The White Entryway Cabinet We’re Still Not Sick Of

One of us believes the single most truthful piece of furniture you can own is a white entryway cabinet, because within a week it will reveal to you exactly how organised – or not – the household within actually is. Another believes this is poppycock and it’s merely a box for holding keys. You can guess which of us has said what. We’ve been saying it for three years now and we’re not solving it anytime soon.

Here’s what it does that nothing else does: an entryway cabinet deals with the chaos that is coming in through your front door. It deals with coats and post and a school bag and someone’s charger cable that doesn’t live anywhere else and gives it all one shelf and a drawer to become one person’s problem later. One of us maintains the drawer is sacrosanct and only contains a spare key and a torch.

Another treats it as a hoarder of miscellaneous stuff and it now contains hand cream and dog leads and a single glove and what can only be administrative shrapnel.

Neither approach is winning.

We will both admit that white is unforgiving.

Every.single.mark. Every scrape from a rogue bike pedal, every muddy paw at dog-height, every ring from leaning an umbrella in the hurry of closing the door. One of us polishes it every evening like a repentant child. Another has learnt to live with the damage as part of its charm and only notices them when guests point them out, at which point a very brisk conversation takes place about how it “adds character”.

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No one tells you about the tops of them. Everyone talks about what they’re going to put on the top. Usually, photos. Of lamps and cute key bowls. Realistically, it becomes a dumping ground for post that you haven’t opened since March, a candle you’ve never lit, sunglasses no one needs in December and at least one parking permit from an earlier administration. One of us has accepted this. Another tidies it every Sunday, only for it to become a tip again by Wednesday, and swears about it loudly.

Here’s the one thing we can agree on. Highstreet small furniture doesn’t tell you it needs to be CAT 5 by kids and parents alike, but it really does. Walked into repeatedly in the dark. Smashed up against with a pram. Kicked by the school shoe of whoever’s leg is waving about at head-height.

And after all that terrible trauma, it still needs to look – give or take a scratch – how it did when you first bought it.

Ours has survived toddler-led crime thrice over; a scooter into one corner twice, a toddler with felt tip once.

You only know if we tell you.

So yes, our discussion continues. The merits of a sacred drawer versus a graveyard of gloves, daily acts of penance versus lived in character. And we will probably never agree. We do know we will both buy another one if we have more children. We will buy it tomorrow. In white. Scuffs and all. Because frankly, not having one – and therefore somewhere for all that madness to hit when you walk in the door – doesn’t bear thinking about.