Every year, sometime around the end of October, my house starts to feel... right.

Not because I’ve decorated for autumn (though orange-red is my “pop” colour of choice year-round). Not because I’ve bought pumpkins (though I definitely have). Simply because the weather has caught up with its natural rhythm.

This time of year the lamps come on earlier, making the living room walls, painted in my favourite Setting Plaster, glow all evening. The blanket basket next to the sofa is empty because the blankets are actually being used, albeit for forts as much as movie snuggles. Soup season, arguably my favourite on the culinary calendar, is back with a vengeance, and there’s often something simmering on the stove. (For balance, baking season has also returned with gusto.)

Maybe it’s because we moved into this home at the end of October three years ago. Maybe it’s the north-facing living room, which naturally called for a warm wall colour. Maybe it’s that my own propensity for pinks and ochres, tactile materials and lots of art just suits this home.

Whatever the reason, this house comes alive in the autumn, and it’s got me thinking about why some homes feel more themselves at certain times of year.

In the land of capsule wardrobes, there’s a concept called shopping for your dominant season. And this one isn’t about which colours suit you best, it’s about allocating energy and budget where it’s most needed. Someone living in Scotland probably doesn’t need equal numbers of sandals and cashmere jumpers. Someone living in Australia doesn’t need a wardrobe full of wool coats; one or two might suffice. Simply put, this guideline ensures your wardrobe reflects your reality.

We rarely apply this kind of thinking to our homes. As a designer, I get a lot of questions along the lines of “I love this room in summer, but can’t stand sitting here in the darker months”, or vice versa. There seems to be an assumption that a well-designed home should feel consistent throughout the year. But while I believe that homes should of course function well in every season (and I work hard to help the ones I work on do so), I think it’s unrealistic to expect them to excel in every season.

Part of this comes from the way we consume interior content now. Instagram and Pinterest are brilliant sources of inspiration, but they naturally show homes at their most photogenic: sunlight streaming through linen curtains, fires lit on crisp autumn days, doors thrown open to gardens in summer. We rarely see the less glamorous reality of a home — the grey January afternoon, the overheated kitchen extension, or the space that only comes alive in a particular season.

In Britain, most houses still spend more time being cool than hot. Yes, this is changing, but low light, rain and cooler temperatures still dominate for most of the year. That doesn’t mean every home should be designed for winter — it simply means we shouldn’t ignore the conditions we actually live with.

A home’s dominant season isn’t something we choose as easily as a wardrobe. It’s shaped by the building itself: its architecture, orientation, materials and relationship to the outside world. Our job isn’t to force it to become something else, but to understand what it already does well, and work within those conditions.

A cosy Victorian terrace might feel glorious in winter. A coastal cottage could sing in summer. A converted barn might be incredible in autumn. A city apartment overlooking a park might shine in spring.

Funnily enough, my last home, less than two miles away from my current one, was a summer one. Mid-century bones and south-facing glazing in the living room, it asked for white walls, lots of negative space and patio doors left open all day.

It might be a lucky coincidence that my current home feels its best between October and March. Do I daydream about airy Mediterranean interiors in the increasingly sweltering summer months? Absolutely. But a home that feels effortless in one season isn’t necessarily failing in another. It’s simply revealing its character.

So maybe the question isn’t “How do I make my home feel equally perfect all year round?” but “When does my home naturally shine, and how can I support that?”

Because every home has its own conditions to work with: the quality of its light, the architecture, the materials, and the life that happens inside it. The job of good design is to understand these things and craft a response that feels both considered and inevitable.

The best homes are never the ones that could belong anywhere. They’re the ones that feel completely rooted where they are.

The Notebook

A few things that have caught my eye, occupied my mind, and shaped my work this month.

✎ On My Desk
A peek into my professional brain.

I’ve had curtains on the brain recently. Maybe it’s the nights drawing in, but consult clients are asking about them, and I’ve been eyeing up my own windows more critically too.

I won’t insult you by repeating the same advice you’ve heard a hundred times (say no to short curtains! Hang ‘em high and wide!), but I do have some thoughts to share. Because once you get beyond the basics, there are some surprisingly divisive curtain decisions to be made.

Here are my slightly controversial curtain opinions:

• I get why we all hate on eyelet curtains, but can we admit that they have a lovely drape? They’re essentially a way to get that soft wave fold without the specialty hardware. And sue me, I have a (temporary) set in my own home.

• Linen has become almost the default fabric for curtains that fade into the background, but can I make the case for wool? The weight and drape are sublime, and there’s something about the gravitas they brings to a room. Nordic Knots do some beautiful ones. Here in London I’d be too nervous about moths to commit, but if that wasn’t a concern, I’d be very tempted.

• BUT… not every curtain needs to disappear. We’ve spent years making curtains blend into the background (and I still specify solids and neutrals more than anything else), but a patterned or bold curtain can be one of the easiest ways to add personality to a scheme.

• I’ve come to the conclusion that, when properly hung on the right number of rings, I actually prefer pencil pleat to pinch pleat. It feels softer and less formal, and lets the fabric be the focus rather than the heading.

• 4-prong curtain hooks are the MVP of affordable curtains. You can take a standard-sized panel and make it look surprisingly close to custom in 20 minutes and about £8.

• Short curtains aren’t always bad. I said what I said. I even made a reel about it.

The thing about curtains is that they’re both practical and atmospheric. They’re about privacy, warmth and light control — but they’re also one of the quickest ways to change how a room feels.

📚 On My Shelf
Things that have been feeding my curiosity.

I’m a great one for buying design books and never actually reading them. New releases, vintage finds... I have no trouble convincing myself they’ll earn their place on the shelf. The reality, of course, is that in the age of Pinterest and Instagram, most end up being admired more than consulted.

There are, however, a handful that I reach for again and again.

The first are the more recent Farrow & Ball books: How to Decorate, Recipes for Decorating and How to Redecorate. As a devotee of the brand’s paints, I often find myself leafing through one for colour inspiration, or to revisit a particular project.

Even more useful are Frida Ramstedt’s two brilliantly practical books, The Interior Design Handbook and The Furnishing Handbook. Almost entirely style-neutral, they don’t tell you what to like, but explain why and how things work. Scale, spacing, circulation, furniture dimensions, visual weight... they’re the closest thing I know to a set of textbooks for decorating, and I recommend them constantly.

Aspirational interiors books will always have a place on my shelves. But the ones I value most are those with slightly grubby covers and Post-it notes stuck between the pages.

🚲 Out and About
Somewhere I’ve been and loved.

One thing about me? I love a cemetery. Not because of “spooky season” or any inclination towards the macabre; I just think they’re beautiful, peaceful places to stretch your legs while soaking up a bit of local history.

While this almost certainly began in childhood (my mum is an amateur genealogist, and family grave-hunting was a common holiday pastime), I’ve definitely ended up in the right city for it. London is home to the Magnificent Seven: seven grand private cemeteries established in the 19th century to relieve overcrowding in the city's churchyards. They’re places of extraordinary architecture, quiet beauty and even a little whimsy, and I’ve now visited nearly all of them.

Our nearest is West Norwood Cemetery, just a ten-minute walk from home, and we make the most of it. It’s where our children learned to ride their scooters, where we gather blackberries at the end of summer, where we go to watch the seasons change. It’s also dangerous territory if, like me, you collect vintage baby names as a hobby.

If you’re in London and looking for an autumn walk, I can’t recommend it highly enough. The trees are turning, the Victorian monuments disappear beneath carpets of leaves, and nowhere reminds me more that good places, like good homes, reveal different sides of themselves throughout the year.

🍽 At the Table
Things that make home feel like home.

I was going to write about soup season, but realised I did so this time last year (everything mentioned here still stands, btw). So instead, we pivot to quick breads.

Is there anything more autumn-coded than pulling a deliciously scented loaf out of the oven? Not unless it’s doing so while Gilmore Girls is on in the background.

To my mind there exist two perfect banana bread recipes. One (and my family’s dependable standby) is Susan Mendelson’s Ridiculously Simple Banana Bread, from the classic Canadian cookbook Mama Never Cooked Like This.

The other is Molly Wizenberg’s Banana Bread with Chocolate Chips and Candied Ginger, an altogether fancier affair, and one I sadly made less often these days, because, well — kids.

But at this time of year, the real star is Smitten Kitchen’s Pumpkin Bread. Perfectly spiced, rich without being heavy, and somehow tasting even better the next day, it’s become one of my favourite autumn bakes. I’m hoping to make the first loaf of the season this weekend.

💬 A Single Question
I’d love to know…

In which season does your home come alive?

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“What colour should I paint this room?” is one of the questions I’m asked most often.

And while nobody loves a fan deck quite like I do, answering it usually means taking several figurative steps backwards. A paint colour has to respond to the light, the architecture, the materials already in the room, and how you want to use the space.

So before I open a paint fan deck, these are the five questions I ask.

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1. How much natural light does the room have?

Natural light is the single most important factor when it comes to choosing a paint colour. I said what I said.

After all, light is what reveals colour. The exact same paint can look soft and muted in one room, bright and cheerful in another, and almost completely different by evening.

Of course, artificial light plays a part too; but crucially, it can be adapted and altered. We can add lamps, swap light bulbs or rethink a lighting scheme. Natural light must be harnessed, and short of adding windows or an extension, you’re working with what the building gives you.

So before I even think about colour, I try to understand the light itself.

How much is there? Is it direct or diffused? Does it change dramatically throughout the day? When is the room used, and how does that tally up with the available light? Is this somewhere that needs to feel bright and energising, or a room where leaning into its cocoon-like qualities might be the better choice?

The more natural light a room has, the more freedom you generally have with colour. Bright rooms can often carry everything from crisp whites (in fact, I’d argue they’re the only rooms that should ever be painted white, but I’ll leave that for another post) to rich, saturated shades without feeling overwhelmed.

We often assume that dark rooms need light colours. Fearing gloominess, we try to "brighten them up". More often, I find those spaces come into their own when you acknowledge the light conditions rather than fighting them, choosing colours with enough depth to feel intentional instead of compromised.

A paint colour isn't successful by itself. It's successful in a particular room, under a particular light. Which is why I always start here.

Designer's takeaway: Choose a paint colour for the light you have, not the light you wish you had.

2. Which way does the room face?

If the first question is how much light a room gets, the second is what kind of light it gets.

Natural light changes throughout the day and throughout the year, and according to the direction your windows face. That’s why the same paint colour can feel cosy and warm in one room and unexpectedly crisp in another.

Generally speaking, north-facing rooms receive cooler, bluer light. South-facing rooms are filled with warmer, more consistent sunlight. East-facing rooms enjoy soft warm morning light before becoming cooler later in the day, while west-facing rooms do the opposite, becoming warmer and more alive as the day wears on.

These are useful starting points, but aspect is only one part of the story. A room overlooking a garden will receive different light from one facing a brick wall. A basement with a lightwell behaves differently from a second-floor bedroom. Trees, neighbouring buildings, deep window reveals and even the weather all influence the quality of light.

This is where undertones become so important. A grey can lean blue, green, purple or brown. A white can be crisp and clean or soft and creamy. The direction and temperature of the light will often emphasise those undertones.

Once you understand the light, you can decide whether to work with it, or gently balance it.

In a north-facing room, you might want to counteract cooler light with warmer colours — think neutrals with creamy yellow or red undertones, or greens with a touch of warmth. Alternatively, you might choose to embrace the atmosphere and use deeper, more dramatic shades that work with the natural mood of the space.

South-facing rooms can handle a wider range of colours, but the warmer light will intensify some shades. Cooler whites, blues and greens can feel beautifully balanced here, while very warm colours appear stronger and more saturated.

Aspect doesn’t tell you what colour to choose, but it tells you what that colour will have to contend with.

Designer’s takeaway: Aspect doesn’t tell you which colour to choose — it tells you how that colour will behave.

