Blimey, you’ve really got me thinking now. A bathroom cupboard, innit? Funny thing is, most people don’t give it a second thought until they’re standing there at 7 a.m., toothpaste tube squeezed from the middle, scrambling for a spare roll of loo paper. Happened to me just last Tuesday, actually. My other half had “tidied up” our little bathroom in our flat near Clapham Junction. Could I find the new toothbrush heads? Not a chance. Everything was *in* the cupboard, but it might as well have been in Narnia.
See, that’s the whole game right there—what’s hidden away versus what’s left out in the open. It’s not just about shelves and doors. It’s a daily negotiation between chaos and calm, between what you *need* to see and what you’d rather forget.
Take my Auntie Margie’s place up in York. Her bathroom’s like a Victorian apothecary shop—gorgeous, really. She’s got this tall, freestanding oak cupboard with proper glass-fronted doors. You can see her neatly folded linen stacks, those fancy French soaps still in their wrappers, maybe a ceramic jar or two. It’s all on display, but it’s *curated*. The mess—the half-empty bottles of detangler, the nearly-done tub of muscle rub—that’s all tucked away in the drawers below. Her philosophy is, “If it’s pretty, let it breathe. If it’s practical, bless it, hide it.” And you know what? It works. You feel pampered just walking in.
Then you’ve got the modern minimalist approach. I helped a client in Shoreditch last spring—a tech bloke who wanted a “spa-like sanctuary.” We installed these sleek, handle-less cabinets that sit flush with the wall. You just press the panel and *whirr*, it glides open to reveal LED-lit shelves. All his stuff—razors, serums, cotton pads—concealed behind what looks like just another bit of wall. It’s all hidden, which creates that serene, empty look he wanted. But here’s the rub: he admitted he sometimes forgets what he even owns! Out of sight, out of mind… until you run out of dental floss.
For me? I’m a bit of a magpie. I like a mix. In my own loo, I’ve got a simple, open wooden shelf above the loo. That’s where the good stuff lives: a beautiful bottle of sandalwood hand wash, a thriving pothos plant in a terracotta pot, a little dish for my everyday jewellery. It’s the bits that make me smile. But directly underneath, there’s a small, lidded wicker basket. That’s the “truth box.” That’s where the less glamorous realities go—the spare toilet rolls, the pack of bleach wipes, the backup can of dry shampoo for those “oh no” mornings. It’s accessible, but not staring you in the face.
The real trick, I’ve learned, isn’t about choosing one over the other. It’s about being brutally honest with yourself. Do you *actually* remember to put the moisturiser away in a drawer every single day? If not, give yourself a break! Leave it out on a nice tray. Are you embarrassed by the sight of medication? Fair enough—get a cabinet with a mirrored door that shuts it all away. The defining feature of a good bathroom cupboard isn’t the hinge or the finish… it’s whether it suits the rhythm of your own, slightly messy, wonderfully human life.
It’s the difference between a showroom and a home. One holds things. The other holds your story—the hurried mornings, the long soaks, the little rituals. So maybe don’t ask what defines it. Ask what you need it to do for *you*. Right, I’m off—just remembered my fancy bath salts are languishing at the very back of the bottom shelf. What a waste!
Leave a Reply