Or maybe that should be 'things with which I cannot be bothered'?
1. Doilies. What is the point of them? They look hideous, slip on surfaces and need washing. If you are under 40, you are probably asking 'what is a doily?' well, it is a sort of crocheted mat to go on dressing tables and other precious surfaces to protect said surfaces from drinks, perfume, make-up, water from the flowers in your vase. 'What's crocheted?' OK enough.
2. Ornaments. As above. Most of them look hideous and they need washing. Or at least dusting. And, if life is too short to stuff a mushroom, it is definitely too short to dust the set of woodland animals you were persuaded by a Sunday supplement would look good on your mantlepiece. I realise that some ornaments might be delightful in themselves but the trouble is that most people don't know how to display them. Lilliput Lane thatched houses are cheek by jowl with balletic figurines and the rustic bowl you bought in a continental market. Trinket boxes jostle for position with balletic figurines and tiny replicas of the Eiffel Tower. Basically it's just a mess and the best place for the whole lot is a skip. My friend, Rose, is an interior designer and her new gaffe - basically a converted cave in the south of France - boasts a row of brightly coloured jugs on one side of the vast kitchen and a row of brightly coloured plates on the other side. None of these items match one another in any way, shape or colour. The only thing they have in common is that they are jugs. Or plates. I like that. But then, it might be an OCD thing.
3. Shopping. I know it's not very girly, but I fail to understand the term 'retail therapy'. Maybe that's because for me it has always meant a credit card up to the hilt and no chance of paying it off. Some therapy! I thank the god-of-all-things-virtual for internet shopping; meaning I can sit in my home with a cup of coffee and browse dresses and shoes and furniture and not actually have to do battle with crowds of badly-dressed chavs and their whining children.
My worst nightmare is IKEA and the maze they send you through to get to the one aisle you want to be in, though Mr F assures me that short-cuts can be found. Even the allure of Swedish meatballs and whipped ice cream is not enough.
And supermarket shopping. Well, I can manage about two aisles, which includes the wine aisle, then head for the tills. It's so labour intensive. You put stuff in a trolley, then you put it on a conveyor belt, then into the trolley, then into the boot of your car and then on the kitchen table to sort into cupboards, fridge etc... Thank the god-of-supermarket-competetiveness for home delivery.
Shopping is essential or we would have no food, clothes or household essentials, but it's the experience of shopping that I so dislike. The crowds, the too much baffling choice (except when you do choose but they don't have it in your size), the sheer leg-work (I'd rather go for a walk in the country) and the hammering of your impulse-buys on your plastic. I really cannot understand recreational shopping because, for me, there is nothing recreational about it. It's just an ordeal. Now, if we need to go to B&Q, for example, for something for the house, Mr F seats me in the cafe at the edge of the store and brings offerings for me to choose from while I enjoy a piece of carrot cake and a cappucino. He says I'm like a toddler and should be in a soft-play area. If it has books and newspapers in it, that's an appealing thought...
