What is that makes a place feel like home? Fin and I lived in our last flat for nearly three years, but we never felt as comfortable there as we do where we are now. On paper - and who am I kidding, in reality - the last flat was much nicer. It was newer, it was bigger, it was comfier. It had two bathrooms and neither of them had a beige bathroom suite, which is more than I can say for our current flat. Being inside our bathroom now is like being inside a biscuit.

So why do we feel so at home here? The location is better, I'll give it that. The city centre is easily walkable and there's a huge, wild-ish park right on our doorstep. We're right at the cul of a little leafy sac, so it's always quiet. It's the most peaceful spot I've ever found in this moderately bustling city. I don't know if that's it, though.

We've somehow managed to make this place feel more ours. Like the last flat, this one's furnished with someone else's crap cast-off furniture, but unlike the last flat, none of it's lilac. Is there a worse colour than lilac? I don't know if there is. Maybe chartreuse, but it's a close one. (Here's proof, if proof were needed, that lilac couches are a Very Bad Thing).

Our living room now is filled with warm colours, layered patterns, natural textures, candles, wood. The artwork on the wall is there because we love it or it means something, not just because it happens to have lilac in it. It has carpets on which Smidgen and Eeyore can do their crazy dance instead of skiting across shiny, dust-gathering laminate.

It's just comfy. It feels like us. It feels right.

I mean, don't get me wrong. It's small and weirdly shaped and the bathroom really is hideous. I would never buy this flat (or the one currently for sale downstairs), much as I love where we are. But I don't know if I'd buy somewhere else, either.

Someone asked me the other day, if we had the money, would we buy a home of our own. My honest answer is that I don't know. The thought of moving again gives me the chills, and not in a good way, but I don't think it's just laziness that makes me hesitate.

When it comes down to it, I don't think my feelings have changed much since I wrote this post back in 2011. Buying property just doesn't look like everything it's cracked up to be, especially since I've seen friends unable to sell those starter flats that seemed like such a good idea a few years ago. And now that I've figured out how easy it is to make your walls look pretty with some wrapping paper and a cheap frame, I care even less about my ability to paint the walls a crazy colour. (Seriously, Cavallini gift wrap looks so good in this Ikea frame that I've started hanging one in every room. Top tip.)

Sure, it would be lovely to have somewhere we could call our own. In my dream world, it would probably look something like that picture up there, and it would be on a hillside with a burn bubbling past, and we would have a pet alpaca called Jorge, but do I need that to feel happy? Do I need it to feel comfortable? Do I need it to feel like I'm home?

I don't think I do.

SEE ALSO:

Image of Emma Campbell's Kenyan home shot for The World of Interiors April 2012

I'm on holiday. In case you were wondering.

It's not really a proper holiday. It is what people seem determined to call a "staycation." Except we're British, so technically it should be a holistay. Whatever you call it, we're staying at home, but not going to work for two glorious weeks. Hooray.

I'm planning on sleeping, reading, walking the dog and talking about, but probably never actually going to, things at the many festivals and fringe festivals and fringe fringes that take over Edinburgh every August. I have big plans to build some flat-pack furniture. I might even find time for some blog tinkering. The excitement never ends.

See you on the other side.


Image: Nest Decorating

The last three months were, frankly, a blur. I lived in three different flats. I spent four hours a day on various forms of public transport. I helped sign up over 300 people to raise money for charity. I went to three weddings, styled two photo shoots, wrote a grand total of seven blog posts. There was a mysterious and somewhat gross infection in there too, a lot of standing around awkwardly in shopping centres holding a pink bucket, not a lot of sleep. But it was good, I think.

Now I'm back. Back in Edinburgh, back at work, living in a fully furnished home and wearing clothes that didn't come out of a bag. Adjusting to life sans dishwasher, slowly.

Some things are new. I walk to work now, across a park, navigating a stream of students on their way to lectures. I don't live beside a lighthouse any more, but I do live on the edge of a great heap of urban wilderness, which makes up for the lack of sea. Smidgen loves it. I have carpets, and some new things on the walls that I kind of love. I have a new neighbour. Soon I'll have another, smaller, one.

