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 Kidston did.
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...