Game recognises game. A new, recently engaged friend of mine let slip this week that he has some Lord of the Rings memorabilia in the flat he shares with his fiancee, including a huge map of Middle-earth that is currently not on the wall, because they’re “looking for the right frame.” Well played, that fiancee. Chef’s kiss.
This couple are in their extremely early 30s, so hats off to her even more, for already being so skilled at an essential long-term relationship manoeuvre that not only has she pulled it off perfectly, BUT her future husband is blissfully unaware it’s even happened. The right frame for that map is, clearly, a bin. However, she can’t come right out and tell him that, as there is a delicate language involved in negotiating the interior design … let’s call them “compromises” you are required to make when sharing a home with your significant other.
When I met my husband, in pride of place in his bachelor pad living room was the only “proper” piece of art he has ever bought. It’s a painting of an apparently iconic football moment between a couple of men called Bobby Moore and Pelé, who are embracing, topless. It appears homoerotic but supposedly isn’t. The background is a colour that must surely be called Wince Turquoise, because it’s so bright and lurid that your eyes narrow and your teeth bare involuntarily when you see it. We have been looking for the right frame for this great work for nearly two decades now.
It’s endearing how long my sweet, trusting husband took to grow suspicious and question whether there was perhaps a chance I didn’t like the picture as much as he did. When we first moved in together, we watched When Harry Met Sally, but, luckily for me, the scene where the titular pair’s respective best friends Jess and Marie debate the wagon wheel coffee table went right over his head. Even the life-imitating-art bit where Jess asks what’s so awful about it, and Marie replies: “It’s so awful there’s no way to even begin to explain what’s so awful about it.”
She’s upfront with her opinion, which is one way to go, but it could be dangerous. You are ostensibly accusing your other half of having bad taste, ie insulting them, and they may well react by digging their heels in, and bringing their awful furnishings along for the ride. A far more subtle strategy – not for the impatient – is stealth redecoration. (Disclaimer: no responsibility accepted for any partners who read this column, pause, have a think, then say, “Hang on a minute, whatever happened to my *insert questionable item here*?” or any disputes that may arise as a result of this inadvertent memory jog.)
Surreptitious Changing Rooms (commission it! Millions would watch!) is playing the long game. You can’t get carried away, or become overconfident – any sudden moves and the whole jig will be up. True professionals will transfer things from room to room before getting rid of them altogether, in the manner of that magic trick where there’s a ball under one of three cups but it’s swapped round so often people end up losing track.
You don’t have to feel bad about doing any of this, because all you’re guilty of is helping. Educating. At absolute worst, being cruel to be kind. It’s bordering on philanthropic to relieve somebody of what does not serve them, even if they haven’t realised that yet.
There are of course exceptions here – the closest we will probably ever experience to genuine saints: those who accept aesthetically upsetting objects as part of the person they love.
My friend has a fluffy orange rug in her living room, like a Muppet died on the floor and they just left it there. She is a better person than I could ever be, although it must be noted that she greets first time visitors by saying, “That’s not my rug” even before she’s said “Hello”.
Maybe she’s being smart. Could it be that she has acquiesced on the rug in order to gain the upper hand in all other discussions? There’s so much about co-habiting that necessitates meeting halfway, when you’ve already made an ultimate sacrifice that’s constantly in your mutual eyeline, it might mean you enjoy free rein everywhere else.
Should I follow suit, free Bobby Moore and Pelé from their dusty cupboard prison, and allow them to fulfil their destiny? Think of the money we’d save on electricity, that radioactive background would light up the whole house. Ah, if only we could find the right frame.
