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Packing up our Brighton one-bed recently (we are finally upsizing along the coast to our first proper family home) I came across a photo taken of our artfully decorated flat when my husband Mark and I moved in four years ago. All calm, cool and eclectic – just how I’d painstakingly styled it – and without trace of our now two-year-old son Max, I hardly recognized the place.
Back then books were perfectly aligned (spines even arranged tonally), decorative, breakable things were displayed where they could be admired, with no fear for their lives or
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the heads of others, and my lovely Lombok sofa (oh how I saved for that sofa), was always plumped to perfection, scattered with the lightest grey linen cushions.
Four years on who could have guessed that my immaculate seafront apartment with all its carefully considered interiors finds, everything positioned just-so, could pose so much fun when seen through the imaginative eyes of a toddler? Now the room looked like little more than a battered bouncy castle covered in blobs of play dough.
Take the bookcase for instance, which is regularly scaled
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like a climbing frame or my collection of ceramic jugs, now reduced to ‘pots’ after endless target practice. I’ve had the entire cast of Toy Story ambush my mantelpiece at one time or another, lampshades sit lopsided and my Eames rocking chair spends most of its days upside down, its ski feet used as car ramps. It’s safe to say my style has become skewwhiff!
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I want to sweep everything under the plasticine trodden carpet and pretend Max doesn’t live here, – I feel strongly that home should inspire and
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reflect the needs of every one in it, but does it have to be quite so haphazard? I decided there and then that things would be different at our next abode.
Promising myself a fresh start I stuck the photo up on the fridge and reached inside for the milk. I was greeted by a towering sculpture of cheddar cheese, ketchup and humous, Buzz Lightyear grinning at me from the top.
It may not be a chic home anymore but it’s a funnier one, at least.
Sarah Slade is Associate Editor of ELLE Decoration UK
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Sarah Slade - 2 Sep 13
Packing up our Brighton one-bed recently (we are finally upsizing along the coast to our first proper family home) I came across a photo taken of our artfully decorated flat when my husband Mark and I moved in four years ago. All calm, cool and eclectic – just how I’d painstakingly styled it – and without trace of our now two-year-old son Max, I hardly recognized the place.
Back then books were perfectly aligned (spines even arranged tonally), decorative, breakable things were displayed where they could be admired, with no fear for their lives or the heads of others, and my lovely Lombok sofa (oh how I saved for that sofa), was always plumped to perfection, scattered with the lightest grey linen cushions.
Four years on who could have guessed that my immaculate seafront apartment with all its carefully considered interiors finds, everything positioned just-so, could pose so much fun when seen through the imaginative eyes of a toddler? Now the room looked like little more than a battered bouncy castle covered in blobs of play dough.
Take the bookcase for instance, which is regularly scaled like a climbing frame or my collection of ceramic jugs, now reduced to ‘pots’ after endless target practice. I’ve had the entire cast of Toy Story ambush my mantelpiece at one time or another, lampshades sit lopsided and my Eames rocking chair spends most of its days upside down, its ski feet used as car ramps. It’s safe to say my style has become skewwhiff!
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I want to sweep everything under the plasticine trodden carpet and pretend Max doesn’t live here, – I feel strongly that home should inspire and reflect the needs of every one in it, but does it have to be quite so haphazard? I decided there and then that things would be different at our next abode.
Promising myself a fresh start I stuck the photo up on the fridge and reached inside for the milk. I was greeted by a towering sculpture of cheddar cheese, ketchup and humous, Buzz Lightyear grinning at me from the top.
It may not be a chic home anymore but it’s a funnier one, at least.
Sarah Slade is Associate Editor of ELLE Decoration UK
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