For me, it would have to be my Aunty Janet. She is possibly one of the most fascinating people in my world. Her house is everything I would want; it is an old Victorian School House in the middle of beautiful English countryside, fields lined with hawthorns.
You step into the kitchen and the range is in, a large sturdy oak table sits on top of terracotta tiles. The doorways are small and filled by old, slightly rickety, wooden latched doors. As you bend through into the living room, you are instantly faced with a huge stone fireplace with a log burner, a gorgeous leather suite, piano and a cockatoo! Everything in this house is antique, but not as if a museum. Well loved furniture, in a well loved house in which sometimes, in the quiet, you can still hear the school children running along the landing.
This house is not why I love my Aunty J, it just describes her perfectly; a slight hotch-potch of beautiful features, of cosy corners, of love and life. Of eccentricities and common sense, of motherlyness and warmth, of laughter, of fun, of generosity. Of quirks and smiles, of that mysterious something you can’t quite place, of a home, of a family, of someone who loves me and who I love so very dearly back.