So there I was the other day, lying in bed, thinking about sex and wondering if I still had it. Scratch that, I was wondering if I had ever had it. And I was thinking about sex, not in an exhausted way or a cynical way but in an actual looking forward to it way. In an ‘I can do this’ kind of a way. When, the sensual siren that I am, supine in my seductive lair, I happened to glance over at my bedside table.
And what did I see? Well, I’ll tell you: an eye mask, some Advil PM (from America, Ibuprofen laced with lovely, sleepy anti-histamine), wax ear plugs with bits of dust clinging to them and a couple of trays of anti-anxiety pills. Hmmm. So I opened my bedside drawer. And what did I see? Piles of vaguely self-helpy books called things like The Intimacy Factor, an unused Elvie (your most personal trainer – like playing PAC-MAN with your pelvic floor muscles) and a tube of Flexitol which works wonders on cracked heels. Is this who I am?
But it’s no more who I am than the contents of my handbag: a single nurofen loose at the bottom, an eyeliner with no lid, an abandoned lipgloss with shreds of tobacco around the lid, various business cards, a Mason Pearson hairbrush with hair ties on the handle, three pens….
Life, these days, is a collection. It is not a curation. Things happen by accident far more than by design. And here’s my takeaway: my bedside tables are small cupboards; Fifties deco style in polished maple, they were incredibly cheap from a remote antiques emporium and they are rather glamorous and I love them. Quite sexy. The rest is detail.