I’m old now. I tut at youths and I like early nights and bitter coffee, and I buy clothes that are full price and have an ISA. Being old means that I’ve realised what little things make me happy, however small and silly they may be.
I love breakfast, but I never eat it during the week (10 extra minutes of snoozing, or a limp bowl of Cheerios? I know which I’d rather). When I do at the weekend, it’s a full blown bonanza; we’re talking croissants, bacon sandwiches, fresh coffee, the whole nine yards. I’ve just bought a beau copper coffee press, and it’s genuinely the best thing ever – get yours here, because it’s the most Instagrammable thing ever.
In my apartment, there are candles everywhere. I’m currently sitting on my sofa in my living room, and can count twelve of the things in direct view – some may say I’m a little obsessed. I only buy scented ones that smell like cake batter and vanilla and cinnamon – basically, food – so my house smells like Willy Wonka’s factory most of the time.
It’s got to the point where the little man in the post office knows me by name, I order that much stuff online. I swear I’m addicted to ASOS, and I should own shares in Missguided and Boohoo – I order something from them probably every other day. Sorry, bank balance…
When I go on holiday, I like to make sure I’ve washed my bedding the night before, so I come home to crisp, clean sheets. Seriously – there’s nothing quite like fresh white bedding (for me to turn orange with tan, but that’s neither here nor there.)
I am not a neat freak whatsoever – in fact, I’m pretty messy – but whenever my home/wardrobe/social media feed/spice rack is beautifully organised, I swear I get this weird serene feeling. Not enough to keep on top of my crap all the time though, obviously…