I am not, as a rule, a napkins person. But occasionally I have been seized by a vaporous mania of Hyacinth Bucket-ness and have thought that napkins are a brilliant idea.
But the problem with napkins is this: at one or other dinner, someone will spill a great load of red wine on one of your napkins and you will then be operating with an odd number for evermore.
(Actually there are loads of problems with napkins – washing and ironing are two more – but this is the main one.)
The solution is a clutch of very jazzy napkins, which can take a few indelible stains in their stride. They would also liven up my unspeakably plain and rather drab kitchen-diner, decked out in the mutest blues with horrifying cliche of a zinc-topped table.
I was inspired to think about jazzy napkins by a very smart dinner I went to last week, where the napkins were decked out in a sort of green-and-pink paisley swirly pattern of unimaginable jauntiness.
I have no doubt that they were purchased on some sort of dreamy holiday to, like, Rajasthan or Italy – but I will have to make do with these from Anthropologie.