3. What is staying?

When choosing a colour scheme, we spend so much time agonising over wall colour. But paint is only one element of the whole.

Before I start thinking about paint colours, I take stock of everything that’s staying put. Flooring, worktops, fireplaces, cabinetry, tiles, exposed brick, timber trim, even large pieces of furniture if they’re not going anywhere. These are the things your paint colour has to live alongside every day.

This is where people often come stuck. They’ll fall in love with a colour from a paint chip or image online, only to discover it doesn’t quite work once it’s next to a honey oak floor, a cool grey sofa or a pink-leaning limestone fireplace.

The question isn’t whether those existing elements (we call them fixed finishes in the trade) are fashionable or whether you’d choose them today. It’s simply: what are they asking the paint to do?

Sometimes that means harmonising undertones so everything feels cohesive. Sometimes it means introducing contrast to stop a room feeling flat.

This question is especially important if you’re decorating in stages. Most of us don’t renovate an entire house at once. We inherit kitchens, keep bathrooms for another few years, or decide to live with uninspiring but functional flooring until the budget allows otherwise.

One of the great things about paint is that it's rarely permanent. Flooring, kitchens and tiles are expensive to replace; walls can always be repainted later, to suit those bigger-ticket items when they’re in place. So instead of choosing a colour for the home you wish you had, choose one that works with the home you have now.

Designer’s takeaway: Paint should respond to the things that are hardest to change.

4. What feeling (and function) do I want to create?

This is where we move from the conditions of the space to our intentions for it. We can analyse light and fixed finishes all we want, but if we’re not clear on what we want from a room, we’re still only halfway there. A successful colour scheme will actively shape how a space feels and functions.

If the “feeling” of a space seems like a somewhat nebulous concept, start with the function. What is this room for? What will happen here? How do you want to move through it? Then ease into the emotion of it all: How do you want to feel when you walk in? How do you want others to feel?

A kitchen might want to feel energetic, sociable and welcoming. A bedroom could call for calm, softness and retreat. A home office needs focus, creativity or a sense of inspiration.

The same room might give completely different answers depending on the person living there. A sitting room designed for quiet evenings with a book might demand a very different colour palette from one destined for lively gatherings with friends and family.

This is why choosing a colour based purely on how it looks in an image can be misleading. A beautiful room isn’t just a collection of colours that work together visually; it’s a space that supports the life happening within.

Designer’s takeaway: Choose colours for the experience you want to create, not just the look you want to achieve.

5. How does this room connect to the rest of the house?

Finally, I think beyond the room itself.

We don’t experience our homes one room at a time. We move through them. We catch glimpses from one space into another. We arrive at the front door, enter the hallway, walk into the kitchen, climb the stairs to bed. Every paint colour is part of a bigger picture.

That doesn’t mean every room needs to be painted the same colour. (In fact, the answers to the previous four questions often preclude that option, and a little contrast makes a home feel richer and more interesting.) But there should be a conversation between the spaces.

Sometimes that continuity comes from repeated undertones. Sometimes it’s a consistent trim colour, similar levels of saturation, or a sequence of colour choices that naturally leads you through the house. Variation is welcome, but no room should feel as though it belongs in an entirely different home.

I also pay particular attention to sightlines. Which colours can you see together? How does the view from one room frame the next? Do adjacent colours complement each other, or are they competing for attention? The goal is to make the transitions feel intentional.

Different spaces also have different jobs. Hallways, landings and staircases connect multiple rooms, so I treat them as the glue that holds a scheme together. Bedrooms, studies and other private spaces are experienced as destinations, so they can usually take a little more creative licence.

When choosing paint colours, I’m always thinking about how each room contributes to the story of the whole house.

Designer’s takeaway: Paint individual rooms, but design the house.

Notice that none of these questions were “What’s your favourite colour?” or “What’s the trendiest shade right now?”

That’s because choosing paint is much more about understanding the room that colour is going into, than falling in love with the colour itself. The best paint choices don’t fight a space or try to turn it into something it isn’t. They respond to what’s already there — creating rooms that feel considered, connected and right for the people who live in them.

Good design starts with paying attention.

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I don’t know about you, but I really start noticing my home at this time of year.

For all the “cosy content” we’re bombarded with come September 1st (and I say that without any side-eye, because call me basic but I love autumn), September isn’t really autumn yet.

Here in London, we’ve had days in the mid twenties with enough humidity to make you double-check the calendar. My daughter is still wearing her gingham school dress, everyone’s sandals are still by the front door, and last week some new flowers popped up in the garden.

But October brings us back inside. The lamps come on earlier. The back door closes sooner. Rooms that have been background scenery all summer suddenly come back into focus.

And if you’re anything like me, you start noticing things.

Sometimes they’re good things: the way that lamplight makes your paint colour glow, how good it feels to light a candle when the kids have gone to bed, how delicious a dinner that’s roasted or simmered for hours can smell. And sometimes they’re less so: the hooks that annoy you every morning, the chair that everyone fights over, or the one thing you swore you’d fix three years ago (see: my last essay).

These noticings are, of course, useful data for any homeowner. I’d hardly be the first designer to extol the virtues of living with a home for a full calendar year before making any changes. It’s solid advice, because every season gives us information we can use.

In summer (and particularly in recent summers), it’s which rooms become unbearably hot, where we need more shade, and how we might future-proof our homes for a changing climate. In winter, it’s the need to maximise light, warmth and coat storage. In spring, it’s where the light falls and how to deal with all those rainy boots and muddy footprints.

And now, in autumn proper, we notice how our homes work when we’re actually living in them again. Where we naturally gather. The corners we avoid. The things that make daily life easier, and the things that do the opposite.

In my own home, the season has already revealed a few things:

• The front hall needs a practical rug. The imminent (we hope) return of rain, bringing with it muddy boots and wet buggy wheels, has reminded me that soon I’ll be throwing down an old towel again to protect the floor, and we can do better. I’ve always been sceptical of the “washable” type from Ruggable et al, but perhaps they’re worth a second look? (Let me know if you have thoughts.)

• We’ve started using the dining table pendant again, only to discover the bulb has been burnt out for months. Hardly a design dilemma, but a useful reminder that sometimes the tiny things we’ve been ignoring can reap the biggest rewards.

• I recently rearranged some furniture in our reception rooms, bringing our vintage Scoop chair out from its summer position against the wall and into the room. It’s made the whole space feel cosier, and reminded me that sometimes we don’t need more things — we need to rethink how we use what we already have. It’s also underlined how badly I need to make a cover for the armchair opposite, which I’ve (finally) started working on.

These are tiny things, sure, but they’re useful information. And the more information you have, the better design decisions you can make.

This might be why autumn is such a busy season for designers too. Consult requests are up, people are reaching out about renovation plans, and projects that had a pin in them for months are suddenly full steam ahead. The return indoors prompts us to ask different questions of our homes.

Not just How do I make this room look better? but How do I want to live here?

Because good design starts with paying attention. It’s about recognising the things that frustrate us, the things that delight us, and the ways we naturally move through our homes.

And perhaps that’s why autumn is such a good time to look around your home — not because everything needs changing, but because suddenly you can see it again.

The Notebook

A few things that have caught my eye, occupied my mind, and shaped my work this month.

✎ On My Desk
A peek into my professional brain.

I try to work to a rhythm that includes one project on site, one in the design phase, and one in the pipeline — with one-off consultations peppered in along the way.

This summer, I’ve been on site with Project Conifer: a 1930s semi undergoing a sensitive ground-floor renovation to make it work harder for modern family life.

The brief was about finding the balance that I’m always chasing: respecting what’s already there while making thoughtful changes for the people living there now.

We’re focusing on honest, natural materials, spaces designed for gathering, and (perhaps most importantly in a family home) absolutely oodles of storage.

We’re in the home stretch now, and I can’t wait to see this one come together.

📚 On My Shelf
Things that have been feeding my curiosity.

I turned 43 last week, and one of my birthday gifts was an afternoon at the cinema — by myself — while my husband and kids baked my birthday cake. I opted to see the new Sense and Sensibility directed by Georgia Oakley, because I've never met an Austen (or for that matter, a Working Title film) I didn’t want to at least give a fair shot.

Now, I don’t have the same emotional attachment and strident views on adaptations of Sense and Sensibility as I do to its more famous sister, Pride and Prejudice (as an Old Millennial, I believe the perfection of the 1995 BBC miniseries to be unmatched, and I will be taking no further questions on the matter). Yes, the Ang Lee version is a classic, and the performances in this new version aren’t quite as riveting, but I went in willing to be charmed, and charmed I was.

Where this version shines is the visuals: the sets, cinematography, even the weather. It’s a moodier, more rustic and introspective take on the story, and every shot was beautiful to see (Marianne’s hair notwithstanding). It reminded me how much atmosphere matters — in short, it’s the perfect autumn film.

🚲 Out and About
Somewhere I’ve been and loved.

I haven’t intended for this section to become a summary of holidays and day trips, but last month we visited Folkestone for the first time. My husband and I have been talking about checking out this seaside spot for a few years, on the hunt as we always are for somewhere to lure us from London (spoiler: it’s not this place, and likely won’t be any place).

So on a recent Friday before a long work trip, we both took the day off, and after dropping the kids off, jumped on a high-speed train to the coast. We started with a coffee, moved quickly on to champagne on the harbour arm, beers and bites on the beach, fish and chips, and some incredible ice cream. Despite discovering several great shops we made no purchases, and were simply happy to soak up the atmosphere and peace.

No, I didn’t get the urge to crack open RightMove and start manifesting a life there, but it was just what I needed to reset and remember the world beyond the school run, emails and DIY. Sometimes all you need is need a day that feels slightly different from all the others.

🍽 At the Table
Things that make home feel like home.

Not on the table this month, but underneath it. Specifically: crumbs. Or rather, the lack of them, since I recently became the last person on earth to join the cordless vacuum brigade.

A birthday gift from my mum, I’m now the slightly giddy owner of a Samsung Bespoke Jet. Yes, the docking station looks rather like a spaceship (and, thanks to a lack of sockets in cupboards, it currently lives in our front hall), but its very proximity means I reach for it constantly.

I've vacuumed the kitchen floor more times in the past month than I did in the previous year, and I couldn't be happier about it.

💬 A Single Question
I’d love to know…

What’s the first thing you notice about your home when the autumn sets in?

Leave a comment

Next month, it'll be three years since we moved into our home. We traded a 1960s maisonette for a three-bedroom 1929 semi that had been more or less untouched since the 90s. I arrived with a toddler in one hand, a tape measure in the other and a perfectly realised home in my mind’s eye. Every room had a future — I knew exactly what I wanted this house to become.

Since then we’ve renovated precisely one space, tripled our children in one fell swoop, celebrated birthdays, hosted Christmases and accumulated enough tiny toy cars to start our own dealership. Our daughter started school; I left a full-time job and started a business. We’ve been busy. And in this time, we’ve talked through our renovation plans (though dreams might be more accurate at this point) from every conceivable angle.

And that list? Somehow, it’s longer than it was on moving day.

I don’t think I’d imagined we’d be finished by now — I’m aware, more than most, about how expensive and time-consuming renovations are — but I certainly thought we’d be further along.

I sometimes think of myself as a champion of homes. Not in the primary sense of the word (my current home certainly isn’t winning any awards), but in the sense of a defender or cheerleader. I want every home to be the very best version of itself: to honour where it came from while reaching its full potential.

This is both my greatest strength as a designer and my greatest frustration as a homeowner. My clients love that I can get excited about a fairly ordinary terrace, and I genuinely believe there is almost always something worth celebrating in a home. But the downside is that I can’t switch it off. I always see potential, sometimes at the expense of seeing progress.

