Blog

Blimey, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? I remember when I first moved into my flat in Hackney—thought I could just wing it with some mood boards and a trip to IKEA. Let me tell you, that was a disaster waiting to happen. Ended up with a sofa that didn’t fit through the door and a shade of green that made the kitchen look like a doctor’s surgery from the 70s. Not the vibe I was going for, honestly.

So, how do you actually find someone good? It’s not just about typing “interior designer near me” into Google and picking the shiniest website. That’s like finding a needle in a haystack, but the haystack is full of people who think “eclectic” just means throwing a sheepskin rug over everything. You’ve got to dig a bit deeper.

Start with your gut, really. What makes your heart sing? For me, it was stumbling upon this little gallery cafe in Bermondsey last autumn—the way they’d mixed rough brick with these sleek, curved velvet chairs… I practically begged the owner for their designer’s details. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Look at spaces you already love. That boutique hotel you stayed at in Edinburgh? The restaurant with the unbelievable lighting in Manchester? They didn’t do that by accident. Track down who’s behind it. Designers often tag their projects on Instagram, you know. It’s a goldmine.

Then, you’ve got to have a proper chat. I met with this one lovely woman, portfolio was all minimalist and serene. But when I showed her my grandma’s vintage Persian rug—this beautiful, worn, colourful thing—she just sort of… frowned. Said it “wouldn’t harmonise.” Right then, I knew. It wasn’t about her skills; she was brilliant. But she didn’t *get* me. The person I ended up working with, Sarah, she came round, made a pot of terrible coffee (her one flaw, bless her), and spent an hour just talking about *why* I loved that rug, what memories it held. She saw the story, not just an object to style around. That’s what you want—someone who listens more than they lecture.

Oh, and ask to see a *finished* project. Photos are one thing, but can you visit? I once toured a show home in Chelsea that looked stunning online. In person? The marble countertop had a huge, poorly sealed seam, and the custom shelving wobbled if you breathed on it. A qualified designer doesn’t just create a look; they manage the whole messy, dusty, problem-riddled process to make sure it’s actually built properly. They’ve got relationships with tradespeople who don’t ghost you after taking a deposit. Ask them: “What was the biggest headache on your last project, and how did you sort it?” If they can’t give you a real, gritty example, be wary.

Don’t be shy about budgets either. I made that mistake early on. Felt awkward talking numbers. Big mistake. A true pro will be upfront. They’ll tell you if your dream for a handmade Italian terrazzo floor in a two-bed terrace is, well, bonkers for your budget, and then they’ll get creative. They might know a brilliant artisan in Bristol who can make something similar with reclaimed materials for half the price. That’s their value—they navigate the maze so you don’t have to.

It’s a bit like dating, finding the right designer. There has to be a spark, a bit of trust, and a shared vision. It’s not just about making your home pretty; it’s about making it feel like *yours*, only better. And when you find that person… it’s magic. You’ll walk into your own home and feel that little jolt of joy, every single time. Worth the hunt, I promise.

Blimey, talking about wall art, aren't we? Right, you've got that one big wall in your lounge, staring back at you, emptier than a pub on a Monday morning. It's begging for something. But what? A massive oil painting? A quirky neon sign? A gallery wall that looks like it's been curated by a mad professor? It's enough to make your head spin, I tell you.

I remember walking into a client's flat in Notting Hill last autumn. Lovely place, high ceilings, gorgeous light. But above their sleek, mid-century sofa? This tiny, lonely little postcard-sized print. It looked so… apologetic. Like it was whispering, "Sorry for bothering you." We had a proper giggle about it. The scale was all wrong, you see. That sofa was a statement, all clean lines and bold fabric. It needed a companion, not a mouse.

So, size. It's not just about measuring, is it? It's about feeling. That wall needs to *breathe* with the art, not be swallowed by it or left feeling awkward. A good trick I nicked from an old set designer? Cut out a piece of newspaper or brown wrapping paper the size of the art you're thinking of. Blu-tack it up there. Live with it for a few days. You'll know. You'll walk past it making tea and think, "Yeah, that's the spot," or "Crikey, no, that's overwhelming."

And style? Oh, don't get me started on the "matchy-matchy" trap. I see it all the time. People buy a sofa with a subtle blue stripe and then hunt for a painting that's *exactly* the same shade of blue. It ends up looking like a showroom, not a home. Where's the life in that? Where's the story?

My own hallway tells a tale, actually. It's got this huge, slightly battered vintage map of the London Underground I found at a flea market in Spitalfields years ago. The paper's got tea stains, the colours are faded. It doesn't "go" with anything, technically. But every time I see it, I remember that rainy Saturday, the smell of old paper and frying onions from the food stalls. It's got soul. That's what you're after.

