I realise my latest fashion fetish (a uniform of black pants and grey t-shirts chosen to discourage thoughts of wardrobe-improvement and any related episodes of retail therapy) makes me look like an escaped mental patient (you wear what you are, right?) Believe it or not, however, there is method in my madness. There may even be a bit of brilliance.
Take my laundry pile (please). The weather people are promising afternoon rainstorms of epidemic proportions which has put a halt to all housework operations for the day because if you can’t do housework right, you just shouldn’t do it.
We live off the grid (or off our rockers if you listen to some people), so when line drying clothes is impossible, I only do emergency batches of laundry to hang on the racks inside. It’s rainy days like these that I thank my brain and the lucky stars circling it for having the forethought to plan a wardrobe that not only but allows instant changes without ruining my new signature asylum-chic look but keeps my contributions to the laundry pile in check.
I’m going to be bold here and say that such this superhuman ability to avoid cleaning by relying on a style that takes no work or creativity (at all) is the missing link between genius, madness and a mysterious phobia of ritual housework that scientists have been seeking for decades.
I’ll see you all in Stockholm.