I'm back at the same job, back in the same city, but it feels different. Maybe it's the change of scene, or the changing of the seasons (I'm a winter girl through and through) - whatever it is, I feel refreshed.

I read this excellent post the other day, by a blogger who has fallen out of love with blogging. I wondered, as I read it, whether the same might have happened to me. It's been a month since I last blogged. A MONTH. That's just embarrassing. And it's hard to start again, once you've stopped; I feel like I practically gave birth to this post, it was such a effort to get it out. Am I rusty, or am I simply done? Am I over blogging?

I don't think I am. I've loved it too much to just ditch it. Plus there are so many exciting things coming up that I could write about: Christmas! Blonde Bridesmaid's wedding! Artem, topless! So, here I am. Trying to take advantage of my new-found sense of rejuvenation, for as long as it lasts.

All of which is to say, hi. I'm back. How's it going?


Smidgen yesterday, checking out her new 'hood. I was convinced she was going over the edge.

We moved out of our flat yesterday, into a temporary place while we wait for our new lease to come through. The days leading up to this one have been horribly, overwhelmingly busy, culminating in me sobbing over the phone to a bemused letting agent five minutes before we were supposed to hand our keys in. We finally closed the door on our flat nine miserable hours later.

Imagine you reach into your fridge for the milk bottle at a critical moment (say, there's a cup of hangover tea brewing in your mug, or the half-made bechamel for your we-might-not-have-a-flat-but-we'll-always-have-cheese macaroni is busy congealing in a pan) only to find that the milk is past its use-by date. What do you do? Give the bottle a cursory sniff, recoil in horror and chuck it in the recycling? No! No you do not! Here's how to tell if your milk is still drinkable.

They key thing is not to sniff the bottle. Those crusty dried bits of milk at the neck of the bottle will always smell gross, and you could end up throwing away perfectly good milk, and tea, and macaroni cheese. Instead, get a clean glass and pour a couple of inches of milk into it, step away from the crusty bottle-top, and stick your nose right in there.

If it smells fresh (or doesn't really smell of anything), you may proceed to step two: have a sip. Admittedly, this part can be hit or miss. If it tastes fresh or just the right side of creamy, it's good to go. If it's sour or cheesy, well, oops. Sorry about that. Hope you had your toothbrush handy. But hey, better to realise now than when your cup of tea tastes like you stirred the milk in with your big toe after walking all day in ballet pumps, right?


I think the fact that I've used this glass trick more than once in the past two weeks probably tells you everything you need to know about what I've been up to. Comfort food intake is at an all-time high, while shopping for food at normal human intervals has taken something of a back seat. Flat-hunting can really sap the soul.

But it's all okay now because we have finally found a flat! With walls and everything! Just don't mention the dog. (Or the garden or the dishwasher that we do not have. Especially the dishwasher. I'm still in mourning.)

Okay. This post has literally exhausted my supply of handy household hints, unless you count sweeping up dust bunnies from the bathroom floor while sitting on the toilet (multi-tasking!). Anyone got any good ones for me? Tips on staying sane - and married - without the benefit of a dishwasher would be especially welcome...


Polkadot milk bottle and cow milk bottle both by Hanne Rysgaard

My shelves, one day soon. Livet Hemma via Pinterest

Image by Lillian and Leonard

Limited edition camera print, $20, Michele Maule

Alphabet and heart rings, from $88, Catbird

Probably not this one though, although I do like that cover.

The gorgeous home and wardrobe of Annabel Tollman, via The Coveteur

The hideous home and wardrobe of me, via ten twenty-seven years of living like a slob.

The Hubster and I live in a rented flat. Bright turquoise walls are, clearly, not an option. There are many, many reasons to buy a property (or so I'm told). Is it wrong that the main reason I dream of buying a house is so that I could go buck wild with a paintbrush and stick quirky bird prints up all over the place?