When I bought it, my last home had the classic hallmarks of a neglected, ex-council rental: shiny grey finishes, a leaking shower and a general feeling of “this will do”. In time, we transformed it into something that celebrated its mid-century bones and felt much more like us — warm, colourful and comfortable. And yet, when we moved out, my lasting thought wasn't "look how much we achieved." It was "I wish I'd re-plastered the popcorn ceiling in the living room."

And when I walk through my home today, I can’t help but see that list of improvements in real time. The peeling trim that desperately needs repainting, the old wardrobes that should be replaced, the doors that need to be re-hung and the stained carpet that I’ve long chosen the replacement for, but can’t afford to buy yet. And that’s without any of the big stuff like “I wish this kitchen was three times the size” and “how long can we last as a family of five with one toilet?”

Once you start looking through this lens, it's difficult to stop.

Whenever I despair to my mum about our lack of momentum on the house, she tells me to take stock of everything we have changed. To look back at the listing photos and notice the painted walls, the art we’ve hung and the light fittings we’ve replaced. She makes a good point, and as an occasional visitor rather than a resident, she’s probably better at seeing progress than I am. She also knows what I’m like, that my eye is always drawn to what’s next.

A few months ago my sister and I were talking about our childhood home. Today, it’s objectively lovely: full of art, mid-century furniture and vintage rugs. Whenever I walk through the door after the seven-hour flight to Canada, my shoulders drop. It feels like home.

But then we started remembering what it had actually looked like while we were growing up. The now-glowing original floorboards were hidden beneath avocado-green carpet. The kitchen was a 1940s time capsule with Formica worktops and vegetable-themed wallpaper. Room by room, we realised that the house we love now isn’t really the one we grew up in. That home was a work in progress too.

As designers, we spend a lot of time thinking about the finished version of a house. We photograph them the day after installation: perfectly styled, beautifully lit and forever frozen in time. But that's just a snapshot of one day. Families remember the life that unfolds inside a home, and it doesn't wait for the list to be finished first.

When we moved in, I thought I was buying a project. Rooms to improve, problems to solve and decisions to make. What I didn’t realise was that I was also buying a backdrop for a particular chapter of our lives.

We haven’t replaced the minuscule kitchen with its crumbling cabinets, but we’ve hosted Christmas there. I’ve baked birthday cakes, and Ben roasts a chicken most Sunday nights.

We’ve barely touched the garden, but we’ve spent hours collecting apples, pears and cherries from the fruit trees, and it’s been just as good as a landscaped garden for paddling pools and watching birds.

I haven’t finished the kids bedrooms, but there have been first steps and forts and movie afternoons nonetheless.

I still haven’t painted the internal doors, but I smile every time the afternoon sun catches the stained glass in the hallway.

One day, this house might have the kitchen I’ve re-drawn a hundred times, a primary suite in the loft and the finished garden I’ve imagined. I hope it does.

But I also hope I remember this version.

Because I’m finally learning that the best houses aren't the ones where the list disappears. Maybe they're the ones that become home long before it does.

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Hello, and welcome to a new season of The Second Fix. If you've joined me recently from Instagram or YouTube, I'm especially glad you're here.

At the beginning of this year, I had the slightly unhinged idea that I could run a business (in three days a week), parent three small children (never-ending), create content for my Instagram and brand-new YouTube channel (itself a slightly unhinged decision at 42 years old) and continue to write regularly here on Substack. Obviously, this was unrealistic in the extreme, and by April I admitted defeat, reluctantly putting the proverbial pin in this newsletter until such time as life felt less hectic. Ha.

We’re now half a year on, and while that certainly isn’t the case — summer holidays second only to back to school chaos — I have missed this space. Writing focuses my brain like nothing else can. It forces me to untangle ideas I'd otherwise leave in a messy heap, and it's nice to create something that doesn't ask me to tidy my house or do my hair — or even change out of my pyjamas.

Most people know that interior design is my second career and that I studied and worked in fashion first. Fewer people know that both of those came after my first love: writing. Long before I discovered Vogue, I devoured novels, wrote short stories, actually enjoyed writing essays for school, and imagined a future career as a writer. Years later I had a food blog, and also became part of Apartment Therapy’s core editorial team, creating design-focused content for their platform for nearly seven years.

But life gets busy, careers take over, priorities shift, and like many adults, I let my hobbies slide. During those heady pre-Covid years my focus was on fun and travel, and later on growing my new family.

Last year, I finally found my way back to it. I started this Substack with no grand plan beyond wanting to write again. I’d been reading other’s newsletters for a few years, and it felt like the old days of blogging — the work of seasoned creators and those you randomly stumble across and relate to taking equal precedence. Finding myself as an “accidental stay at home mum” after years of gainful employment in my industry (having twins will do that to you) meant I was also desperate to share my knowledge, talk shop and connect with other design enthusiasts.

Ironically, this little newsletter became the catalyst for everything that followed. Writing here lit a fuse, and gave me the confidence to share more elsewhere. I began making reels on Instagram, started my YouTube channel, and when I went back to work part time — this time, under my own banner — opportunities appeared.

Along the way, the very space that had reignited my creativity became the thing I set aside. Writing became something I’d do once the client work was finished, the kids were asleep and the videos were edited. Unsurprisingly, that meant it disappeared entirely.

The funny thing is, I write more now than I ever have: fee proposals, consultation notes, Instagram captions, video scripts. But it wasn’t hitting the same, so in the time-honoured spirit of September, I’m picking up the proverbial pen again. This time with less pressure, more joy, and perhaps a bit more structure, too.

So, what can you expect from The Second Fix going forward?

Think of it as the slower and more personal corner of my work. If Instagram is where I share quick thoughts on design and YouTube is where I dig deep into design thinking, this is where I get to reflect and expand.

I’ve always believed that good interiors are built from more than paint colours and floor plans. They’re shaped by travel, architecture, memory, food, books, conversations and all the tiny observations we collect along the way. That’s what I’d like The Second Fix to be: a place for those things, and for the ideas that need a little more room.

At the start of each month I’ll share a letter, followed by a peek into my “notebook” — things I’ve been reading, noticing and loving. Mid-month I’ll send the occasional standalone, longer essay whenever I have something worth sitting down for.

Thank you for sticking around while I found my way back here. I'm really glad you're here, and I can't wait to see where this next season takes us.

The Notebook

A few things that have caught my eye, occupied my mind, and shaped my work this month.

✎ On My Desk
A peek into my professional brain.

This month, the object earning its keep is my Farrow & Ball Large Colour Book.

After years of working from fan decks and loose samples I hand-painted, I finally treated myself to the oversized professional binder from my favourite paint brand. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s already transformed the way I work. Being able to compare larger samples side by side makes subtle undertones much easier to spot, and after a summer full of colour consultations, it’s barely left my desk (er, dining table).

📚 On My Shelf
Things that have been feeding my curiosity.

I know I’m late to the party with this one, but have you read Yesteryear? I picked it up on a whim earlier in the summer, unable to resist the fomo any longer. While I can’t exactly say I enjoyed it, I did devour it in 36 hours, which is saying something. I believe I speak for us all who’ve read it when I say, wtaf‽

If you like easy reads with complicated protagonists, unreliable narrators, plots involving social media and mental health and the how the patriarchy screws women at every turn, you’ll love it.

🚲 Out and About
Somewhere I’ve been and loved.

We stayed close to home this summer, opting for just one long weekend away, glamping in North Norfolk. We did a similar camping holiday in the exact same area when I was pregnant with our daughter five years ago, and have been talking about returning ever since.

Four days of fresh air, cooking outside, delicious seafood and not having to work too hard to entertain the kids was just the ticket. As luck would have it, 24 hours in we had a power pack fail and I was without a phone for the rest of the weekend. Besides desperately wanting to capture the kids every time they did something cute (so, constantly), it was the perfect way to enforce a digital detox.

A few discoveries worth passing on:

• Holkham Hall continues to provide excellent value. We visited Feast in the Park on a Saturday afternoon for the food trucks and live music, followed by a 90-minute play in the impressive woodland playground (though the kids could have gone for hours more). Add in the park itself with multiple walks and all the deer to watch, it’s a perfect family day out, all for the princely sum of £6.50 parking. I still haven’t managed to see the house itself, but I know we’ll be back.

• Wells-next-the-Sea also boasts a fantastic playground, within spitting distance of a branch of Two Magpies Bakery. The cheese twists were so good we had to go back for more.

• The best and easiest campfire dinner involves some local sausages (squeezed out of their skins into something akin to a meatball), a pack of gnocchi, and a jar of delicious pasta sauce.

• S’mores are life — we did them every evening, to the kids’ delight. M&S Gigantic Chocolate Buttons are the perfect size for the larger ones, and though I got a friend to bring me some proper graham crackers from Canada, digestives will do in a pinch.

🍽 At the Table
Things that make home feel like home.

If you follow me on Instagram you’ll have seen my kids picking blackberries all summer long; it’s by far our most frequent — and most wholesome — outdoor pursuit in the summer months. We have several go-to locations for the best berry patches, including a few parks and our local Victorian cemetery. While the kids’ style is more “eat as you go”, mine are destined for the freezer.

Though I have a range of uses for them, 80% will end up in Alison Roman's Blueberry Cornmeal Tart, which incidentally is just a delicious with blackberries. It has become our unofficial marker of autumn, the thing that lets summer linger just a little longer. I made my first one yesterday on the Bank Holiday, and I can see our stash keeping us in pies well into November.

💬 A Single Question
I’d love to know…

What was your first creative love? Has it stayed with you, or found its way back later in life?

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Nearly 25 years later, the mantra holds true. While some of those things I no longer feel so strongly about (my taste in coffee has improved), some I still hold a candle for (the tailoring), and some (the Balenciaga, the BryAd, the bff) are evergreen.

Design-wise, the red threads of my life have, on examination, always been there. Visual seeds planted in childhood took root in adolescence and eventually wove their aesthetics across the Atlantic, through my various homes, relationships and passions.

Without further ado, five things this designer will (probably) always love, and why.

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Mid-Century Architecture & Design

I know, I know — my elder millennial is showing. But I can’t quit this design style, no matter how dated Gen Z might proclaim it to be. If you’d ever walked into the home my grandparents lived in during my childhood, a 1970s split-level decorated to perfection with a mix of Scandinavian and Canadian teak from the 60s and 70s, you’d understand.

The hugely successful resurgence of MCM in the 2010s ultimately both helped (by introducing it to a new audience) and hurt (through overexposure and oversimplification) the style. I can see why, if you associate the look with tapered-leg West Elm furniture and cheap Urban Outfitter lamps, you might be ready for something new.

But for those of us who knew the real thing — the purity in those shapes, the colour, the warmth, the soul — mid century design feels like home. I may live in a classic South London 1930s semi now, but my forever home — still out there, as yet unsearched for — is a mid-century one, I’m sure of it.

Ochre

This one goes beyond interiors, into fashion as well. I think I was still a teenager when one of my best friends casually referred to mustard yellow as my “signature colour”. And while I’ve since realised it’s not the most flattering shade next to my face (alas I’m a Soft Autumn, not a Warm Autumn), I still love using this colour in my home.

In my old flat it was the pendant light on the landing, our bedroom art wall and my bathroom floor. In this home, it’s the front door and living room rug. In both, it’s the giant Staub casserole that lives on our hob, too large (and too pretty) for any cupboard.

Ochre is warm, earthy, sophisticated and surprisingly versatile. It pairs deliciously with pinks, pale blue and reds, and can serve as either a rich backdrop or a jolt of unexpected energy into a space, depending on application.

Farrow & Ball Paint

While we’re on colour, my love affair with Farrow & Ball shows no signs of slowing down. My mum discovered the heritage British brand in the 1990s when they first entered the Canadian market, and set about slowly repainting our house in their paint (I think she’s still at it — it’s pricey stuff).

