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25 October, 2009


I'm not surprised to discover that David Mitchell feels much the same way about his flat as I do about my house: so long as it provides a safe, comfortable (but never luxurious) environment in which to live, I'm not remotely interested in its appearence.

Like Mitchell, I'm annoyed by my mother's eagerness to project-manage 'improvements', and her inability to comprehend* that even if I permitted it, it would be entirely for her amusement, not mine: I would not be grateful.

There's probably a link to my disdain for the Mac aesthetic: I don't want a 'stylish' house any more than I want a 'gorgeous' PC. In both cases, I genuinely prefer a 'beige box'; an unobtrusive, entirely neutral setting defined by my actions and which in no way defines me.

*: That may be literal. She seems unable to process the idea that I genuinely don't care, instead believing that I'm merely being stubbornly contrary: that I would secretly like to have carpets, lampshades and a non-purple bedroom (blame the previous owner for the colour scheme; I have no interest in changing it) but can't bring myself to abandon an entrenched attitude. Really, truly and unambiguously: I WOULD NOT.

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