Men, Leather And The New Place

After doing my bit for womens' rights this week Girl RD was born, the new superhero, fighting for the rights of women, even ugly ones. I feel like one of those American blokes, you know, the sort who says that they're "in touch with their feminine side".

On Monday afternoon I got the keys to the new RD pad, which will be known as RD Towers from here on. I turned up there, met the estate agent, got keys and a huge big instruction book and was then left on my own.

I felt a bit like that tree, the one that falls down in the forest and everyone wonders if anyone hears it falling. Except I was a bloke in an apartment. And I didn't fall down. And I wasn't a tree. Other than that the similarities were uncanny.

After so many months of being with people, I was alone in an alien environment. I'd looked forward to the moment for so long, but suddenly I was on my own in the place, looking around and thinking "what now?"

You see, apart from kitchen appliances and some built in wardrobes, the place is empty. There's not a bed nor a chair to be seen, there's no TV and no telephone, no nothing.

The half full cup of optimist juice looks upon this as a rather trendy looking blank canvas, upon which I can paint a picture that reflects me now, with the things I like and want.

The half empty glass of pessimist juice thinks "Oh fuck, RD's going to have to buy furniture and cushioney things all by himself."

And, to tell you the truth, my mind swings like a pendulum on acid between the two glasses of juice.

Optimist juice is flavoured with excitement, real stomach butterfly excitement, and a hint of cardamon. Pessimist juice is flavoured with a bit of fear and some trepidation.

The existing catalogue of furniture in my possession is hardly one that competes with Ikea in terms of number of pages. I'd be pushed to call it a two page catalogue, mostly because it's only got two things inside; my planter's chair and my TV, and I think calling a TV furniture is banned by the guild of furniture fans, though heavily opposed by the pressure group "action against TVs not being classed as furniture" (AATVNBCF or AATVsNBCAF to the purists).

This all means that I'm building from scratch, basing everything around the planter's chair and my electronic drums. It means that I could end up with RD Towers being a style palace, one that Barbara Sansoni might come and do a chalk drawing of, or it might be the sort of disaster zone that looks like it's been designed by Joey and Phoebe from Friends, on their own.

Right now I say it's an even money situation.

This life, this one of furniture catalogues and interior decorating magazines, is enormously fun.

And I've realised another one of the fundamental differences between the fairer sex and the one with balls, well the one with smaller balls. It's leather, or use and application thereof.

Women wear leather quite happily. Shoes, bags, jackets, even skirts and trousers made of leather are seen on women of all types. You lot generally are fine with leather clothing.

But leather where furniture is concerned is a different matter altogether, we men love the stuff. For us a leather chair or car seat is a thing of beauty. A dark brown or black leather settee is the epitome of style and class for a man, even one like me, Girl RD. It doesn't matter about the shape of the item, the comfort of it or how the legs are designed. It's leather and it's good. End of story.

For women leather is something that men like. White leather falls into that in between territory. Statistics show that 98.6% of white leather chairs and settees are bought by Indian women, matriarchs who have husbands with delusions of grandeur. Apparently they let the husband have leather, then insist on it being white, sometimes that cream colour. No one is happy.

You know when you see one of those highly trendy designer type apartments? One with stylish leather furniture and metallic looking legs to everything. Well you never imagine that it's owned or lived in by a woman do you? In the head it's occupied by some sort of single George Clooney batchelor clone, a Cloney.

When you see one with colour and real taste, that's the place you imagine that's occupied by a woman.

Girl RD's all well and good, fighting for womens' rights and things. But I'm busily browsing through leather settees and chairs like there's no tomorrow. The only softer option is that suedey stuff, only if it smells of leather.

As much as I'm in touch with my feminine side I fear that to choose a chair or settee made from fabric, maybe with colours or patterns, could end in total disaster.

Leather it is.

Other than that there's nothing to say.