Friends know that I’m a fabricaholic. A few years back they gave me this luscious blue, gold and purple fabric from Bangladesh.
It’s stiff when ironed, and crumples shortly afterwards. It’s semi-transparent and yet firm. Elegant, yet camp. Symmetrical, yet erratic.
Now, what to do with this cloth? For us fabricaholics, that’s never an issue. You keep it, doh! You store it in a cupboard and every now and then you take it out and experience it. Finger it. Touch it to your face. Lap up the colours, stroke the textures. Place it in the sitting room as an artefact on view. Meditate on it. Tuck it away again.
A beautiful fabric does not need to DO anything. It simply has to BE.
Nevertheless, this fabric has now been put to work. It has lost its privileged existence and does two jobs.
How are the mighty fallen!
One half of this glamorous cloth is now thrown over food on the dining table, to keep flies (and Ursula the cat) at bay.
The other half, with two seams, now tucks over my TV screen to soften its intrusive glare. I hate the way my TV used to dominate the room, a large black announcement that TV was the very purpose of this space, even the purpose of my day, of my very existence. Now the TV is disguised and robbed of its power by a strange garment. This showy, exotic fabric, once a magnet of attention, is now an invisibility cloak.
Friends have named my invention a TV-nightie (more accurately, it’s a dayie), or a TV cosy. What would you call it?