Think about the room's vibe, not just its colour swatch. Is it a cosy, book-lined den where you want to feel hugged? Maybe a textured, woven tapestry or a warm, landscape oil sketch. Is it a bright, minimalist kitchen where you zip about making your morning coffee? A single, bold graphic print in a simple frame could sing. I once put a massive, glossy black-and-white photograph of crashing waves in a stark white bathroom in Chelsea. Felt like a bolt of sea air every time you walked in. The client said it was better than caffeine.

And for heaven's sake, hang it properly! I went to a dinner party in Clapham once, and this beautiful abstract canvas was hung so high, we were all craning our necks like meerkats. The centre of the picture should be roughly at eye level when you're standing. Seems obvious, but you'd be surprised.

It's not about finding "decor". It's about finding a piece that makes you stop for a second. That makes you feel something. Even if it's just, "Well, I never." That's your focal point. Everything else in the room just sort of gathers round it for a chat.

Blimey, that's a cracking question, isn't it? You know, it reminds me of a proper disaster I had in my own flat in Hackney, oh, must be two summers back now. I’d fallen head over heels for this mad, fuchsia-pink velvet cushion in a boutique on Columbia Road—thought it was the absolute bee's knees. Got it home, plonked it right on my lovely, serene grey sofa… and it looked like a flamingo had crashed a funeral. Just awful. Clashed horribly with the warm oak floor and the sage green armchair. Taught me a right lesson, that did.

So, where do you even start? Well, darling, chuck that notion of “matching” straight out the window. It’s not about finding an *exact* replica of your sofa’s leg colour in a lamp base. That’s how you end up with a room that feels like a showroom, all a bit stiff and soulless. What you’re after is *harmony*. Think of it like a good pub chat—different voices, different laughs, but all flowing together nicely. Your existing furniture and colours are the main speakers; your new bits and bobs should join in the conversation, not shout over everyone.

Right, first thing’s first: become a bit of a detective in your own home. I don’t just mean look at it. I mean *really* look. Get down on the floor if you have to! What’s the *feeling* already in the room? Is it calm and airy with lots of linen and bleached wood? Or is it rich and cosy, with a deep blue wall and a battered leather Chesterfield? That feeling, that’s your blueprint. Now, have a proper squint at your colour palette. And I don't just mean the wall colour. Look at the undertones in your wood furniture—is it warm orangey pine, or cool, greyish oak? See the fleck of rust in your rug? The creamy vein in the marble coffee table top? Those are your secret clues. Your new home decor should whisper to those details.

Take my mate Sarah’s place in Bristol. She’s got this gorgeous, but frankly massive, dark walnut dining table—a real statement piece. She was terrified of adding anything else. I told her, “Don’t fight it, complement it!” We found a stunning, chunky ceramic vase in a matte olive glaze. Didn’t match the table at all, but the weightiness of the ceramic spoke to the solidity of the table, and the green picked up the leaves in her botanical prints. Suddenly, the table didn’t feel so lonely anymore. It was a proper *moment*.

And here’s a little trick I swear by: always, *always* bring a sample home. A paint swatch, a fabric scrap from your curtain, even a cushion from your sofa—pop it in your handbag. When you’re out browsing, hold it up against that potential new lamp or artwork. See how it plays together in different light? That fuchsia cushion of mine would have never made it past the door if I’d just held up a thread from my grey sofa fabric. The clash was immediate under the shop lights.

Oh, and texture! Don’t get so hung up on colour that you forget about texture. If your room is all smooth surfaces—a glossy floor, a sleek leather sofa, glass tables—it can feel a bit… cold, like a doctor’s surgery. Introducing a nubby wool throw, a rattan basket, or a piece of art with thick, impasto paint adds depth and warmth. It’s like giving the room a jumper to wear. Conversely, if your space is already full of cosy textures, a sleek, shiny vase or a metallic side table can add a bit of sparkle and stop it feeling too much like a blanket fort.

Look, I’ll be honest, I’ve got a real soft spot for vintage pieces. There’s a story to them, a bit of wonkiness that makes a room feel lived-in. A mid-century modern sideboard might seem a weird partner for a contemporary sofa, but if they share a similar leg shape or a warm wood tone, they’ll get on like a house on fire. It’s about creating a collected, personal look, not a bought-in-one-go set.

At the end of the day, your home isn’t a museum. It’s your nest. The best advice I can give? Buy what you *truly* love, not just what you think *goes*. If you adore a piece, you’ll find a place for it. It might mean shifting a picture or painting a shelf, but that’s how a home gets its soul. Start slow, maybe with smaller accents like cushions or a vase. Live with them for a bit. See how the light hits them in the morning. Your room will tell you if it’s happy. Trust me, and trust your own eye. You’ll get there. Just maybe avoid the fuchsia velvet. Unless that’s your thing, of course—then you do you, and build the whole flaming room around it!