Interior design is not something I do particularly well. I can pay bills, organise logistics and manage contractors and do it with a near-German efficiency but for some reason I can go months, even years, living with nothing more than semi-good bedsheets and a toothbrush. My lack of attention to the aesthetics of my home becomes obvious in my New York apartment which a) does not have space for anything and b) would require me to clean it regularly myself even if could cram it in. I think this stems from that fact that for years I moved home every year and so I trained myself not to waste money and space accumulating things when you don’t know how long you’d even need them. So I don’t.
The only time this was ever an issue was when houseguests come to my Spartan lodgings. “Well isn’t this,” my latest guest said walking into the apartment, “…minimal.” I feel like in order for that to be a compliment, you have to have a Japanese print and a straw mat somewhere, which I don’t. So the next day I sat down and took a long hard look at my possessions. My mattress is good, but it’s on the thin metal frame that comes free with delivery; my side table is a stained chip wood that I picked up from the street; I have no mirrors anywhere, except for the tiny one in my bathroom which is mottled in a way that makes it look like you have perma-acne; my sofa is lumpy, acrylic and has begun to sag in ways that make me feel fat; and the walls are grey and bare. Minimal, I had to admit, was a kind lie. The place didn’t look great.
One of the things that happens once you turn 30 is the realisation that you have to pretend to be an adult because the alternative is no longer, sadly, an option. Bare walls and a cheap sofa at 29 is charming, but at 33 it begins to veer into “sad”. So this week I was on a mission to go forth and buy some stuff for my place. Two conditions: one, it had to come within my rather modest budget, and two, it couldn’t be from IKEA. Two days of research window shopping in the many, many furniture stores in Manhattan confirmed that these conditions were mutually exclusive.
Furniture is extravagantly, painfully, shockingly expensive. My first priority was a sofa, since it was literally the only thing, other than me, that can fit into my lounge.
First place I went was Jennifer Convertibles, an American staple, except Jennifer must be going through a tough time because the guy told me that the earliest I could get a sofa delivered was February 2019. Call me impatient, but that seems a bit of a commitment. So I ventured downtown to the vast, chic display spaceships in SoHo.
“This is from our Laterna Ultima Supreme Expensiva collection,” whispered the shop girl, rubbing the white leather sofa with seductive affection. “The softest aged Italian leather is hand stitched by our master craftsmen and assembled lovingly at the foothills of the Alps.”
“Really?” I said, my eyes sparkling. “The Alps?” This wasn’t a sofa, this was a lifestyle.
“Mmm,” she purred, her fingers gliding over the gold stiches. “And for a limited time only, you can get it as part of our extensive Spring Sale. Isn’t that exciting?”
“It so is!” I exclaimed, sliding into the buttery seats.
“So,” she smiled as I sank into the cloudy cushions, “Shall I bring up the paperwork?”
“How much did you say it was again?”
“Twenty-nine thousand dollars,” she said.
“For a couch?” I said, sitting bolt upright.
“This is an heirloom piece, sir.” Her purr had vanished, and shortly after, so did I.
Who knew things could be so expensive? Name any thing you can think of in a house. Candlesticks? Spoons? Clocks? It doesn’t matter, because you can be sure they are selling it for vast amounts of money under a spotlight somewhere. I saw a plastic chair – a single chair – that was priced at $20,000. Another place had a distressed wooden table with designer pot marks on it for close to $50,000. The carpets at one place were so expensive that you have to get an appointment to even look at them.
Two days I spent walking around shops, bewildered and confused, finding nothing. How do people do this? Eventually one of the assistants in the fortieth store I visited leaned in and whispered “You should just buy stuff online. Seriously, everybody does.” And so I went online and discovered a wonderful world of free delivery, vast discounts and no shop assistants. It was wonderful. Three hours in, I found a reasonably priced sofa that was small enough to fit and could be delivered within a week. I got so excited that I accidently clicked on the wrong button and ended up buying a floor length mirror by mistake. But that’s OK. Adults need mirrors. And adults need sofas. But I can tell you, not every adult needs monks in the foothills of Alps to make their heirlooms, so next time just go to IKEA.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
The only time this was ever an issue was when houseguests come to my Spartan lodgings. “Well isn’t this,” my latest guest said walking into the apartment, “…minimal.” I feel like in order for that to be a compliment, you have to have a Japanese print and a straw mat somewhere, which I don’t. So the next day I sat down and took a long hard look at my possessions. My mattress is good, but it’s on the thin metal frame that comes free with delivery; my side table is a stained chip wood that I picked up from the street; I have no mirrors anywhere, except for the tiny one in my bathroom which is mottled in a way that makes it look like you have perma-acne; my sofa is lumpy, acrylic and has begun to sag in ways that make me feel fat; and the walls are grey and bare. Minimal, I had to admit, was a kind lie. The place didn’t look great.
One of the things that happens once you turn 30 is the realisation that you have to pretend to be an adult because the alternative is no longer, sadly, an option. Bare walls and a cheap sofa at 29 is charming, but at 33 it begins to veer into “sad”. So this week I was on a mission to go forth and buy some stuff for my place. Two conditions: one, it had to come within my rather modest budget, and two, it couldn’t be from IKEA. Two days of research window shopping in the many, many furniture stores in Manhattan confirmed that these conditions were mutually exclusive.
Furniture is extravagantly, painfully, shockingly expensive. My first priority was a sofa, since it was literally the only thing, other than me, that can fit into my lounge.
First place I went was Jennifer Convertibles, an American staple, except Jennifer must be going through a tough time because the guy told me that the earliest I could get a sofa delivered was February 2019. Call me impatient, but that seems a bit of a commitment. So I ventured downtown to the vast, chic display spaceships in SoHo.
“This is from our Laterna Ultima Supreme Expensiva collection,” whispered the shop girl, rubbing the white leather sofa with seductive affection. “The softest aged Italian leather is hand stitched by our master craftsmen and assembled lovingly at the foothills of the Alps.”
“Really?” I said, my eyes sparkling. “The Alps?” This wasn’t a sofa, this was a lifestyle.
“Mmm,” she purred, her fingers gliding over the gold stiches. “And for a limited time only, you can get it as part of our extensive Spring Sale. Isn’t that exciting?”
“It so is!” I exclaimed, sliding into the buttery seats.
“So,” she smiled as I sank into the cloudy cushions, “Shall I bring up the paperwork?”
“How much did you say it was again?”
“Twenty-nine thousand dollars,” she said.
“For a couch?” I said, sitting bolt upright.
“This is an heirloom piece, sir.” Her purr had vanished, and shortly after, so did I.
Who knew things could be so expensive? Name any thing you can think of in a house. Candlesticks? Spoons? Clocks? It doesn’t matter, because you can be sure they are selling it for vast amounts of money under a spotlight somewhere. I saw a plastic chair – a single chair – that was priced at $20,000. Another place had a distressed wooden table with designer pot marks on it for close to $50,000. The carpets at one place were so expensive that you have to get an appointment to even look at them.
Two days I spent walking around shops, bewildered and confused, finding nothing. How do people do this? Eventually one of the assistants in the fortieth store I visited leaned in and whispered “You should just buy stuff online. Seriously, everybody does.” And so I went online and discovered a wonderful world of free delivery, vast discounts and no shop assistants. It was wonderful. Three hours in, I found a reasonably priced sofa that was small enough to fit and could be delivered within a week. I got so excited that I accidently clicked on the wrong button and ended up buying a floor length mirror by mistake. But that’s OK. Adults need mirrors. And adults need sofas. But I can tell you, not every adult needs monks in the foothills of Alps to make their heirlooms, so next time just go to IKEA.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com