Right, you've got me thinking about that old bathroom of mine in Clapham. Blimey, what a state it was when I first moved in. The previous owner, lovely chap, but his idea of storage was a wobbly wire shelf over the loo and a pile of towels on the floor. Dreadful.
So, when I finally got my hands on the place, I went mad for a proper freestanding cabinet. Not one of those flat-pack things you screw to the wall and hope for the best. I mean a real piece of furniture. You know, the kind that stands there all confident, like it owns the room. Found this gorgeous, reclaimed oak number in a dusty antique shop on Bermondsey Street last autumn. The chap said it was a 1920s haberdashery counter in a past life. Can you believe it? It’s got these little drawers that still smell faintly of linen and tobacco. Heavenly.
Now, the *storage* bit. It’s not just about shoving your spare loo rolls in there, is it? It’s a proper game of Tetris. The top drawer? That’s for the daily stuff. My razor, toothpaste, the good face cream I treat myself with. The middle shelf, behind the glass doors, that’s for display. I’ve got my grandmother’s mismatched porcelain jars there—one for cotton wool, one for those fancy soaps you never actually use. Lets the light through and looks rather smart. The bottom cabinet is the messy truth: hairdryer, cleaning sprays, the big bottle of shampoo you buy on sale. Out of sight, mind saved.
But here’s the thing most people get wrong—they forget about the *top*. The crown of the cabinet! That’s prime real estate. Mine holds a trailing pothos in a chipped blue pot (nearly killed it with overwatering last February, but it’s bounced back) and a small, rather ugly ceramic frog my nephew made. It makes me smile. You need that personality. A stark, empty top just looks like you’re waiting for a hotel maid to come and clean it.
I remember visiting a friend in Brighton, and her bathroom had this tall, skinny cabinet painted a glorious peacock blue. She’d taken the doors off entirely and used it as open shelving. Towels rolled up like sushi, stacks of fluffy white towels, a few seashells scattered about. It smelled of sea salt and lemons. Worked a treat because she’s tidy as a pin. Me? I need doors. Glazed doors are my sweet spot—lets you hint at the organised chaos within without fully exposing your questionable collection of bath bombs.
It’s really about layers, innit? Like a good outfit. You’ve got the hidden bits (the socks and pants), the statement piece (the open shelf with your nice things), and a bit of whimsy on top (the hat, or in this case, the ceramic frog). A freestanding piece lets you do all that. It’s not stuck to the wall, begging for mercy. It’s got presence. It says, "I didn’t just buy a bathroom, I *curated* it." Well, most days it says that. Other days, with a damp towel slung over the side, it just says, "I tried."
So, to answer your question… it’s not defined by one option. It’s the whole blooming symphony—the deep drawers for secrets, the shelves for showing off, the feet that keep it off the damp floor, and the top that tells your story. Just make sure it’s got good bones. Nothing worse than a cabinet that shudders every time you close a drawer. My old one used to do that—drove me absolutely spare.
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