I see your perfectly presented public image, all clean lines and linen so white it thinks police violence isn’t a problem. I hear your small, tinkly little voice, like a unicorn farting politely through a set of wind chimes. I see you bow and I see you smile, never judgmental, always deferential, the scent of flowers and pressed laundry following you into every cluttered house you enter. You’re the answer to excess, aren’t you, Marie Kondo? A lifestyle guru for the have-too-muches, a cult leader with a network of certified consultants who for a small charge of a few hundred dollars will turn up at your house and tell you it’s okay to throw out that box full of old shoes. Thank God you’re here, for how would we ever have worked that out on our own?
You’re the inventor and advocate of the KonMari method, a lifestyle shift and pioneering new way of thinking that essentially amounts to “throw out your shit, you big messy idiot.” It’s carefully couched in inspirational language and quasi-mystic bollocks about energy flow and clarity of mind. Naturally every Western office manager with a kitchen island, pebble garden and Yo Sushi loyalty card is throwing their money at you like a divorced BMW driver in a strip club. It’s an absolute cult, a masterful piece of psychological manipulation that nudges us all towards the unrealistic expectation of a shiny chrome and alabaster house that a Scandinavian lawyer could get murdered by her toaster in during an episode of Black Mirror. Never mind that life itself is messy, complicated and usually involves kids or dogs shitting or shedding in places that they shouldn’t – there’s A Process all these poor, cluttered fools can follow, and all it costs is a few hundred quid and an abdication of your own responsibility to not mindlessly hoard and consume.
You’ve dominated the world, Marie Kondo, becoming a genuine cultural phenomenon and cementing your position as the world’s authority on clearing old out tut. But you can be so much more, can’t you?
I see your limousine, sparkling and so white it could get community service for raping a woman in college. I see the agent in black trot around the side of the car, his face expressionless behind his dark sunglasses. I see him open the door and I see you step out, the cold London wind momentarily disturbing the precise set of your box fringe.
I see you run your hands down your floral dress, Marie Kondo, pressing out the tiny and imperceptible creases. I see you tug the hem of your cardigan into perfect alignment, a garment so white it once donated edible flowers to a food bank. I see you crick your neck and crack your knuckles. It’s time to get to work, isn’t it?
I see your heels clacking on the flagstones and I see you trot up the steps. You’re here to declutter; to tidy away the old, unwanted mess. You’ll search every inch of the building, green and red benches alike, clearing out the waste and detritus.
I hear the screams, Marie Kondo, and from within the belly of the building a series of muffled booms and thumps. I hear glass shattering, furniture crashing against walls, ceilings collapsing. I see a third floor window explode outwards, a human body spinning through the air in a shower of glittering glass. I see Liam Fox disappear into the roof of a convertible that folds in half with a metallic crunch under the force of the impact.
Out of the window I see the ceremonial gowns and sceptres come flying. I see the pomp, the bollocks, the completely unnecessary and archaic accumulation of hundreds of years’ worth of dated, ineffective crap tumble down into the gutter where it belongs.
I see the agent in the sunglasses check his watch, Marie Kondo. I smell burning hair and smoke. This was never going to be a job for a Platinum-level consultant, was it? This isn’t even a job for a Master. There could be only one. Only you. Only you could tear through the Houses of Parliament like a dervish, gutting it, leaving those few thin bones that remain.
There’s fuck all there that sparks joy. Fuck all there that serves much of a purpose or can achieve anything. It’s far beyond time for a clear out and a fresh start.
I see you, Marie Kondo. I fucking see you.
