Juliet Dunlop: Kidston's kitsch joke is on us When Gerald Ratner joked that a pair of his gold earrings wouldn't last as long a M&S prawn sandwich, the damage was done. By suggesting that his reasonably priced bling may not be something he'd buy for his own wife, he wiped millions from the value of his company in one fell swoop. The sandwich joke stuck in the throats of customers - along with some other ill-advised comments about a Ratner's sherry decanter. The gaffe was so bad, the impact so immediate, that "doing a Ratner" became 1990s shorthand for shooting yourself in the foot. The problem was he'd been honest. Far too honest. Anyone in business who even suggests that they wouldn't give houseroom to whatever it is they're selling, is heading for choppy waters; the retail rapids if they're not careful. This week the polka dot yacht of Cath Kidston sailed closer than it should have done to those self-same rapids. Kidston, if you are among the tiny band still to purchase one of her pinnies, has made a fortune out of selling floral oven gloves, strawberry-covered tablecloths and busy-looking tea-cosies. Her products are homely and widely copied. Tell someone you've bought a Cath Kidston mug and they'll know exactly what you mean - she could make a meat cleaver look cosy. But there's nothing remotely homemade about her business; it's an aggressively retro, hand-painted juggernaut worth £89 million. Not bad for someone who started out selling tea towels around the same time Gerald Ratner did a Ratner. Kidston has been successful because she's tapped into selling us a lifestyle that's firmly rooted in 1950s make-do and mend optimism, a phoney domesticity that appeals to women of all ages. With 113 shops around the world selling everything from cake tins to clothes, Cath Kidston isn't just a brand, it's a way of life. Except Kidston isn't the living, breathing brand we all thought she was. This week she revealed that she prefers to keep her kitsch in the cupboard. While her devoted fans risk disappearing into a chintzy haze, Kidston keeps her own range of knick-knacks hidden away. "People come to my house in Chiswick and say, "Oh, you haven't got much Cath Kidston!"" Her taste is "all quite clean" apparently. She doesn't like clutter or fussiness. So there you have it. Cath Kidston isn't living out the country cottage fantasy we all rather naively thought that she was. She lives in a clutter-free, sleek, minimalist haven. Her pristine, Scandinavian kitchen has probably never even seen a jam jar. If that wasn't bad enough, Kidston went on to completely blow her cover by admitting that she'd never wanted to be "that housewife who has supper ready in the evening" and does not "aspire to that existence." That's the same old-fashioned existence her business has been carefully nurturing for the last 20 years. Women who do aspire to the existence that she clearly doesn't, must feel slightly duped. Kidston has specialised in peddling an idealised vision of domesticity that has made baking and sewing look like the norm, when in reality few women have the time or the inclination to indulge in either. The joke has been on us - but we were willing victims. All Cath Kidston is guilty of doing is selling us a very specific, carefully (home) crafted imaginary life. No-one really hangs out washing, feeds chickens and bakes a Victoria sponge while wearing a dirndl skirt, do they? She's successfully pulled off a great marketing trick and one that others have used long before her. Take the designer Ralph Lauren. He's built an empire out of selling clothes which epitomise a rich, white, all-American preppy ideal. Lauren, real name Ralph Lifshitz, was born in the Bronx to Jewish immigrants from Poland but knows better than anyone how to sell the WASP dream. He's got the T-shirt to prove it (the one with the polo player, if you're not a follower of fashion). Kidston has done the same thing, only she's made domesticity desirable. And while Ratner made his customers feel stupid, Kidston has only rolled us over - into a hand-stitched quilt of competitively priced cheerfulness. Perhaps we can forgive her for putting the faded roses into the cupboard and living in the real world.