By 
It’ll probably not come off as completely incongruous with the uncouth public image I’ve inadvertently cultivated through this column, when I admit that I have never really cared much about interior design.
What is more likely to confound, though, is that lately this has been changing – I’ve been changing.
And my evolution – mutation? – has been an unsettling experience for me and those around me.
For context: I’ve always felt both above and beneath interior design; neither caring about it, nor wishing to care about it.
Had I reflected on whether I had an eye for it, I’d probably have recognised – no I did not.
But as a man who cannot understand why anyone would waste their time contemplating the aesthetic merits of different styles of door knobs, the last thing I was going to ponder was my own inability to perform such pointless appraisals myself.
Suffice to say that, in a world where all pursuits, passions and interests are at some level arbitrary and in that sense equal, I believed – and still, I think, do believe – that some are more equal than others.
And installing new faucets and inviting people around to your house in the hope they’ll notice them, is among the least equal of all.
But over the last few weeks I’ve been moving into my own house, and I have to confess – I’m getting pretty into it.
At first I told my partner Niamh to just work away.
“Nah, you have to be involved,” she said.
And involved I became – at first in the impractical, grandiose, slightly infantile manner that any young-ish man faced with his own home and a few pound to do it up tends to become involved.
I demanded a snooker table.
And swiftly found myself at the receiving end of the riposte: “It’s a three bedroom council house, not the crucible.”
Then, moving down the list of things that impress me in other people’s houses, I suggested a home bar.
“Maybe,” she said. “Or even a just a whiskey decanter.”
Soon after that we had an argument about what size of television the manor would require; her making a practical argument in favour of “something 40” or under, and I presenting her with a blueprint detailing the security weaknesses in Omniplex’s IMAX and the number of a guy I know who operates a crane.
But at some stage during these domestic planning discussions, we both started to cede ground.
Though, I reckon I’m giving up more territory than her.
When I proposed a CD player instead of a flashier, trendier and stupidly expensive record player, she agreed wholeheartedly.
When she showed me a red leather sofa on Facebook Marketplace, I didn’t just acquiesce, I got excited and hopped straight into the van.
Then before I knew I was an earnest, enthusiastic, uncoerced participant in conversations about colour, style, patterns, materials – at one stage I caught myself saying something about ‘balance’…
As soon as it came out of my mouth, I realised how far into this fugazi I’d fallen.
“What have I become?” I said, dropping my terracotta drenched paintbrush to my side, sending ropes of rust across the laminate, herringbone-effect floor.
“Next thing I’ll be prancing around Menary’s, sniffing candles and arguing with staff over the price of photo frames.”
