For men, decorating is all about seduction, distraction and the kill

JUST read over the testosterone-fuelled prose clawing up the side of a meaty bottle of aftershave: "A muscular hint of sandalwood impacts with a fistful of leather, held in firm command by a seductive breath of woodsmoke and musk."

What is going on here? Well, he might be well hidden in the 21st century and his steed just the ride-on mower, but when it comes to sight, touch and smell — being a man is still clearly an ancient and primal affair.

If the advertising bumpf is to be believed, a chunk of his essential being is still honed for making fire, seizing prey and gathering a mate from the wider environment.

Sexist primeval rubbish? You decide.

We think we have an idea of what a man might like to look at and the surroundings that we instinctively call ‘male’.

Most men are not cowed into fluffy, floral bowers, embroidered up by a thoroughly girlie girl.

My husband might be a case apart, (I doubt it). He knows I’m a collector and an interior control freak, but he has his own curiously vulpine technique for outfitting his area of the cave. It’s all about seduction, distraction and the kill.

First of all, there’s what he says to myself and others: “I wouldn’t take part in a decorating decisions — (gentle ho-ho and disarming shake of the head) — sure I’d be afraid.” This neatly tickles my ego and at the same time disables my attention.

I don’t notice him creeping through the undergrowth closer to what he really wants and it’s the choicest stuff all over the house.

It’s a variation of the same operation each time, performed with military daring, sans-merci. No woman could see it coming.

I bring home something that he likes. It’s placed in my area.

Let’s say the Y-legged Parker-Knoll desk I spotted in CJM Second hand Furniture in Cork. Days pass, and he slides the odd glance at it mournfully commenting that it doesn’t quite fit in my office nook.

‘Spatial awareness’, says he with a heavy side- serving of compassion — ‘women just don’t have it. Look at the way you’ve parallel parked that table thing’.

After the uproar and cups of tea, my resolve wobbles, he pounces and the desk is dragged off, legs aloft to his office.

The Fase lamp c.1972, an anniversary present, is still on my desk, but deliberately chosen as three shades away from the battered Vitra chair I’ve refused to surrender. Its days are numbered.

The Murano geode bowl in uranium glass was commandeered by night as a guitar pick holder.

Am I appalled? No, actually, given how besieged men are by work and family responsibility to behave, I find his covert hunter-gatherer behaviour rather attractive.

Take a discreet look around when you’re out with the migratory herds at the home-stores this weekend. Everywhere are the jaded partners of nattering women, trailing in the wake of pronouncements on what’s ‘gorgeous’ with weak nods conjoined by pathetic pleas for a sit-down lunch.

These muted men have the same grey, disappointed expression written large and little to look forward to bar light relief standing guard duty outside the changing rooms of Mahon Point. Any couple, gay or straight, can fall into a domineering unbalanced relationship when it comes to deciding on décor.

This can dig the first trench of a quietly widening rift of trampled self-expression. If you don’t know what the man in your life likes in the style and contents of a room, it’s time to explore. Go through interiors magazines together and see what grabs his attention, (when he’s not under interrogation at the showroom and politely agreeing with you).

The pared back putty-shaded rooms of today with flashes of accent colour and clean lined furniture are not gender bound. Men are too often typecast as wanting the same handsome, strong surroundings in dull colours, earthy materials and tough finishes.

We treat interior and fashion designing men as creatures apart, but why should women be given a monopoly on the creative brief for the family home?

A flamboyant communicative creature may be all dimmed-library and distressed hide leather at home, whereas a stoically suited bank manager may be raving in crushed velvets, Italian glass and acid brights behind his front-door.

Look over the top of the paper right now and ask yourself — who is he?