And yes, it was partially the evocative, quirky colour names, but it was also the depth of colour, the subtle undertones, the way the shades shift subtly throughout the day as the light changes. I didn’t realise it at the time, but F&B was shaping my understanding and love of colour long before I consciously turned to interior design.

After moving to the UK and changing careers, I developed a new appreciation for how the colours work in their native home, where the brand’s overall palette — muted and warm-leaning — works so well with the soft, cool British light.

There are other brands I work with, of course, and I often suggest colour-matching paint if budgets need to be reined in, but I still get a small thrill when I reach for my F&B fan decks on a site consult.

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Ontario Vernacular Architecture

If there’s one style of home that might tempt me away from mid-century, it’s this one. I grew up in Ontario, and many childhood road trips wound through small towns lined with grand Victorian houses. The styles that make up so much of Ontario’s architectural character — Queen Anne Revival, Gothic Revival, Edwardian and Italianate — create streets that captivate with history and charm. If nostalgia had an architectural form, small-town Ontario would be it.

In another life, I live in a red brick home with a steeply-pitched roof, white gingerbread trim and the wraparound porch of dreams. I sit outside with my coffee (during the 2.3 weeks a year it’s neither too snowy nor too hot to do so, mind) watching the world go by.

Buying Art

Lately I’ve been thinking I need to make some content addressing the so-claimed “death of the gallery wall” which I see so much about online. Because for those of us with more art than walls, gallery walls are less an aesthetic choice, more a way of life.

I’ve always had an inclination to frame things I love — postcards, exhibition posters, even the occasional beautifully designed book page. Art has never needed to be precious to earn a spot on my wall. As I’ve got older and when budget allows, I’ve also discovered the thrill of supporting working artists by saving for special pieces; so much more satisfying than a new handbag or weekend away.

I don’t want anybody to think I’m dropping bank on new art regularly, I’m definitely not. But browsing my favourite galleries will always be a lovely way to spend a weekend morning, just as art will always be my favourite souvenir to bring home from holiday, ideal way to celebrate a milestone, and preferred gift to receive.

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So there we have it, five things in the world of architecture and design that I can’t see myself ever quitting.

I’d love to know what yours are!

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Before I think about colour, pattern, or materials, I think about direction, use, and reflection.

I think about light. Natural light, to be exact.

Because every single room we inhabit is shaped by light, long before a single finish is chosen. Its quality, its quantity, its variation. Light is the one element we can’t change, though we can learn to manipulate it, and work within its confines.

The False Narrative: It’s All About Colour

Every few months, I see a trending reel from a design content creator or read a quote from a respected designer, declaring that colour is being overcomplicated. That light direction doesn’t matter as much as the paint companies and colour consultants would have us believe. That we should just choose what we love and live with it.

It’s a nice idea, and I sympathise with the desire to remove a potential stressor in the design process. Unfortunately, I couldn’t disagree more.

Before we choose a paint colour, we need to understand the light we’re working with. Because light is what makes colour visible at all. Light reveals colour. Alters it. Softens it. Drains it. Intensifies it. And if we don’t understand what the light is doing, we’re just hoping for the best.

And as we know, hope isn’t a design strategy.

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Nature First

One of the main claims from the “aspect is irrelevant” crew is that since natural light is so fleeting anyway, the focus spent on it seems disproportionate. They argue that since we can control artificial light, we should focus on that when choosing our paint colours.

It’s true that for much of the time, we experience our spaces in artificial light. It’s also true that many rooms get very little natural light, and some (powder bathrooms, utility spaces carved out of the centre space in a terrace house) get none at all. Furthermore, natural light is so very changeable that I can see why some would avoid grappling with it entirely.

However, I’m a firm believer in working with natural light first. If a room looks good in whatever the sun is throwing its way, everything else can be layered on afterwards. We use artificial lighting not in place of nature, but to amplify what it’s already doing, or prolong its best efforts throughout the day or year.

I could talk about artificial lighting plans all day long (and probably will, in another post — though this one contains a mini refresher, if you’re interested), but for the rest of this post, I’ll be focusing on natural light only.

Direction: The Structural Condition

So here we have the starting point, the constant baseline. Which direction does the room in question face? The above diagram illustrates neatly:

The light in North-facing rooms is indirect and cooler in tone. Beloved of artists and architects for its consistency throughout the day, Northern light will emphasise grey, blue and green undertones, and neutralise subtle warm ones.

South-facing rooms receive warm, direct light. Shadows are crisper, colours appear more vibrant. The warmth of southern light can neutralise a delicate cool tone, or amplify a warmer one.

In East-facing rooms, the sunrise creates warm, bright light in the mornings, and cooler indirect light in the evenings. Shadows will be longer and higher contrast early in the day.

And lastly, West-facing rooms are the opposite: cool and muted in the morning, brighter and warmer in the evenings, with longer shadows as the sun sets. Since East and West light shifts so dramatically, usage of the room in question is key here.

Obviously, many rooms are dual (or even triple) aspect, either because they sit on the corner of a property, or more commonly, in a terrace house that’s been “knocked though”. These rooms can be tricky to design, especially ones that don’t feature a wall cutout or natural point at to change colour.

However, in the Venn diagram of shades that work in each aspect of room, there will always be overlap. I’m planning on going deeper into colour choices in the future.

The Short Cycle: Light Throughout the Day

Sunlight follows a perpetual rhythm: warm → cool → warmer.

In the morning, the rising sun creates longer shadows and warm tones (especially in those East-facing rooms). At this point the sun is further away from us, so more of the longer, red and orange wavelengths reach us, and the shorter, blue wavelengths are scattered.

At midday, the sun is highest in the sky, meaning its light travels through less atmosphere before reaching us. A higher proportion of that shorter-wavelength blue light reaches us (see also: why is the sky blue?), resulting in the sun itself looking more white than yellow, its light being crisper and cooler. This results in all colours looking their most accurate — so, bright colours look intense, and pale ones washed out.

In the evening, we have long shadows again, and an even deeper warmth, as the red and orange rays are amplified by the heat, dust, and moisture that has accumulated in the atmosphere over the course of the day. Colours appear softer and warmer.

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The Long Arc: Light Throughout the Year

Light doesn’t just change throughout the day; it changes throughout the year as well. This is obviously truer the further we get from the equator, but as I don’t (alas) have much experience with tropical rainforests, I’ll focus on the UK.

In the winter, the angle of the sun is lower. We have shorter days, and the light takes on a cooler, greyer quality. Shadows are longer.

Come summer, the higher sun position and brighter intensity create more contrast, and there’s more visual warmth.

Practically speaking, this means that colours read cooler and slightly flatter in the winter, and areas of shadow are increased, but softer. In the summer, colours are more intense and shadows are more defined.

While I’m sure this is as fascinating to you as it is to me (ha), I’m not deluded enough to advise redecorating your home seasonally (though I do, in one room, have summer and winter curtains — a lightweight linen and toffee velvet, respectively). And while I’d love to tell you that there exists a magical paint colour that will work equally well in summer and winter, at morning, noon and night — that’s unfortunately a fantasy.

So what do we do with this information?

Have you heard the style rule “shop your dominant season”? And no, I’m not talking about purchasing within a colour palette, though personal colour analysis is one of my lifelong niche interests, alongside baby names and figure skating.

I’m referring to the idea that, if you live in a country where one season dominates — and I know this struggle, hailing as I do from Canada where there is snow on the ground for nearly half the year, and fringe cold weather on either side, and living now in the UK which frankly is nearly as bad — you’d do well to focus your energy and spend on items that you can wear during said season. Spending half your annual clothing budget on sandals and floaty dresses might be fun, but it’s not exactly practical if your summer is over in the blink of an eye. The fashion calendar is divided neatly into four, but very few climates are, and nor should our sartorial focus.

So rather than chasing the impossible goal of a colour that performs perfectly at all times of year, I design for the dominant season. The colours in my own home are chosen with autumn, winter and spring’s lower, cooler light in mind. They lean cozy, warm, and are at their best in lamplight. Do they still look good on bright summer days? Of course. But they aren’t necessarily the same colours I’d choose if I lived in a climate where bright, warm sun dominated the year.

That’s just part of working with light, rather than fighting it.

Reflection

Direction tells us where the light comes from. Reflection tells us what it passes through before it reaches us.

A red brick wall throws warmth back into a room. Dense greenery bounces green undertones indoors. Urban glazing reflects blue, concrete walls grey, and limestone yellow. If there’s water outside the window, it will create spots of light and movement. Even the absence of surroundings has an effect — open sky will amplify coolness.

Within a room, reflection can be harnessed to amplify light and create points of focus. Mirrors of course, but also paint sheen, picture frames, furniture selection.

Light is filtered, reflected, and modified by our surroundings.

Two north-facing rooms aren’t the same if one overlooks a brick terrace and the other a forest. The same white paint that could read neutral in the former, will come across pale green in the latter.

And all this before we’ve chosen a single paint colour.

Natural light is not static. It shifts by direction, by hour, by season, and by what surrounds us. It filters, reflects, intensifies and softens. It alters everything it touches.

When we fail to respond to light, we aren’t simplifying design. We’re ignoring important context. We choose colours independently, as though a room is a blank box rather than a space shaped by its surroundings. This is also why copying a beloved scheme from one home into a new one so often disappoints. The paint isn’t wrong, but the light is different — and light is what makes the colour we see.

So much of good design is simply response. Before we think about colour, we need to understand what the light is doing. Because only then can we make decisions with clarity and confidence.

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Lately I’ve been thinking about how often the word features comes up when people talk about houses. “Does it have features?” friends ask, when discussing a potential purchase. “I want to reinstate the period features” clients tell me. “Beautiful original features!” RightMove proclaims about any home that is otherwise a wreck, so long as there’s a cast-iron fireplace insert and a couple of plaster ceiling roses knocking about amidst the debris.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve learned to equate visible architectural detail with character — and character with worth. And while original features can absolutely be beautiful, I’m starting to wonder what we’ve lost by letting that single idea dominate the conversation for so long.

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What Do We Actually Mean by Features?

Firstly, let’s be clear: when we say features, we usually mean period details. We’re using the term as a shorthand for ornament and age, and their existence as reassurance of quality, rightly or wrongly. The features we all seem to love — wall panelling, tiled entryways, sash windows, plasterwork — are almost always visible and decorative.

This, of course, excludes the many other architectural features that arguably impact how we live even more: proportion, light, spatial planning, materials, craft.

Features aren’t necessarily the same thing as architecture, but we often speak of them as if they are.

Why Britain Cares So Much

Here in the UK, there’s a notable cultural preference for older homes. The internet tells me that up to 82% of Britons prefer an older house to a new build. This is probably just as well, as a significant portion of our housing stock — some estimates put it at over 20% — was built prior to 1919, offering up many of those features we all love so much.

There is obviously a strong class and nostalgia aspect to this. Older, larger and more ornate homes are associated with the aristocracy, and an aspirational view of British history and culture. But there are other reasons too. It’s somehow accepted that older homes are universally better quality and “built to last”, despite building techniques arguably becoming more advanced over time. The property market reinforces this viewpoint, with the language of listings and estate agents propping it up.

I’m not arguing that all older homes are better, or that all new ones are. Many new-builds are small and poorly executed, but many older homes are draughty, awkward, and compromise the way we live today.

The problem is that age, and the visible markers of it, have become a proxy for value. And once that happens, our definition of what’s worth holding onto becomes surprisingly narrow.

Period — A Drifting Definition

A “period property” is technically defined as anything pre-WWI, so built before 1914. In the UK, Georgian (1714–1830), Victorian (1837–1901), and Edwardian (1901–1910) homes are the most common under this umbrella, though of course we have habitable properties going back even further.

Given that we’re now halfway thought the 2020s, and a piece of furniture qualifies as antique once it reaches its 100th birthday, some modern definitions are starting to include 1920s and even 1930s homes as period properties.

