I’m of the opinion that an overriding interest in ‘porn’ of any kind (I love the way we use the affectionate diminutive about something which ruins so many lives – like calling him ‘Fred’ West) isn’t especially good for the long-term happiness of people. But of course some sorts are worse than others. At the top, you’d have child pornography; at the bottom, property porn.
The two find an odd union in the life of India Knight, the un-cancellable Sunday Times nepo-baby hack (her stepfather was editor of the Economist) who has been delighting us for decades, though not perhaps in the way she believes. Highlights of her brilliant career – while posing as an arbiter of gracious living and civilised discourse – must be accusing a fellow hack of masturbating cats and standing by her man – the repulsive ex-Labour MP Eric Joyce – when he was convicted of viewing extraordinarily depraved film of child rape.
He found in possession of a film that showed, in the words of one report, ‘the sexual abuse of very young children… featuring what appeared to be seven different children, aged between 12 months and seven years and the penetration of a baby.’ One of the reasons he escaped jail was his lawyer getting out the tiny violin and pleading: ‘He has given up drinking, found a partner that he loves, she loves him and they have made a life together.’
You’d think presenting herself as Suzy Homemaker was a bit of a stretch, but Knight has never been backward in coming forward in the hypocrisy stakes. ‘Your house isn’t for other people. It isn’t for Instagram. It’s for you,’ she says, with a photographer from the Times snapping away in the background and a book called Home – subtitled ‘How to love it, live in it and find joy in it’ – to promote, which started out as a Substack. So all strictly private then.
For a start, can I just say that I’ll never get the fuss about how much some people care about the way other people decorate their dwellings? People have different tastes; they like what they like. It’s that gorgeously simple. I’m a minimalist (tidy), my husband is a maximalist (messy), which is another good reason not to cohabit. But Knight feels that there’s only her way or the heartless highway: ‘I love stuff. Teetering piles of books, messy kitchens, walls filled with pictures… Interiors have become so bland and anodyne, so by-numbers, so algorithm-led, that I genuinely worry. What sustains them when they come home from work?’
There’s a touch of the Miss Havisham about this: Knight sitting by candlelight in a house full of tat
Knight continues: ‘Where is the joy, the mess, the lively exuberance of a life well lived?… I am obsessed with the notion of home. I can move myself almost to tears thinking about it… I find the idea of this deeply moving – partly because it speaks to notions of childhood, of safety, comfort and cosiness (real or, more often, imagined), and there is something beautiful and poignant about grown humans trying to recreate that feeling.’ Ick, ick and thrice ick.
Joyce isn’t in any of the photos, which show Knight posing alone in rooms that look as though a gang of mad clowns were told to do what they want in them. But I felt his ghastly presence in the following: ‘Your home ought to be your refuge, your succour, the one place in the world where you can shut the door and exhale, and where you can feel utterly yourself, surrounded by the things you love and that are meaningful to you. It has to do with you and your self-expression.’
Oh dear. Can one person’s sense of self be so fragile that it depends on hanging paper decorations from the ceiling? But when you think Knight can’t get any weirder, she does, in this extract from the book:
Lighting is the most important thing in every single room, and you can’t have only one source of light because the room will look flat, unwelcoming and dreadful – a particular disaster in a kitchen… table lamps on the worktop instantly bring atmosphere and cosiness… Those wretched overhead spotlights unfortunately come as standard in most kitchens. They are incredibly unflattering, both to the room and to any humans unfortunate enough to be seated under one… Candles immediately create intimacy. I have dinner by candlelight every night, even if I am by myself eating instant ramen.
There’s a touch of the Miss Havisham about this: Knight sitting by candlelight in a house full of tat which she believes will distract the viewer – and herself – from uncomfortable truths. Reading her witless witterings, I was reminded, paradoxically, of the title of a work of genius: the Roxy Music song ‘In Every Dream Home a Heartache’. Everything is apparently there to stop the mind alighting on the awful elephant in the room.
Knight’s got a lot of hints for we hoi polloi on creating a lovely home, so I’ve got one for her – it’s worked for me and my wheelchair, negotiating my lovely little Art Deco flat, once so elegant, now filled with all the ugly contraptions of the permanently disabled. HAVE ALL THE DOORS TAKEN OFF THE ROOMS! And if hubby complains, lock him up under the stairs – leaving you free to pose for the cameras in your very private refuge to your shallow, sad heart’s content.
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