Slippery Superfluity

At the start of each year a Chinese acquaintance presents me with something I really don't want: a calendar. Of course I need a calendar but, for that very same reason, I already have one (on my phone and computer and synced with my partner's). The gift is therefore surplus to requirements (as so many are) and, even if it were not, it would still be an unwelcome addition our household stuff: a showy object, lavishly produced, garishly coloured and big; designed not so much to display the date as to show off the ancient Chinese craft of decorative paper-cutting. A very tiny proportion of its surface area is devoted to actual dates, which means that reading glasses must be located before consulting it. I know it's ungracious but I don't want to give up precious wall-space to a big red doily which has an illegible, bi-lingual calendar appended to it. I usually stow it at the back of a wardrobe for a couple of months before my conscience dulls enough to allow me to chuck it out.

This year, however, my conscience is clear for, having moved to a less open-plan apartment, I've found a spot where the gift may hang fairly unobtrusively, without causing constant offence to the eye or upsetting the carefully considered feng shui of the place: a small landing half way up the staircase. It's a compromise, but it doesn't diminish my conviction that the design of objects works best when driven by the 'fit-for-purpose' principle. In this I'm not alone and, by coincidence, I found support in a short film made in 1962 by Ken Russell. Titled The Lonely Shore it imagines a time when archaeologists are trying to make sense of household objects from Britain long after it has been obliterated. Their puzzlement is greatest when examining superfluously decorated objects such as a fire-dog stand masquerading as an armoured knight - and they certainly don't get the irony of the imitation log fire it is paired with. On the other hand they are full of admiration for sleek, functional pieces such as Eero Saarinen's Tulip chair, concluding that an alien species must have been responsible for them.

And if practical evidence of the importance of fit-for-purpose design were needed,  my recent accident involving cups, a teapot, stairs and a shiny plastic tray should serve to reinforce the point. Mankind must do better than continue to prioritise decoration over functionality - especially when it comes to everyday household equipment. I've been looking ever since for a non-slip tray - like they have in Café Nero - but the shops are awash only with dangerously slippery ones.

   

Imagine my joy, then, when a serious, proper caterers' supplies outlet opened up in the next block, significantly improving the odds of finding my dream tray. Browsing the store I relished the sight of all that stock, universally utilitarian - in the best sense - having been designed simply to do the job professionally and, furthermore, manufactured robustly, so as to stand the daily rigours of the trade. There, sure enough, were the sought-after black, rubbery trays, in a variety of shapes and sizes - and all very reasonably priced.

When I got back home I binned the treacherous old tray without a second thought and, impatient to put the new one through its paces, shouted upstairs to my partner "Shall I bring you some tea?"

"No thanks", she said. Disappointed, but not daunted, I made tea anyway and, grasping the loaded tray with just one hand, strode confidently up to the landing. Chuffed as I was, however, there was still one thing that marred my delight: the big, red, resentful-looking doily glaring down at me.

Year of the Sheep. Bah!