The question I keep asking myself at the moment is… why can’t I find heaven on a shoe string? Bit of an obvious answer I suppose, it simply doesn’t exist. The boyfriend and I are currently on the search for our first little place together, renting obviously (we aren’t made of money) and I think it’s slowly killing me inside. It’s like living with constant disappointment.
I’m onto my third viewing now, which might not seem a lot, but I’m very picky about what I need to see before I even go to view. It needs to have character and charm, somewhere a little different, unique and a little kooky. We aren’t modern kinda people, we don’t want vinyl flooring and a corner sofa…
I want somewhere I can make my own, a perfectly messy, spot-less dirty beautifully strange home. I want somewhere that I can pile our vintage suitcases up and them to not look out-of-place. I want plants in teapots and farmhouse furniture, with bunting in the garden. I want plain walls where I can display all the postcards I’ve collected, in frames and sitting alone. A place to pile up all my fashion books and rest my bags on them. It doesn’t need to be big, somewhere just right will do fine. I want to have a wreath on the door and a Christmas tree with brown packages underneath, the perfect little home.
I’m lucky that my boyfriend likes the same things I do, all be my taste a little more floral. He’s also a dab-hand with a saw and drill which no doubt will come in handy. Below is a little bit of inspiration for when I do finally find somewhere, I want it to look like this (but a bit less girly).