So, if our understanding of period is already creeping, why does our taste seem stuck?

The 1930s: Too Old / Not Old Enough

I live in an area of South London populated almost entirely by homes from the 1920s and ‘30s, my own three-bed semi having been constructed in 1929. When house-hunting in the area, we saw it all. 1930s properties with tiled entryways (atypical of the period) and Victorian cast-iron fireplaces, creating an unnerving Franken-house effect. There were also those with black aluminium windows, flush internal doors, and neat grids of downlights, which, once you were through the front door at least, might have been mistaken for a new-build.

It seems that these houses, sitting in an assumed architectural no-man’s-land, are often treated as blank canvases, but rarely celebrated for what they do offer.

Mid-Century Homes, Still Waiting Their Turn

When you move the spotlight a little closer, to the mid-century, this trend continues. As a card-carrying Old Millennial (and therefore a lover of MCM), this one feels personal.

I have an old friend turned Instagram acquaintance who last year bought a fairly standard but spacious mid-century home in quite a posh area (I have no doubt that it was a “worst house on the best street” situation). After a six-month renovation, there remains so little of that home that I have to wonder whether it would have been cheaper and more honest to knock it down and start again.

While the “Before” was already beautiful to me (I remember glimpsing a particularly lovely teak staircase, as well as some funky internal glass walls), the After is unrecognisable. An Edwardian-inspired frontage, Victorian ceiling roses, even a Spanish-style plaster fireplace in one room.

And don’t get me wrong — this friend has incredible style and a confident eye, and some of their decisions do ultimately look really cool. It’s just that none of them seem to have been made in conversation with the building that was already there.

What’s Worthy of Protection? What are we Erasing?

Ultimately, people can do what they like with their homes (listed buildings, conservation areas and the usual planning consent notwithstanding). Just because I’d consider murder to get my hands on a four-bedroom mid-century home (the ones in my area of South London tend to be too small for my significant brood) doesn’t mean that anybody else has to want this.

I also know that it’s unreasonable to expect everybody to buy the style of home that aligns with their aesthetic vision in the first place. We all have reasons for living where we do — work, school, proximity to family and friends — and when you factor in family size and budget, we’re all just doing our best.

Still, I can’t help but think some of our homes are being undervalued and yes, under-protected. I imagine anybody who’s ever had to apply for Planning Consent in this country is aghast at this — and admittedly, our system is indeed one of the most rigid. But our planning policies don’t create this perceived hierarchy so much as formalise it. We protect what we already believe to be important. With any property not currently thought of as “period”, it’s hard not to see that something is often being erased, rather than evolved.

So that begs the questions: as home styles age, do we suddenly decide they matter? Should we? Are today’s ordinary buildings full of tomorrow’s “features”? What gets lost in the meantime? And what happens if we never decide anything post-WWI matters?

Features Beyond Period

There are, of course, many “features” in newer properties, beyond those decorative aspects we associate with period ones.

1920s and 30s homes boast beautiful curved bay windows, covered porches and parquet floors, not to mention standard improvements like purpose-built bathrooms for the middle and working classes. In the mid century, we had panelled ceilings, open-plan layouts, large windows and a radical new connection to the outside. These were deliberate and often bold architectural choices, made to support contemporary British life at the time.

And contemporary new builds? They have vastly improved (both for us and the planet) heating systems, technology, and that “feature” that seemingly nobody in the past needed — built-in storage.

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What Makes a Home Worth Loving

When you live in an older home, you’re merely a custodian of its history. In a newer property, you’re creating that history.

Maybe the problem isn’t our love of features, but how narrowly we’ve learned to define them. If we require our homes to be validated by the passing of time, we risk overlooking the very qualities that make them meaningful in the present.

I hold out hope that in the future, we might come to value context over cosplay, and understand “features” as both something we inherit and something we make.

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Mixing metals is one of those topics that seems to cause disproportionate anxiety. Somewhere along the way, the idea took hold that good design meant choosing one finish — brass, chrome, black — and committing to it entirely, as if any deviation had the potential to unravel the whole scheme.

The reality is that most homes require multiple metal finishes. Door handles, light switches, taps, lighting, cupboard hardware, even appliances — they’re not decorative extras, they’re functional elements that are used every day, require different levels of upkeep, and might be added at different times, even years apart. Time and again in my job, I see that problems arise not because metal colours are mixed, but because they’re mixed without a framework.

When I’m designing a home, I never think in terms of “matching” metals. I think in terms of where consistency matters, and where variety is welcome. Some finishes should form a quiet, consistent backdrop across an entire home; others can change from room to room and become part of the decorative scheme.

This is the system I use to make those decisions — first by thinking in metal families, and then by using a simple colour scale to mix finishes in a way that feels intentional, rather than accidental.

Let’s get into it.

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Part One: Think in Families

Simply put, a “family” is a category of items which share a metal finish. Once you see the metals in your home as families rather than individual decisions that need to be made, they become much easier to manage.

In any home, you’re going to be dealing with the following metal families:

• sockets and switch plates

• door and window ironmongery (levers and knobs, hinges, finger pulls, lock cases)

• lighting (including metal roses and any fixings)

• joinery ironmongery (cupboard handles, wardrobe pulls)

• brassware (taps and faucets, mixers, showerheads)

• furniture, particularly legs on chairs and tables (this is a possible family, and style-dependant)

Some families work best when they are consistent throughout the entire home. I think of these as extended families.

For instance, the idea of mismatched light switches in a home makes my eyeballs itchy, so I prefer sockets and switches are treated as an extended family. Choose one finish that works for your home’s style, and put it everywhere. (That said, I won’t tell if you economise and use some white plastic sockets where they won’t be seen, I certainly have!)

Door and window ironmongery is another family I think should ideally be consistent across a home. Again it’s to do with the age and style of your house, not your personal taste (yet). Often this means that these families — sockets and switches, and door and window ironmongery — will be the same finish, but not necessarily.

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Other metal families are part of a room’s decorative scheme and can change from space to space. I think of these as nuclear families.

Lighting, ironmongery for fitted joinery, and brassware all fit into this category — they’re fair game to mix up room-to-room. For instance, it’s entirely acceptable to use brushed nickel brassware in the family bathroom, and polished brass in the grown-up ensuite. Taps, mixers, shower heads and the like are the jewellery of the bathroom, as much a part of the colour scheme as the tiles on the floor or paint on the wall.

Bathrooms are a great room to see metal mixing in action, as they typically feature a lot of metal finishes. Let’s take my own family bathroom as a case study. In this relatively small space, I have:

• antique brass light switch plate (technically in the UK our bathroom light switches are outside of the bathroom, due to electric standards, so it’s not actually read as part of the room, but I digress)

• brushed nickel brassware and bathroom fittings - so that’s the taps and mixers, shower heads, hand douche, toilet roll holder and fixings for the glass shower screen

• unlacquered brass* rose/rod on the ceiling light

• unlacquered brass* knobs on the vanity

• as a one-off, I also have a matte white flush plate for the WC — though this is technically part of my brassware “nuclear family”, nickel wasn’t available, so I opted to have it disappear into the white tile rather than choose an antique brass, which would have made it too much of a feature.

*NB In the moist environment of a bathroom (even one with a good extractor), unlacquered brass will patina faster than it would elsewhere — so these items are already looking more like an antique brass, something I knew would happen and had in mind when choosing finishes. Antique and antiquing brass are the consistent metals across my home.

In a kitchen, you might have even more metals. Unfortunately my own kitchen renovation is still a few years away, so let’s look at this space, designed by Emily Henderson. Here we see the following families:

• polished brass cabinet hardware (in two different styles — very chic!)

• polished nickel brassware — the tap, hand spray and pot filler

• matte black (with a bit of brass) lighting

• (Emily has also used black for the bar stools — this is furniture so its own family, but I do think in a space like a kitchen where there are multiple metal finishes going on, if you’re going to introduce a metal-heavy furniture element, just reuse one of the finishes you already have in the space)

• stainless steel* (just visible) on the range cooker

*NB My final tip for mixing metals in a kitchen is to ignore stainless steel. No matter the style of your home, it’s likely to be somewhere in the equation — on your hob or oven at least, and very often your fridge, extractor and sink as well. I think of stainless steel as the “working metal” of the kitchen; it almost needs to be treated like a different material, a background neutral. Don’t let its presence dictate your other choices too harshly — you don’t need to choose a stainless steel tap to match your sink, or cupboard pulls to match your oven, for example.

So far, I’ve explained where finishes should be consistent, and where variation is allowed, even welcome. The next question is: how do you choose which metals to mix?

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Part Two: The Colour Scale

Metals, like all colours, sit on a spectrum from warm to cool. On one extreme, we have copper and brass, at the other, steel and gunmetal. (Obviously, there are more metal finishes than those shown above, but for simplicity I’ve only included those commonly used in interiors.)

Successful metal mixing requires contrast with intention. I find two metals play best with each other when they’re 2-3 “steps” apart on the colour scale. If they’re too close, it looks accidental, as though you attempted a match and didn’t quite nail it. If they’re too far from each other, it looks jarring.

Practically speaking, this means that antique brass, paired with bronze, doesn’t hit right — but either of those alongside polished nickel? Beautiful. Polished chrome and stainless steel are too close for comfort, but pair it with pewter and it starts to sing.

A few more points:

• Finish also affects warmth, and while it’s not an exact science, generally polished finishes lean cooler, while brushed and aged lean warmer.

• Likewise, keep in mind how your choices will age over time. Lacquered finishes are locked in, while unlacquered will patina and soften. A moist environment (like a bathroom) or frequent touching (as in door ironmongery) will speed this process up.

• In the above kitchen design we looked at, the metals span the entire scale (brass, nickel, matte black) — this works because there are three finishes, evenly spaced on the spectrum (without the linking nickel, it wouldn’t work as well).

• To that point, pewter and nickel are the Miss Congenialities of the metal world. Both cool-toned metals with warm undertones, they have the ability to bring other finishes together.

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Mixing metals isn’t about following rigid rules or memorising combinations — it’s about making decisions that feel intentional.

Thinking in families helps you decide where consistency matters, ensuring the background palette of your home feels calm and coherent. Using the colour scale helps you decide how to introduce contrast, so variation reads as deliberate and a design feature, rather than accidental.

Once you release the pressure to “match” and instead aim for contrast and confidence, mixing metals stops feeling so intimidating, and starts feeling like another tool for injecting style and personality into your home.

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Call them down lights, pot lights or can lights — recessed ceiling lighting can get in the bin, as far as I’m concerned. When my husband and I were hunting for our current home, I immediately took against any house that had down lights installed in a grid, making the reception rooms resemble a hospital waiting area. It drove my husband mad, but we did end up in a home with perfect, untouched ceilings (and old wiring, but that’s an issue for another post).

I realise I’m hardly the first designer to espouse this view; we’re a famously fanatical crew when it comes to lighting. Multiple sources, warm white, on dimmers, face level, you’ve probably heard it all before. But I was working on a lighting plan for a client recently (one of my favourite technical tasks — hmu if you need help with this) and it occurred to me that while people often know they should avoid peppering their ceiling with recessed lights, they don’t necessarily know why, or what to do instead.

As such, I’m here to help. I’m going to write this in the style of a Q&A, with myself, because I’m just quirky like that. Just call me a manic pixie dream designer. Let’s go!

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So, why are you so anti-down lights?

I’m glad you asked. Primarily, overhead lighting that is directed straight downwards, as opposed to bouncing off the ceiling or walls, is unflattering, creating harsh shadows. It’s really difficult to create a cosy atmosphere when a space is purely lit from above. These kind of fittings also ruin the look of your fifth wall.

Down lights can be used sparingly and effectively, but they shouldn’t be anybody’s go-to.

Ok, so how do I use them effectively?

Before I can answer that, we need a primer on the four main types of lighting.

