Decor

The Quiet Language of Decor

In the quiet of a London flat, the wallpaper sighs with an old‑world grammy. Stretched across the walls, a linen‑sheen gala, reflected by lamp‑glory and chrome‑favour.

A brass lamp—its matt‑black rim, casts silvery gold on a shaggy rug. Soft cream‑linen drapes, the tale of spring, let the morning light tinker with the old photos.

A leather Chesterfield, its elbow‑rest a story, chairs set in a conversational circle. The bedroom, a sanctuary, scented by lavender, where the ticking of the clock sings a lullaby.

The kitchen, with its vintage tile and name‑plate, holds a copper pot that stews – an aroma of tea. A framed paint‑brush set, a moustached‑handshake to the past and its makers, tucked in the nook.

All these furnishings and fern‑pots organise the room like a quiet poem. They give a colour, a feeling, a name‑tag: the gentle, inevitable, heart‑felt ugliness of decor.