HitchcockBlonde

What’s happening to me? Back in July, Ikeagate seemed to confirm my constitution as an incorrigible domestic What-A-Mess, merrily strewing puppyish chaos about my living space and passing off general clumsiness, laziness and muddiness as bohemian laissez-faire, but over the past few months I’ve slowly started to fold. Literally. I’m playing origami with my vests. I’ve bought 4 packs of those strange stiff shiny zip-up Komplement cartons and devised a clothing storage system so complex that I have had to print and laminate an identification key for my knicker drawer.

And that was before the arrival of The Shoe Forest.

Oh, God, The Shoe Forest. The groaning pleasure of replacing the cream patent brogues on their designated trees. They salute me smartly in the morning,  those serried ranks of footwear, crying out to be chosen to grace the Blonde’s freshly showered feet and insisting that they, no they are the pair that will defy puddle, coddle pavement-sore ball, and generally look outrageously hot (in an unslutty way). And so I pop on the chosen two, and don a crease-free frock (crease free! Who would have thought ironing in front of Merlin could be so much fun!) and trip out into the mortal muddle of London feeling like a minor deity (minor, mind you. No uppity manners here.)

Where will it stop? I hit Shoreditch House on Saturday evening to unwind in a suitably louche manner after a day of nerdy orderment and ended up playing chess for three hours! Chess!

Chess!

I did insist on playing with four knights though, because I’d got a bit of a Merlin fantasy going, what with all that ironing. And then I kept on moving the prawns (nipply chess pieces) sideways, and knocked everything over reaching for the octopus (not a chess piece. This was what we were eating). All those neat little squares were really beginning to piss me off.

There is hope.