Let’s talk about The Chair. The Chair in your bedroom. The draping, dumping, holding pattern chair where clothes sit in limbo: too dirty for the cupboard, too clean for the laundry. I mean, are we worried that they may infect the imagined sterility of the wardrobe? Do we feel that they are too sullied by life to consort with the irreproachable purity in the land of Put Away? The Chair is a place of purgatory. The crimes are various.
Jeans. There are always jeans. The jeans; a nose-wrinkling reminder that we wash jeans perhaps ten times less than any other everyday thing that we own. Partly because the dirt doesn’t register until things have got properly chronic and partly because post-wash jeans are just rubbish. If cleanliness is next to godliness then jeans remind us that we are heathens, heretics, the fallen. Jeans represent the human condition and so The Chair is their natural home. They deserve no better.
Oh hello, dry clean only pile. How do we hate you? Let us count the ways. First of all, who can afford dry cleaning? Second of all, who is organised enough to take it to the dry cleaners and also pick it up.
Probably best we don’t talk about the devil’s repair mound. The frock with the rip in the side seam from… not sure. We were drunk. The cashmere that needs darning. First of all, what is darning? Second of all, the bastard moths are bound to get it again just as they are gnawing through everything in the house. Zara are selling those sweaters with ready-made ‘derelict’ holes in them. We tried one recently and it made us look both destitute and unhinged.
The Chair feels like a sneering manifestation of our failures. It’s the monkey on our back, the albatross around our neck, the sparrow of disappointment twittering in our ears. Some days. Other days it’s just the chair in the corner; the one that shows us that perfection is for other people. The one that gives us a little wriggle room between the laundry and the cupboard.