Ambient lighting provides overall illumination in a space, allowing for safe circulation and use. This is often in the form of ceiling lights, but wall lights and even natural light from windows also counts as ambient.

Task lighting provides specific areas of brighter light where, you guessed it, tasks are performed. Think reading lamps, desk lamps, under cabinet lights in the kitchen, an overhead spotlight in the shower, even a lowered pendant over the dining table.

Accent lighting highlights specific objects or features in a space; here it’s the light and not the fitting that is most important. Examples include a picture light over a painting, a wall sconce washing the wall with light in a dramatic fashion, or hidden LED strips lighting an architectural feature.

Decorative lighting is almost the inverse of accent; here the fixture itself is the point. All those Big Lights in millennial homes that are carefully selected but never get switched on? Decorative. It’s worth noting that a light can be both decorative and ambient — for example, a central chandelier in a dining room.

Now we’ve got that out of the way, I want to lay out my personal rule:

With very few exceptions, down lights should never be the primary source of ambient lighting in a room.

Ideally, down lights are reserved for task lighting, and even then there are often alternatives, sometimes better ones. The trick is to use them sparingly; in my opinion the fastest way to ruin a beautiful room is to add a grid of down lights to the ceiling.

What’s wrong with a grid?

For some reason, architects and lighting designers love to place ceiling lights in a grid. It’s like they see a room and can’t contain themselves; maybe they’re all sponsored by Big Down Light, who knows. Primarily, the problem is that an expansive grid often provides too much light (yes, this is a thing), and removes opportunities for other, more interesting forms of lighting. Simply put, it’s lazy.

To be fair, a grid layout can ensure even lighting throughout a room, which is why you see this treatment so often in commercial spaces, where a dark spot can be a trip (and litigation) hazard. From a working standpoint, I also understand the preference to have ceiling fittings align with each other. Those of us who a) look at floor plans all day and b) enjoy a sense of order, want our plans to be as beautiful and organised as possible.

However I think sometimes we overestimate how important that alignment will feel in a finished space. Our homes are smaller, more intimate spaces than their commercial cousins, and provided there is enough light from other sources, the grid treatment shouldn’t be necessary.

Okay, so what do I do?

Right, back to the how of it all. When working on a lighting plan, I tend to follow these steps:

1. Nail your layout. This is of the utmost importance. You need to know where all possible activities, from watching TV or reading to cooking, eating and circulating between rooms, will take place. This way you can figure out the correct kind of light for each area.

2. Decide where you need to have different types of light. I start with the areas that are focal points. Pendants or chandeliers to zone specific areas (ambient + decorative) — living and dining rooms, in the front hall if possible, and over the stairs. Then I look at the task areas and pencil in lamps, ceiling or wall lights as appropriate.

   
   Circulation space in particular needs to be well lit; if there isn’t enough ambient lighting from a nearby source, you’ll have to add extra ceiling or wall lighting. Placement is key — think in front of doors to other spaces, and along long hallways.

   
   When working I regularly ask myself — must this being a ceiling fitting? Would a wall light work just as well? Alternatively, could a subtle flush mount or pendant suit, instead of a down light?

3. Grid it out and remove as necessary. Yes, I know I just said no grids, but I also said I liked ceiling lights to align neatly. My method of ensuring this is to create a grid that covers all the areas I might need ceiling lights, then remove the ones that aren’t necessary, or can’t be replaced with a different option. I sometimes need to nudge the remaining lights slightly to light the space most effectively. Like this:

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You said there were exceptions — what are they?

Well, I think in purely functional spaces — say, a garage, a workshop, a utility room — down lights are often the answer, particularly if budget is tight.

Notice, however, that I didn’t include kitchens in that list. While the kitchen is of course functional, it’s also the heart of the home, so the lighting in this room needs to cover several bases. This may include down lights, but flush mounts, pendants, sconces and even lamps should also be considered.

I will also say: if you must use down lights, go for ones as trimless and minimal as possible. Those called “plaster-in” will look as seamless as possible on the ceiling. Also, don’t forget your dimmers! Down lights are never great in my opinion, but at half strength they’re… half as bad?

What about in a bedroom?

Personally I would never put downlights in a bedroom, and certainly not near the bed. If you must, a subtle row in front of the wardrobes is acceptable (again, they’re acting as task lighting here), but only if the fittings are as beautiful and discreet as possible, and they’re on dimmers.

Bathroom?

For many years, this is where we designers gritted our teeth and gave in; there simply weren’t that many alternative options. But these days there is SO much great IP rated (ie, water ingress safe) lighting around, that we don’t need to automatically turn to down lights. Pick a beautiful and to-code ceiling pendant that lights the entire area. By the vanity, wall lights are preferable anyway; face-level lighting is much more flattering.

I will say that the one place I often specify a down light is in the shower. It’s not necessary if there is adequate lighting elsewhere, but some people want a bright light to, say, shave their legs under. The only down light in my last home was in the shower.

Ok, you’ve convinced me. I don’t want to use down lights! What about alternatives?

Now we’re talking. If you’ve figured out where you absolutely must have ceiling lighting, but you want to avoid recessed lighting, you have some really nice options. Let’s look at a few of my favourites.

Bullet lights. Essentially a slim can light that is flush mounted instead of recessed, I have used this style a lot in recent years. I think they can look so elegant, especially in pairs! I do think there is a danger that designers are overusing these (and in a few years they will look very early 2020s), so I’m personally trying to hunt out alternatives, but I do still love them.

A slim, elegant track light. Yes, I said it. Track lighting can be incredibly chic, and very versatile. I love it in a modern space, or even as a contemporary contrast in a very historic home.

Mini flush mounts. There are so many good options for this look at the moment. I love a ceramic lamp holder, a metal disk fitting, even upturned fabric or paper shades.

Larger pendants. Now, this look I am in two minds about. In large North American homes, sometimes you need the scale of a larger fitting. When these are used in multiples the effect can be lovely, or overwhelming. Proceed with caution, is my advice.

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So that’s that. I hope you found this post helpful, please feel free to leave me any questions in the comments and I’ll try to answer them! In the meantime, thanks for reading and I’d love for you to share and subscribe.

Hello again! Long time, no read.

I certainly didn’t plan on taking a two-month break from Substack — in fact, I had grand plans to post weekly in September. You know, with all that new (academic) year, goal-setting autumn energy we all have to some degree, and I for one am particularly prone to. In my mind, my daughter was starting school, the boys were starting nursery, and I was going to have a lot more time for work and writing.

In reality, “starting school” is a weeks-long process that left us all husks of our summer selves, and the emotions from two toddlers settling in at nursery didn’t help much. Still, a month in and we’re finding our feet, slowly easing into our new normal. And for my part, I’ve simply decided to make October my September this year.

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And while I have no fewer than ten drafts sitting in my Substack outbox, in various degrees of completion, on topics ranging from design how-tos to personal rants, I also wanted to come up with something… a little lower-stakes, if you will. If I’m going to meet my personal goal of weekly posts by the end of the year, I need at least some of those topics to be less deep-dive, more listicle, you know?

So to that end I give you Five Things, my new sporadically-recurring feature of five thoughts on any given topic, helpfully limiting my innate verbosity by its very format. Or so we hope.

At this time of year we’re inundated with articles, TikToks and YouTube videos about how to get cosy, as though a slug-like state is something we need help achieving. While on one hand, I side-eye this hard (we all lived through the 2010s right? surely we could get a collective degree in hygge), I also click on every single one, so…

Anyway, here are my autumn must haves/must-dos.

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Housekeeping

First up, some dull but ultimately worthwhile seasonal tasks to ready our homes for the darker, cooler months. If you’ve got a working fireplace or log-burner, it goes without saying that you should get it swept or serviced before the first fire of the season.

This is also a great time of year to do any heavy pruning outside (species and weather dependent, of course). We had a tree felled in the backyard earlier, and one in the front thinned. The difference to the light coming into the house is something I hadn’t actually considered when making the appointment, but it’s already noticeable.

In the same vein, clean your windows. It’ll make the darker months easier to bear, and I won’t ask you to do it again until Spring, promise.

Re-Style

As in design, once we’ve got the foundational decisions out of the way, it’s time for the fun stuff. I find a seasonal tinker of my mantle is enough to get me in the right headspace, but if you’ve not got little kids at home, go wild — end tables, window sills — it’s all fair game.

There’s no need to spend any money on this, and in fact I hate the throwaway, seasonal decor culture we find ourselves in right now. I simply go through my boxes of “bits” (the technical term for vases, candles and the like, don’t you know) and simply pull out what speaks to me, based on colour or material or just not having been displayed in awhile.

I also use a lot of foraged items at this time of year: pine cones from our yard and the conkers my kids fill their pockets with on our cemetery walks, any branches I’m trimming when I’m puttering in the garden. Any and all gourds from our weekly veg box live on the mantle or dining table until I actually want to cook with them.

Candles

I love a bougie candle as much as the next girl (and no, I don’t spend too much time worrying about toxicity or VOCs, I’m not burning them all day long). Our “house scent” in the colder months is Diptyque’s Feu de Bois, but only until the large candle we currently have burns out, because… yeesh. Not in this economy.

At a more palatable price point, I have long loved the Cornwall-based St. Eval. Their candles may not be as chic, but the scents are on point, with payoff and throw well above what you’d expect for the price. At this time of year we stock up on Fig Tree, Embers and Bergamot & Nettle, and I’m intrigued by Holy Smoke. (Also, if you want to get ahead of Christmas shopping, you can’t do better than St. Eval’s classic Inspiritus.)

Wooly Warmth (Jackets, Knitwear and Blankets, oh my!)

Ok this is clearly an attempt to squeeze several categories into one, but just go with me here. Our house has solid wall construction, meaning that it lacks insulation and as such, autumn can be a physically uncomfortable season around here. Enter wool.

Once upon a time, before I had my eye turned by the world of interiors, I was a fashion girlie. You might not know it to look at me now, but my bachelor’s degree was in Fashion Design, and it’s what first brought me to London, nearly 20 years ago now. While my wardrobe leans depressingly practical these days, I still love a seasonal wardrobe switchover, and try to dedicate time to this twice a year, in autumn and spring. I also force myself not to buy anything new for a particular season until I do this — honestly game-changing.

Favourite clothing brands include Finisterre for quality and warmth (despite not playing any sport at all and barely being interested in watching them, I think one of my “three words” is sporty), Superlove Merino for base layers (they also make the best kids’ sleep sacks of all time), and Paynter for outerwear (superb quality, ethics and design — I won’t even tell you how many of their shirts, coats and jackets my husband and I have between us).

For the home, you can’t go wrong with classic Welsh wool throw blankets, of which Toast is a great source. I also love TBCo, though I admit I only have their accessories so far (though that may need to change).

Soup

I know, I know… soup for fall? Groundbreaking.

But if you know me in person you’ll know I come from a long line of Soup Enthusiasts and I simply could not write this without sharing a few of my favourite recipes.

I almost always have a jar of Heidi Swanson’s Miso Tare (the recipe is toward the bottom of this page) in my freezer, and we turn it into delicious ramen year-round. The trick is half broth, half plant-based milk, and this flavour base. Top with whatever is seasonal and delicious.

I’m evangelical about Roberto, a loose but flawless soup template by the great Helen Rosner. No notes. Even my brother in law said it could not be improved by “a little bit of chicken”, and from him, that is quite frankly shocking.

Melissa Clark’s Red Lentil Soup with cumin and lemon is the stuff of dreams, and nearly 35k 5-star reviews agree with me there.

Last summer, after 17 years as a vegetarian, I started eating some meat again (a twin pregnancy, followed by a breastfed baby with suspected dairy and soy allergies did me in, what can I say?). This has opened up an entire world of new-to-me soups, and one of the best has been a creamy number with shredded chicken, wild rice and mushrooms. I wish I could link the recipe, but after making it for the first time I promptly lost it, and every time thereafter I’ve been winging it. Still, if it works for me it’ll likely work for you, so I strongly recommend this combination.

