O.K. I want you to bear with me now. Something is bugging me and I need to sort it out, so I am kind of thinking out loud while I type: the thing is this…

Do I surround myself with itty bitty pieces of this and that because I can’t afford to buy the things I really want? If I could afford a Bang and Olufsen Sound system would I be a minimalist, because I would understand that there is beauty in perfection and therefore no need to compensate myself for the things I can’t have with lots of the things I can? Am I a housekeeping addict because I’ve got nothing better to do…   

I woke up this morning and felt positively panicky about all of this. I know- I am The Vintage HouseKeeper and I have a duty to stand by all things vintage and homely, but I am no Martha Stewart (though how I wish I was!) and occasionally I doubt myself, and feel that I should be seeking something more worthy than the best way to clean my laminate.

Please don’t lose all faith- this doubt lasts about five minutes and then my mind wanders and I start to dwell on the possibility that the pink pages of the Financial Times contain a magic formulation that makes them just so pinkly perfect for cleaning windows and wrapping whimsical presents. No, really, this is how fickley obsessed I am with the most trivial parts of keeping house: I make a special journey to the newsagents to buy the Financial Times,  then take it home and without even looking at it, scrunch it up and pop it into my powder pink HouseKeepers Caddy. God forbid, I should lower the tone and use the Liverpool Echo! 

Do you see? Do you see how thoroughly single minded I am? How strangely vacant my mind is of politics and poverty and pop music? I can’t help feeling that if I had a higher purpose I wouldn’t make the time to dwell on such trivia…

And then there is the house itself;  it is stuffed to the scrumptious roof with all kinds of yummy little whatties and yet we can’t afford the new kitchen floor we so desperately need. When I am feeling sorry for myself because I don’t live in Sharon Osborne’s house, I take myself on a creative excursion to purchase lots of little things I don’t need, and rather than saving up to buy an exquisite example of modern craftsmanship or artistry I satisfy my urge for beauty by buying the chipped remnants of yesteryear.

Is my love of all things vintage nothing more than COMPENSATION?

What a terrible thought. I am a traitor to my own cause.

Feel free to chuck me out of the circle.