it to him. As my mother would say, I’m learning.
There certainly is something of a fantasy being peddled here. If Ann Summers was the new Tupperware, then Lakeland Plastics is the new Ann Summers. Even that bastion of sensibility Marks and Spencer’s are selling ostrich feather dusters in a presumably non-ironic French Maid kind of a way. I can’t quite work out if this is an attempt to lure us back to the shininess of fifties living or just that there are more designers than jobs to go around. Either way it’s such a pity that dust and cat fur behave differently in my life than in this fifties fantasy. I’d almost convinced myself that simply having the bucket would be a talisman warding off both. Sadly it seems I actually have to use them on a regular basis to try to maintain that just stepped out of a TV commercial effect.
I admit I was tempted by the ostrich feather duster, but real world visions of our cats parading it proudly round the house in the way they scorn to play with proper cat toys, meant I plumped for the more practical kind of micro stat duster sold by the local supermarket. Now, our house has that kind of gorgeous Victorian cornicing which even the morons who previously owned our house and turned the dining room into something resembling a 1970s Indian takeaway left alone. Gorgeous as it is, this cornicing does rather collect dust. So a good duster is a must. And indeed a few quick swishes with the supermarkets own duster left the plasterwork sparkling and a couple of spiders seeking alternative accommodation. Using this duster also proved easier than trashing my hands and splashing suds round the house with the pale blue bucket and cloth in a time-consuming skirting board dust removal operation. The brilliant white duster quickly turned a grungy grey as testimony to my home’s newfound cleanliness. Sadly this was as satisfying as the hardest won gold star at school.
I’m still intrigued though about housework as the new black and am trying to work out if it’s just that I’ve suddenly got old and notice these things or whether there is some kind of fad for all things domestic. I’ve yet to watch Anthea Turner but I hear that she gets quite an audience. After all, however boring it may sometimes be, housework is what feeds and clothes you and stops you getting food poisoning. Like it or not it has to be done by somebody, although there is definitely room for debate about where necessity turns into Stepford. Either way, I’ll buy into anything that makes easier or brightens up a little what are after all rather dull chores.