There you have it, my autumn must-haves which can now be your must-haves, too. Let me know any of your own recommendations for the season, I’d love to read.

Thanks for being here and until next time, happy October!

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Look, I want to preface this entire post by saying I’m aware that my home isn’t actually a mess, hot or otherwise. In the grand scheme of houses, it’s actually quite nice. Furthermore, I feel incredibly lucky (hashtag blessed even) to have a home, let alone one we own, in a neighbourhood and city we love, in a country that is safe for our healthy children to grow up in, etc etc etc.

There is, however, a marked difference between the way I present (or try not to present) my home online, compared to any number of designers (or, more pointedly, influencer-designers, but more on that later) out there. Any photo I post is likely to contain the clutter of a family home and any number of toys strewn around. But behind the frankly understandable chaos of everyday life, there are also unfinished DIY projects, for-now pieces of furniture, and areas that just haven’t been considered yet. And as a designer, that does irk me, whether I’m sharing a snapshot of my dinner or even just enjoying a read on my sofa with my phone nowhere near.

And while I realise we’re all judging ourselves far more harshly than we judge others (if we even think of their content at all, beyond a passing “that’s nice”), that ever-present thief of joy, comparison, is always there. I also think that there are some fundamental misunderstandings about the design world, and some erroneous parallels drawn, or at least assumed, between a designers’ professional abilities and their own homes. How many times have I gone to a new acquaintance’s home, told them what I do, and had them say something to the tune of “oh, I’m embarrassed now - your house must be beautiful”? Too many. Also, hahahaha.

So let’s dig into why this particular cobbler’s children are running around barefoot, shall we?

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Design Isn’t (Necessarily) a Lucrative Career

There’s a joke among many of the architects I know (and I know loads, having worked at a well known London firm for seven years) that they were duped into this career by the movies. In Hollywood films, the wealthy and handsome leading man is almost always an architect. I can see how this myth started if you know nothing about the actual day-to-day of working in architecture: it’s the ultimate cross section of serious job and sexy creativity. Unfortunately, the reality is less mood boards and fancy restaurants, more Revit and pot noodles.

Well, it’s the same with interior design. I remember back in 2011 or thereabouts, my design tutor turned mentor telling me that being an interior designer meant being surrounded by beautiful things every day, and not being able to afford any of them. I was retraining from a career in fashion at the time (also a famously underpaid industry!), and I remember thinking that surely that wouldn’t apply to me in a few years’ time.

In my career so far, I’ve designed spaces for royalty, a sitting UK Prime Minister (no, I can’t tell you which one but feel free to guess) and some incredibly wealthy individuals in the private sector, as well as many high-value commercial projects. And I can say quite definitively that my own budget? She could never.

It takes a certain kind of dissociation to detail out a kitchen that costs half as much as your flat, but I must say it’s never really bothered me. While I think I have excellent taste (I wouldn’t be much of a designer if I said otherwise), and I love shopping with somebody else’s money as much as the next girl, I don’t personally have what I’d consider overly expensive taste. Not for my own home are statement marbles and handmade tiles; I actually prefer butcher block and builder-basic white squares. I’m sure there’s something to unpack there, probably while throwing around terms like upper limit problem, but let’s move on before I change careers again, shall we?

Things Cost Money

When I bought my first flat in 2017, it’s not an exaggeration to say it took all my savings, a generous gift from of my parents (because I’m not going to gaslight anybody into thinking that buying solo in London on a designer’s salary is something that happens without financial help), and of course a chunk of change from the bank to make it happen. I was moving from a two bed on a 1960s estate in South London to an identical two bed on the same estate (yup), and bringing my then-flatmate with me as lodger. And if I was going to take her money every month, she needed somewhere to sleep, watch TV, eat her dinner, etc. Enter IKEA, eBay, Facebook Marketplace and the like.

And, because I know somebody is thinking it, of course it is possible to create a beautiful home on a budget. But this needed to be done quickly if not sooner, and the adage holds true: between quality, speed and affordability, you can only ever have two.

We’re now eight years on (I know this without doing the math because I met my husband the same week I offered on the flat, levelling up my life all in one go), and while I think most of those purchases have been replaced by now, it was a slow process. Between a global pandemic, a redundancy, three children and buying a new house with a much bigger mortgage, it’s been a slow crawl up the interiors ladder, rather than a giant leap.

Additionally, we ended up buying a home that hadn’t seen any major updates since the 1990s, and many areas are completely unchanged from when it was built in 1929. While that serves a certain kind of charm, it also means that there is a lot to do. I have big (and costly) plans for every room, surface, light fixture and socket in this place.

Instagram Has Blurred the Lines between Designer and Influencer

I feel I’m somewhat burying the lede here; this is the point that sparked the idea for this post in the first place, and one I could probably write an entire newsletter on.

Among the designers who, like so many of us, are “chronically online”, I think you can broadly divide them into two types:

Established, working interior designers who have in this new era of opportunity, used social media to market their skills and reach future clients. Adding a second “influencer” arrow to their professional quiver, if you will. This is smart and almost a foregone conclusion these days. What’s the saying for businesses — if you’re not online, you don’t exist?

The second group have come to things in the other way round, and I’m going to choose my words very carefully here to avoid sounding petulant. (Come to think of it, it’s probably a good thing this is only my second newsletter, as I don’t think any of the fifteen people reading this will take offence).

There is a certain type of design influencer who gained a following for their taste, ability to package an aesthetic, and ultimately their beautiful home, the renovation of which they personally managed and documented on their platform(s). They almost always have a finance bro husband. Is this cringe to say? Probably, but let it never be forgotten that the world of interiors is wallpapered in privilege.

These influencers have been able to parlay their gifts into a career in design, first by taking on jobs for friends, then marketing themselves to their followers. Hopefully Sometimes they back up their passion and natural talent with professional training, and some even go work for other designers for a while to learn the ropes (not often enough, as far as I’m concerned). The aforementioned financial privilege keeps them afloat while their design business gains traction, and their new career slots nicely next to their work as an online content creator.

And look, I’m not making any leaps of judgement about talent — many of my favourite designers whose work I admire fall into this category. There truly isn’t a “right” way to get into this industry (and my own path here was far from straight). I do, however, have a lot of reservations about taking on paid clients without proper process, and I truly believe that nothing can replace the experience that working for a seasoned designer brings.

However you slice it, creating quality and consistent work for clients is not the same as doing a few of your own home renovations.

If I sound petulant, it’s probably because I have suffered from imposter syndrome in my career for as long as I can remember. I would love to have the kind of unhinged confidence I think you need to do something once or twice and think “I could charge for this". I still struggle with this after 15 years in the industry, working within three companies, personally leading countless projects, tons of on-site experience with various trades, and (if I can say this without sounding arrogant), a natural affinity with colour, texture and scale.

Influencer is not on my personal bingo card; my career in design has, up until recently at least, existed alongside my personal online presence with very little crossover. I didn’t need to have a perfect house, because nobody was looking at it and deciding whether or not to hire me based on what they saw.

Now that I’ve left my full-time gig, would I love to count myself among the second group above? Sure, but I missed the boat on the finance bro (I’m not that upset about it — I got pretty lucky in that department), so with limited funds and even less time, my ability to create portfolio-ready work in my own home is limited, to say the least.

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I Don’t Like Spaces that Look “Designed”

Is this ok to even admit? Like is this some internalised hatred or just an understandable reaction to inspiration overload, the homogenisation of design, and doing what I do?

I suppose, if we really look at it, I do like some designed spaces — I certainly like the spaces designed by, say, Meta Coleman or Sophie Ashby or Lonike Shande — spaces that are layered, quirky and feel as though people live there.

But there are still an awful lot of identikit tasteful beige homes out there, on our screens and in our magazines, that look, to me at least, completely devoid of the souls of their inhabitants. It’s also true that too many designers have bought into the myth of a house style, and in churning out home after home in their beautiful but limited palette, using the same pieces and shapes over and over, you have to wonder who the design is actually for.

So maybe it’s not design I have a problem with. Maybe it’s a lack of personality, or specifically a lack of the homeowner’s personality, in the finished product.

As a Designer, I Focus on Feel and Function, Not Photos

This is another major beef I have with social media and its influence on interior design. Yes, the shelter mags play a part as well, but it’s the absolute glut of inspiration images and design content on Instagram, Pinterest, TikTok, you name it, that has fundamentally changed the game.

I hope we can all agree that good design is primarily about function and feel, and secondly about aesthetics. It doesn’t matter how good a room looks if it doesn’t support the activities intended for the space, creates odd traffic flow, or simply feels off.

But these days, it seems like design has been dumbed down to merely the aesthetic aspect, a home nothing more than a collection of styled vignettes to be captured and shared across social media. We experience the homes of those we follow online as a series of styled images, not in their full reality as — what was it Le Corbusier called it? — a machine for living.

While I agree that in an ideal world home, every view should be beautiful, the reality is that when space, money and time are at a premium, it doesn’t always work out that way. The beautifully-styled corners you see on Instagram might not work so well in the context of their homes overall (and many don’t actually exist in the way they’ve been captured), while the most functional spaces aren’t necessarily going to look the most aesthetic.

As much as I’d love to always make the aesthetic choice, I know that the way my home works for our family is far more important. See: selling our beloved vintage dining table to make way for a £175 melamine-topped one that the kids can’t destroy (honestly best purchase ever), the open toy storage in the dining room (kids don’t use what they can’t see), and the new futon that is slightly too big for the space (I mean, we call it the Giant’s Chair) but means we can host overnight guests again.

I’m Doing it Slowly (and DIYing What I Can)

This goes hand-in-hand with my confession about not vibing with “designed” spaces. As a designer, I know that the most considered and successful (not to mention the most on-budget and hassle-free to implement) schemes are the ones that are designed altogether, before ground has even been broken on site, taking into account flow from room to room, bulk buying discounts, technical considerations and lead times.

As a human who lives in a house, and responds deeply to home environments, I prefer the experience of living in a home that has developed over time. I mean, don’t we all on some level? Think about your grandparents’ house, with a lifetime of collected pieces that speak to who they are. On a very real level, I think this is the feeling I aim to achieve in my professional work, even when it’s a full refurb.

Regardless of vibe, there is (again, always) the cost issue. I’m always surprised when I hear of someone my age who can afford to buy a home then immediately renovate it, often without living there first. When we were looking to buy our house, we had the idea of keeping back a chunk of budget for works - I know, cute! - but reality hit us pretty quickly, and almost every penny we had went to actually securing our home.

As such, we’re doing as much as possible ourselves. No, I’m not laying floor or tiling (though honestly I think I’d be ace at that kind of thing once I learned, and I see a future where I get way more stuck into building work, once the kids are grown), but we’re sanding and painting every surface we can, doing sewing projects, replacing hardware, gardening, and any number of other small jobs. Also, where we can choose a creative fix (say, swagging light fixtures from their frankly bizarre positions instead of rewiring and re-plastering), we are.

So, whether or not it’s the financially smart way (it’s not) or the most aesthetic, this home is being renovated slowly. We don’t even have a timeline in mind for extending out the back or going up into the loft, both of which will be necessary if our family of five is to stay here longterm. For now, we’re just trying to make the existing house as functional and beautiful as we can, given our constraints.

I Have Kids

Whoomp. There it is. The reason the DIY is going so slowly, the reason that extra funds for renovating are scarce, and the reason my focus and priorities lie elsewhere, for the time being. Three small people and all of their stuff.

Believe it or not, I’m pretty minimal with toys, decluttering them regularly and preferring open-ended items they can play with for years, toys that stretch their minds, and books. What I refuse to do is limit my kids’ belongings to a certain colour palette or material (no sad beige toys here) just to soothe my own eyeballs. Yes, brightly coloured plastic crap is ugly, but my kids love it (along with wooden blocks and reading, thankfully).

