We’re one of those cool couples. You know. I work in PR – I’m something high-flying and bubbly at a well-known fashion brand; he’s an artist. We live in Hoxton. Obviously. We’d only consider living in the suburbs (Camden) when we have children.
Everyone comments on our flat. We have these parties sometimes where my colleagues and his artworld contacts all clash together over caviar sandwiches and ironic mulled wine. We have so many interesting pieces and the decor is really something else. If you live in the suburbs, your furniture’s from IKEA and you think a feature wall in anything but pastel is daring, you’re going to weep when you see our flat. It’s edgy.
(Sometimes though, usually when I’ve had a bit too much ironic babycham, I wish that we could, just sometimes, have something in our house that didn’t have a deeper artistic meaning. That was just purely functional, utilitarian. A light switch that is simply a means of turning a light on, without any sexual commentary. Furniture that is a normal colour and used for its conventional purpose: I don’t want to use an upside down chair with the legs ripped off, tacked to the worktop as a chopping board. Balloons are all very well, but not as pillows. I’d like to have a toilet door that wasn’t made of fabric. Don’t tell anyone.)