[ Here's a worrying fact:.. ]

Here's a worrying fact: you can't smell your own house. You might exist amidst a stench of festering bins, moulding laundry and prehistoric fish fingers stampeded into the carpet, but you don't know it. You think you're fresh, hygienic, in control. One day, perhaps, the Homes and Gardens crew might appear on your doorstep, eager to photograph your tasteful surroundings.

Somehow, I doubt they'll wind up at our place. It's awful - and I've only just noticed after spending a weekend with a friend who's so gleaming, you fear you're fouling her airspace, merely by exhaling. She is a Mad Wiper: constantly scrubbing, slipping a coaster under your mug. She forbids her husband to sit on their bed in his daytime clothes in case he pollutes the duvet. It's not as if he's an abattoir worker; he's a writer. Spends six hours a day politely tapping his PC. I asked if she thought our house was rank compared to hers. She said, "I admire you for being so relaxed. You have other priorities." Which, roughly translated, means: you're boggin'.

Until we had kids, I never realised just how boggin' I was. When you first move in with a partner, you have more interesting pastimes on your To Do list than chip gummy soap off the washbasin. Then babies happen. Your health visitor looks vaguely sick when entering your house, and reminds you that Hygiene is Important. You glance at your newborn, pink and innocent on a curry-splattered sofa, and can practically see bacteria, marching towards the child's open mouth.

As babies grow bigger and fiercer, they contribute more mess and filth than llamas herded into your living room, and yet they're so sniffy about dirt. It's the ultimate pot/kettle scenario. After all, kids are supposed to possess extra-sensory powers: to detect supernatural activity and even a minor parental tiff, even though you're shouting, "Everything's FINE. Go and play with your Lego."

Older relatives are equally perceptive. When my mother-in-law visits, she doesn't ask, "How come your children are so attractive, considering the gene pool?" but, "Do you have a cloth?" You feel terrible, watching an elderly lady Brillo-padding your cooker. She should be relaxing, drinking sherry. Has she never heard of shabby chic? It's the interiors style of the moment: scuffed plasterwork, battered armchairs. It says, "See how mellow we are, with our objects gleaned from our travels."

You can see why such a look has caught on. Those all-white interiors in Elle Decoration make me feel anxious: you know, seconds after the photographer's gone, the eight-year-old will storm in wearing mud-caked football boots and protest, "What? What?" So much less stressful to be slatternly. Apparently, you can extend this approach to hair-washing: leave it for long enough - a couple of months, say - and the situation can't possibly get any worse. I worked with a woman who tried this. She dripped with oil, sebaceous glands pumping, until colleagues in her department requested to be moved to far away desks.

So while I admire the bugger-the-Timotei approach, I am aware that even firm devotees of shabby chic are forced to wield a mop occasionally. Because there remains one crucial difference between arty photos and real, live filth: magazines don't smellu

Copyright 2002
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