While I would love to keep the toys (and the kids? sometimes) hidden away behind closed doors, it’s not in the cards now, and frankly I can’t see us affording a place with a playroom while the kids still, well, play. Maybe one day we’ll have a TV lair for teenagers while I style my bookshelves in the separate living room to my heart’s content, but for now we have a toy area in our dining room, and I spend every evening doing a bit reset after bedtime. C’est la vie. One day I’ll miss it, I’m sure.

In Conclusion

So there we have it; a 2,700-word treatise defending my unaesthetic home from judgement that likely exists only in my own mind.

I’d love to know how social media has affected how you feel about your own home — do you share more or less than you used to? Do you judge yourself harshly or are you mentally much stronger than me? Chime in.

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Thanks so much for reading. Next time, we’ll get back to some technical know-how. In the meantime, I wish you a great August. x

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Hi, is this thing on? Fancy seeing you on Substack! At the risk of biting off more than I can chew (but really, when don’t I do that?), I’ve decided to add something else to my plate. I have no idea who, if anybody, will read this, but I’m excited to be here.

I’ve been thinking about doing this for awhile; some of you who’ve known or followed me for a long time will remember that years ago, I used to write for Apartment Therapy, and before that, I had a food blog for several years. In short, writing is a lifelong love, and one I’ve missed of late. There are only so many words one can fit into an Instagram story, you know?

Expect that here I’ll share mainly design know-how and inspiration, with the odd travel guide, personal update or recipe thrown in. I can’t promise it’ll arrive in your inbox every week (I’m aiming for monthly, maybe more often once I get into the swing of it), but I can promise it’ll be verbose, honest, and slightly unhinged. Join me, won’t you?

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Anyway, and perhaps surprisingly, today’s newsletter is all about ceilings. I probably could have come up with something more exciting for my proverbial first rodeo, but talking on Instagram about how I plan to paint the ceilings in my own house is was what sparked the whole idea in the first place, and it felt like a fair enough place to start.

Time was, most designers would specify Dulux Brilliant White for all ceilings in a project, and be done with it. Well, I say “was”, but plenty of designers (including *ahem* most of the ones I’ve worked for) still do this. I get it: it’s easy, it’s simple, your site team will be thankful. But guys, I’m here to say: a ceiling the colour of an A4 piece of paper is not the one.

Never mind that pure brilliant white is cool in undertone, and as a whole, we’ve moved into a “warmer” era in design (as opposed to the late aughts and 2010s when grey and cool shades reigned supreme). It’s also a missed opportunity. These days, the design tastemakers have looked up and seen all the possibilities that the fifth wall (yes, that’s really what we call it) offers. Whether that’s a bold statement in colour or pattern, or simply a subtle mirror of what is happening elsewhere in the room, bright white as default has had its day.

(But Ele, I hear you ask — doesn’t white make a space look bigger? No, no it does not. I have a lot of thoughts on white paint in general and I will share them in a future newsletter. )

So, while I want to be clear that there is nothing wrong with a bright white ceiling, there are other options if you’re ready to level up. Let’s go.

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The “White” Ceiling

Best if: you like a crisp and classic look
And your walls are: mid-tone to deep in value.

I’m starting here, because this is probably going to be the most popular option, aesthetics-wise, since you end up with that classic, white-ceiling look. On the other hand, it’ll cost you a bit more in terms of mental effort (and, I’ll be honest, paint spend).

Choose a co-ordinating white to work seamlessly with your wall colour.

It sounds simple enough. You want enough of a contrast between walls and ceiling that the ceiling reads as “white” but not enough that it makes you notice it, if you know what I mean. Your brain should just barely register that yes, that is a white ceiling, and think nothing further of it.

Paint companies like Farrow & Ball and Little Greene make this easy: for every colour in their range, they suggest a co-ordinating white. For my own living room wall colour, which is Farrow & Ball’s popular dusky pink Setting Plaster, the suggested white is the yellow-and red-undertoned Dimity (which also happens to be one of my favourite shades in the F&B deck, and one I’d already planned on using in the dining room).

You can of course, DIY this. Look to the undertones of your wall colour — is it grey? violet? pink? blue? — and find a white that shares that same undertone. The goal is less contrast, more cohesion.

You might be wondering: Does this mean I’ll have loads of different white ceilings in my house? And the answer is, maybe. But probably not. In terms of wall colours, your taste most likely leans toward one area of the colour wheel, and a single well-chosen white can work in multiple rooms if that’s the case. For me, I’m a warm-toned gal. Nearly every single paint colour in my house (bar my bathroom, which is a grey-toned white) has a warm undertone; even the blue of my sons’ room is a warmer-leaning blue. Dimity would probably work throughout my home, or at least in 80% of it.

Another way of doing this is to use the wall colour, at a reduced concentration. So, instead of Dimity in the living room, I could have had a custom ceiling shade mixed, in a ratio of say, 10-20% Setting Plaster, to 80-90% pure white. I’ve not ever specified this, but I gather it’s quite a common hack in North America. I’d proceed with caution if you go this route, and always get a tester — I imagine some colours may work better than others.

The Up and Over Ceiling

Best if: you like a simple look
And your walls are: white to off-white or a pale neutral.

You’ll notice that above, I specified co-ordinating whites for mid-tone and darker walls. That’s because, if your walls are broadly “white” to begin with — and for our purposes, “white” means any pale neutral, from obviously white to off-whites to pale beiges, taupes and greys — there’s an easier way.

Just take the wall colour up and over the ceiling.

I always feel that with very light walls, there is no point in creating a barely-there contrast on the ceiling. Especially with vaulted or sloping ceilings, save yourself the headache and treat it as one surface.

I’ve done this in my bathroom — the walls, woodwork, and ceiling are all Farrow & Ball Wevet, chosen because it’s a bright white with a soft grey undertone, and it went the best with our terrazzo tile. It’s a simple, quiet look that lets the bold colours in the rest of the design shine.

The Colour-Drenched Ceiling

Best if: you like a bold, but quiet, look
And your walls are: mid-tone to deep in value.

We all know what this one looks like: colour drenching has been big for years. And while the term technically refers to painting everything — walls, ceiling, and woodwork — in the same shade, for my purposes we’re only considering the walls and ceiling, because this look can be a success whether or not the woodwork joins the party.

This look is basically the darker/bolder colour version of the above. The only difference is, taking the wall colour up and over the ceiling, when your wall colour is obviously a colour and not a pale neutral, is a look. And when people say “colour drenching”, they’re not talking about ecru, you know?

I love this look for bedrooms (and I’ve done this for my kids’ rooms, with the woodwork drenched as well) as it creates a really cosy space. Similarly, any room that doesn’t get a lot of natural light wears this well. Think womb-like vibes.

The Contrast Ceiling

Best if: you like a bold look
And your walls are: any colour at all.

So here we arrive in the Wild West of design: anything goes, from hand-painted stripes to wallpaper to hot pink paint. These days, designers are throwing nearly every treatment they can think of at the ceiling, and I’m here for it.

Of course, “contrast” doesn’t necessarily mean maximalist or ott. Consider inverting your intended colour scheme: instead of teal walls and an off-white ceiling, the opposite can work surprisingly well.

As a bonus: if your walls are already a neutral that you enjoy, and you don’t want to entirely redecorate but are wanting to embrace a bit more colour, a bold ceiling is a fun, relatively quick and easy way of injecting some life into a space. The living room above would be perfectly lovely with a white ceiling, but the pink makes it sing.

This is also a great look to do with wallpaper; a friend of mine is currently papering her kids’ bedroom in the most glorious floral paper, and chose a colour within the paper to pick out on the ceiling. Or for more oomph, the opposite! The dining room above is actually my friends’ place: I didn’t design it, but I love what their designer did to subtly zone the dining area in their open-plan living space.

For my purposes, I’m going to do this in my dining room: a simple inversion of the living room scheme will, I hope, add a visual twist while tying the adjoining rooms together in a fun way (see the top photo of this post, which sparked the idea in the first place).

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Hypothetically Asked Questions

(Because I can’t truthfully say anybody has asked me these. But you might be thinking it.)

Wait, shouldn’t my ceiling be the same white as my trim?
Not necessarily. While you can do this, there are a few reasons why this shouldn’t be the default.

Firstly, white hasn’t been the go-to trim colour in design land for at least five years anyway: these days, you’re as likely to see anthracite, sky blue or taupe on woodwork. However, I’d wager most people still want a white ceiling.

Secondly, if you think in terms of paint finish, a ceiling has more in common with walls (flat) than trim (eggshell to gloss, depending on preference), so even if you did use the same shade, the colour would appear different, as so much of light reflection and therefore colour is down to sheen. (If you’re asking, my personal preference is flat on ceilings and walls, eggshell on woodwork: I lean matte. That way satin and gloss can be reserved for a *shiny moment*, if indeed you want one.)

The ceiling really is its own beast.

Shouldn’t all the ceilings in my house be the same colour/treatment?
Nope. I have used almost every option detailed above in my current home. Things still flow, and nobody has ever commented on my schizophrenic ceilings.

What about my coving/cornice?
Personally, I believe the coving/cornice (the terms are often used interchangeably but in general, a cornice is more ornate while coving features a simple curve) belongs to the ceiling, not the wall. My Finishes Schedules almost always specify that any cornice be treated the same as the adjoining ceiling. There are, as ever, a few other options:

a) If you want your walls to appear taller, paint the coving as the walls. I’d only suggest this if you have truly low ceilings (and if that’s the case you probably don’t have or need coving anyway), but you do you.

b) If you are going for a contrast trim look, you can pick it out in the same shade as the other woodwork. To be quite honest this look can get real busy real fast, and I often feel it’s more successful when the coving is left out of the equation.

Also, I included the above photo, which you’ll notice has no cornice to speak of, because I wanted to highlight this fun treatment: creating a cornice with paint is such a great way of adding character while being budget- and DIY-friendly, and maintaining architectural authenticity (something I will no doubt harp on about at length in future newsletters).

What about panelled ceilings?
“Panelling” covers a whole manner of sins (little renovation joke for you), but we can broadly divide them into two groups: plaster detailing, as in a coffered ceiling, or painted* wood panels, as in bead board or tongue-and-groove. The former want to be flat in finish, the latter should be eggshell or shinier, as it’s technically woodwork.

(Actually, you know that *shiny moment* I mentioned above? This is it. I love a glossy, bold-coloured bead board ceiling like the blue one above. I might be planning something similar in my kitchen.)

In terms of colour, you can really choose any of the options I go into above, for a panelled ceiling. These ceilings can be white, off-white or any other shade.

*If you are lucky enough to have a wood-panelled ceiling that is raw, stained or varnished but not painted — for the love of God, please don’t touch it. The world doesn’t need anymore Modern Farmhouse. We’re at capacity.

I have a picture rail. Should the frieze above be treated as wall, or ceiling?
This is also dealer’s choice. While you can treat the frieze (that’s the bit of wall above the picture rail) the same as the wall underneath, this look can end up a bit choppy, depending on how the picture rail itself is treated. Instead, consider:

a) Painting the entire wall, picture rail included, as one. More or less ignore that it’s there. I’ll be doing this in my upstairs hallway, when we finally get around to painting up there.

b) Treat the picture rail, frieze, cornice and ceiling as one. Everything below the picture rail is wall; everything above, ceiling. This can be especially impactful if the ceiling colour is a fun contrast as in the image above, or if you have wallpaper below the rail.

Wow, ok — anybody still with me? If you can believe it, there’s probably more I could have said, but my kids’ nap time is only so long (alas).

Anyway, let me know what you think, has any of this inspired you to rethink your home’s ceilings? If you have any questions or specific dilemmas, ask in the comments below. I’d love to help.

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