I live in a house of men. Large men and two dogs who require robust furniture, large screen Tvs and easy to clean surfaces. With the exception of the orchids in my kitchen and the bunch of fresh flowers I treat myself to most weeks for doing the groceries, there is nothing unambiguosly feminine about our home. On a bad day, most often in the dead of winter, I long for a room of my own.

My room would be decorated in Wedgewood blue and white. The floors would be mahogany and covered here and there by fluffy sheepskins. There would be a fireplace. I'd have a fainting couch covered in toile de jouy and heaped with decorative pillows in all shades of blue luxury fabrics. A desk is a must. It would be a spacious and capacious marquetry affair with a matching comfy chair. Bookshelves would take up an entire wall and there would be a fabulous but discretely hidden stereo system, the newest Apple notebook and a curio cabinet for my treasures. The windows would really be French doors opening to the garden. I'd like those to have brocade curtains and lace vitrage. Come to think of it, I might like to have one of my old Donny Osmond posters framed and hanging on the wall, or maybe David Cassidy in his Keith Partridge heyday. Maybe both. It's my fantasy, I'll have both, signed. This room of my own is where I'd be able to think, write and paint undisturbed. You will note that there is not telephone in the inventory and no door connecting to the rest of the house either; both omissions are intentional.

This is all fluff, really. A castle or at least a study/library/studio/boudoir in the air.

In real life when the weather is fine, I move my “office” to the patio. It is an ideal place to dream or seek some quiet. A room of my own, if only for the summer.