I’ve been spending the past month or so decorating Casa Kimmage. Quite the nesting experience it would appear. Not only have I finally got around to dry mounting that limited edition Will St Leger screen print of Victoria Beckham, but I cleverly turned a pair of too-tight-but-too-expensive-to-throw-out boots into a matching flower pots. Inspired.
“What is this?” enquired my sister; a.k.a. Grand Elder, First in Line, All-Knowing One. Aware that this was not a run-of-mill entreaty (the clipped tonal inflection is a dead cert), I quickly donned my sales hat and launched some damage limitation. “Don’t you love it?” I gushed. Silence.
Retreating to the back porch, she pointed at the sprouting ankle boots. “I’m going to B&Q this weekend; I’ll pick you up a few things for the garden.” “But those are Alexander Wang?” I squealed churlishly. “Which is why they shouldn’t be filled with potting soil.” And so the creative cold war began.
Victoria, clasping a Balenciaga tote and a 9mm glock pistol, lay wait in the bathroom –appropriately over the loo. “Nice touch,” conceded the Wise One. “I didn’t realise irony could act as a conduit for bodily functions; what next, a Mace-wielding Anna Wintour in the kitchen?” Hmmm. That could prove useful over the fridge. But I digress...
“Anything else lurking in the shadows?” she enquired (cue: the dreaded raised eyebrow). This was not the time to mention the denim covered sofa cushions or the vase full of cast-off buttons that I break out at dinner parties (hey, it’s a good talking point). Instead, I chose to raise the proverbial white flag and bridge our most disparate aesthetic divide.
“Look, you’re a bit country; I’m a bit rock ‘n’ roll. Let’s just accept that our tastes are mutually exclusive.” Silence. A curled nostril joined the raised eyebrow. “Really? You chose to paraphrase Marie Osmond? Now I know why you’re a fashion journalist and not a music critic.” Burn.
Had there not been currents of water seeping from the eyelets of the Wang flower pots, I would have lobbed one of them at her. Clearly I hadn’t banked on drainage. Visibly my foray into fashion gardening was somewhat ill-fated. And with that a thundering crash was heard from above where Posh took a nose dive into the jacks. “I’m buying you a handyman for your birthday,” she decreed. DIY – never was my shtick.
