There is a funny little article by Nikki Racklin (above) about the gender divide between men and women when it comes to Cath Kidston, on The Daily Telegraph this week…
"My husband just doesn’t get it. "Ugh, too much chintzy
chintz. It makes me feel a bit sick," he shudders. But what chintz:
antique rose, vintage posy, white clover… you get the picture. And
what colours: springtime in bloom, toasty open fires, luscious green
fields, baby blues and pinks. You can almost hear the gentle sound of a
pony’s hooves kicking up turf. Surely a wave of nausea is a small price
to pay for a slice of heaven?
I’m sure one
wouldn’t need to peruse Ms Kidston’s sales figures to know that the
woman has stumbled upon something here. Something universal and
deep-rooted. And if the more mean-spirited shoppers among us take to
thinking that maybe they’re paying a teensy bit over the odds for tatty
bric-a-brac that they themselves could have picked up for a couple of
pence at a car boot sale on the outskirts of Penge and doused in pink
paint, they would do well to remember this and remember it well: they
didn’t, and they couldn’t have, and they never will. Whereas Cath
And in a feverish, vertiginous way, we love her for it."
And says he:
John Mortimer once memorably wrote that as a barrister
he’d come across just about every activity cited as grounds for divorce
except sex in the missionary position. But I bet there is one form of
unreasonable behaviour he hasn’t yet heard of: wife falling in love
with Cath Kidston.
On balance I think I would
sooner come home to find the postman’s socks hanging over the bed-ends
than return to discover my wife had been on a shopping spree and
plastered the house with floral patterns.
Go read the full article here and laugh at how very dramatic men can be over a silly little rosebud or six. And then quake in your Kidston plimsoles in case one day he decides to seek revenge and you come home to find your house transformed into a black leather, stainless steel nightmare…