Our house

I live in a magical house.

It's a home that collects strays and those in need of some peace. Through the bright red door they come, stepping into the house's strong and safe arms.

Walls of history are wrapped all around the winding staircase, wonky doors, creaky floors and the years of stories, laughter, tears, success and defeat which have seeped into the wallpaper.

It's decorated with love. Shiny brown tea pots and little Crown Lynn cups, rocky chairs rescued from the street, a gramophone that needs to be fixed, and laughing Buddha presents from the East.

Our coffee table is home to The Economist, The New Statesman, and Kate and Will's wedding edition of Hello. We have more herbal teas than you can probably name, and there's usually at least a few biscuits in the big square bread tin.

Here we sit, in the middle of Clapham, an oasis of calm and safety, in an otherwise chaotic, and sometimes quite tough, world.