Domestic oracle John Lewis casts its discerning eye over Rosie Millard’s home decor – with intriguing results .
Domestic oracle John Lewis casts its discerning eye over Rosie Millard’s home decor – with intriguing results
I am about to take a dose of my own medicine. Rather than making pronouncements from my kitchen swing – an accessory so many readers seem to hate – I’m going to receive some advice myself.
And who else to give it but that reliable domestic oracle, John Lewis? For more than 20 years, their Home Consultation Service has been snooping around British homes, inspiring their owners to bold makeovers.
The concept is simple: if you can’t be bothered to inspect 400 different curtains at one of their stores, let someone else make the choices for you. For £200, redeemable against purchases from their soft furnishings department, an expert will visit your house and come up with a whole new look for you.
I book an appointment with Susie Pope, a seasoned consultant. Waiting for her to arrive is quite nerve-racking – I’m not used to having my own home judged.
Then the doorbell rings and in she comes. At once she casts a sharp look at my hall, which I have spent 40 minutes tidying in preparation.
“Striped carpet on the stairs,” she says impassively. Is this a good thing, I ask? She nods. Phew.
We go into the kitchen, where things are less to her satisfaction. “You have no curtains here,” she observes. I mutter something about dirt, cooking grease and clean lines. But this does not seem to wash.
“What about when you go down into the kitchen late at night? Passers-by might see…” she says. See what? Me drinking vodka from the bottle? Eating chocolate cake with my fingers?
“…you in a nightdress,” she finishes. Then she pulls out a photo album filled with examples of immaculate kitchens with perfect pelmetted windows. “I think you need Roman blinds over this window by the sink, and a voile at the garden end. And here,” she says, pointing to an inoffensive (but now she mentions it, dull) square cushiony thing where the children sit when they won’t eat. “You could have a more interesting chair than that,” she explains.
Unsurprisingly, John Lewis has a number of suitable new chairs for sale. Pope produces a fat wodge of catalogues from her bag.
“How about this?” she says, showing me a Jester chair, all curves and velvet. It is lovely but, at £999, out of my price range. We then discuss something called a Snuggler. This, I learn, is a piece of furniture halfway between a sofa and a chair. I have immediate visions of me snuggling up with my children and reading them Maurice Sendak stories, just like a perfect mother should.
Then Pope whips out a tape measure and shows me exactly where it could go in the room. The John Lewis example she suggests is still a bit pricey, but I log the look in my head for the future.
She says that many of the people she works with are newly retired. They have time and space to redecorate their homes, and usually money to spend too. The budgets of most of her clients are between £8,000 and £10,000, but they often don’t know quite which way to go.
“They might not have changed things for 25 years, and maybe their children are resisting them doing anything different,” she explains. “People are emotional about their houses, understandably, and they don’t like change.”
Still, Pope says, with a bit of encouragement from her, homeowners are becoming bolder.
“Boutique-hotel chic is very in,” she says. “People are up for daring, opulent colours, but beige is, at last, out.” As is terracotta, apparently, and anything coloured with a tint of peach. And lose the stripped floorboards.
“Shall we go to your bedroom?” asks Pope.
I swallow, recalling that it is beige, with acres of stripped-wood flooring.
Yet it is here that she comes into her own. Pope suggests dumping a dull shelving unit in favour of a long, stylish number at the end of the bed.
She spots a tear in a (beige) lampshade and asks why I don’t replace it with a teal green alternative. She recommends a rug or two for the floor, and points out that the reason I find reading in bed so hard is because the room has atrocious lighting.
“Lighting has been revolutionised,” she says. “There are so many options. Abandon this tiny central light and put in a big chandelier. And why is there no mirror? How can you check your outfits?”
She peers into a grim dark corner beside the cupboard. My husband favours this for the storage of various sporting accoutrements, which he insists must reside in our bedchamber.
“Get rid of this straight away,” she commands. “Push the cupboard right up against the wall.” I’m beginning to like Susie rather a lot.
With the addition of cushions, candles and a chocolate-coloured faux-fur throw on the bed, I can see the potential for a comfortable, beige-free domain. Looking at my home afresh like this, I have to concede that a taste of my own medicine might be just the tonic it needs.
“Striped carpet on the stairs,” she says impassively. Is this a good thing, I ask? She nods. Phew.
We go into the kitchen, where things are less to her satisfaction. “You have no curtains here,” she observes. I mutter something about dirt, cooking grease and clean lines. But this does not seem to wash.
“What about when you go down into the kitchen late at night? Passers-by might see…” she says. See what? Me drinking vodka from the bottle? Eating chocolate cake with my fingers?
“…you in a nightdress,” she finishes. Then she pulls out a photo album filled with examples of immaculate kitchens with perfect pelmetted windows. “I think you need Roman blinds over this window by the sink, and a voile at the garden end. And here,” she says, pointing to an inoffensive (but now she mentions it, dull) square cushiony thing where the children sit when they won’t eat. “You could have a more interesting chair than that,” she explains.
Unsurprisingly, John Lewis has a number of suitable new chairs for sale. Pope produces a fat wodge of catalogues from her bag.
“How about this?” she says, showing me a Jester chair, all curves and velvet. It is lovely but, at £999, out of my price range. We then discuss something called a Snuggler. This, I learn, is a piece of furniture halfway between a sofa and a chair. I have immediate visions of me snuggling up with my children and reading them Maurice Sendak stories, just like a perfect mother should.
Then Pope whips out a tape measure and shows me exactly where it could go in the room. The John Lewis example she suggests is still a bit pricey, but I log the look in my head for the future.
She says that many of the people she works with are newly retired. They have time and space to redecorate their homes, and usually money to spend too. The budgets of most of her clients are between £8,000 and £10,000, but they often don’t know quite which way to go.
“They might not have changed things for 25 years, and maybe their children are resisting them doing anything different,” she explains. “People are emotional about their houses, understandably, and they don’t like change.”
Still, Pope says, with a bit of encouragement from her, homeowners are becoming bolder.
“Boutique-hotel chic is very in,” she says. “People are up for daring, opulent colours, but beige is, at last, out.” As is terracotta, apparently, and anything coloured with a tint of peach. And lose the stripped floorboards.
“Shall we go to your bedroom?” asks Pope.
I swallow, recalling that it is beige, with acres of stripped-wood flooring.
Yet it is here that she comes into her own. Pope suggests dumping a dull shelving unit in favour of a long, stylish number at the end of the bed.
She spots a tear in a (beige) lampshade and asks why I don’t replace it with a teal green alternative. She recommends a rug or two for the floor, and points out that the reason I find reading in bed so hard is because the room has atrocious lighting.
“Lighting has been revolutionised,” she says. “There are so many options. Abandon this tiny central light and put in a big chandelier. And why is there no mirror? How can you check your outfits?”
She peers into a grim dark corner beside the cupboard. My husband favours this for the storage of various sporting accoutrements, which he insists must reside in our bedchamber.
“Get rid of this straight away,” she commands. “Push the cupboard right up against the wall.” I’m beginning to like Susie rather a lot.
With the addition of cushions, candles and a chocolate-coloured faux-fur throw on the bed, I can see the potential for a comfortable, beige-free domain. Looking at my home afresh like this, I have to concede that a taste of my own medicine might be just the tonic it needs.
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