“It’s a dangerous thing to admit you like something” S once warned. “Tell anyone you like a stag and before you know it the house will be full of them.”
I know he speaks the truth. My Nan once said she liked poppies. Her house is now full of them. Trinkets, cushion covers, pictures, coasters…I’m not even sure if she does really like them, but I’m afraid I’ve contributed, in my time, to the poppy landfill currently engulfing her house.
That all said, its me who is leading on the stag-hunt around our way. Three have set up stabling in the bathroom.
Another is modelling a lampshade on its antlers in the lounge and a fourth has its silouhette on a hessian cushion.
If you look hard enough there are others…..I’ve a scarf featuring stags and pyjamas, albeit Christmas themed, sporting others. Plus we have a picture of one with a party hat on enjoying his ‘stag night’.
Though S often puts me right by saying that in actual fact some of these are moose. But surely….where decor is concerned….they are kinda one and the same?
Admittedly all this was sparked by a (rare) impulse buy S made of four stag coat hooks for the hallway.
They were, I’ll confess, not anything I would have chosen left to my own devices but I love them nonetheless. What’s more, to give him due credit, S was well ahead of the pack herd as it was pre-everyone-else-including-Sainsburys getting in on the act.
But thank goodness Sainsburys did….as I rather fancied a little taxidermy stylee in the snug above the door (next to the library wall) and neither budget nor ethics stretched to the real deal. I’d had a bit of an internet search in the name of research and had been tempted by Abigail Ahern’s silver rhino and her bison for Debenhams. Problem was, whilst both were on sale, neither were in stock. Definitely a
fly flea in the ointment. So it was while I was on my food shop at my local superstore and had found myself unwittingly meandering down the home aisle (when I should have been perusing the veg) that I stumbled across this handsome fella. £15. He’d do, I thought. Perhaps with a little makeover.
Once I’d put him in his new coat he looked rather lovely….and more importantly…matched his peers standing obediently in line in the hallway. But, apparently, there was one significant difference.
“Pet. It’s a moose.”
“Regardless of his species, can you hang him above the door please?” I asked.
A few busy weekends passed and my decapitated moose sat patiently, albeit forlornly, on a chair. After a while he was shunted to the floor. Before long he found himself helpfully (as far as O was concerned) sporting a knights helmet and I did wonder if being a coat hanger, much like his hallway counterparts, would be his sole purpose in life.
Sunday evening came, and an exhausted S sank down heavily beside me.
“You know, I haven’t sat down all day.” he said. “And I said to my mate…..if she asks me to put up that f**king moose I’ll go mad.”
“And did I?” I asked.
“No pet. You didn’t.”
And to reward me for my rare showing of patience, the next weekend…entirely without prompt….up he went.
And he’s looking pretty pleased with himself.
In a grumpy, Baby-A-Furious, kind of way.