I'll appear on Scotland's Home of the Year, but I have to do this first
I really want to be a SHOTY contender
As part of my job, I annually interview a succession of Scotland’s Home of the Year contestants.
The latest will be appearing on the newest episodes of this show, with the first being screened on April 6. I have really enjoyed writing about their lovely properties.
Thus, when I moved house nine months ago, I decided that I was going to get my new gaff on the BBC Scotland telly programme.
After all, I’ve had all the tips and tricks from the insiders.
I was rallied by the fact that ALL the contestants do things on a budget. No Farrow & Ball. It’s all DIY stores and charity shops, Gumtree and Facebook Marketplace. Right up my skint street. Also, I do have a good eye. My art school degree has to be worth something.
I was thinking this could be my year for applying. However, we are going to have to delay that until 2027, as there are a few things we need to work on first.
1. The damp stain in the spare bedroom. The rain crept in a few months ago, and caused a blotchy yellow patch on the coombed ceiling. The roofer suggested that we draw round it with a pencil, to make sure it wasn’t getting worse after he’d fixed a tile or two. We did. Now it looks like a drawing of one of the Pac-Man ghosts or a map of an archipelago. We haven’t got round to painting over it. Will we ever? At this stage, I don’t know.
2. I need to refine my personal style or develop a new one. All the SHOTY contestants have that certain je ne sais quoi. Sometimes I don’t think that my taste has changed much since I was a student. I used to enjoy a bit of ironic and useless kitsch, and I remain attracted to it. I have a weakness for novelty mugs and biscuit tins. However, the last things I bought ‘for the house’ were two Thirties chocolate moulds - a prawn one and cockle shells - that I found at a local flea market. I stuffed them in a drawer, because what else can you do with such esoteric kitchenalia? I should be spending my money on interior magazines instead.
3. Our hoarding habits. I just don’t think Banjo Beale would be that impressed by the 150 bottles and bags of 10 years out of date spices that are in the kitchen, or all the spider-web caked paperbacks that are threatening to avalanche out of our Edinburgh press.
4. The dirty windows. We bought a cheapo kit so we could clean them ourselves. It’s still under the sink.
5. The bathtub. I feel like every house on Scotland’s Home of the Year has a rolltop, slipper bath, something fancy in copper or gold, or a bath in the boudoir. Not us, it’s just a standard tub. I think we might get disqualified for that. Same goes for the shower.
6. Use of colour. We are neutral throughout. It’s all white and palest pigeon grey. The last owners must have painted it a Farrow & Ball-ish Elephant’s Breath shade to sell the place, and it seems a shame to waste their efforts, since it still looks fresh. I don’t want to decorate for decoration's sake. So, I’m waiting until it starts to look sepia-ish, then I can do all the jewel tones, sage greens, velvety pinks and clarets that Campbell-Jones likes.
7. The big white halo on the wooden kitchen worktop. My husband did that, when he had a cold and put down his nasal steamer. It seems to get bigger and whiter every day. We’ll fix that after we’ve painted over the stain in the bedroom.
8. The seagull poo. We live in Leith, and it's mating season for this brand of lairy neighbourhood wildlife. They’ve left their calling card on the bathroom window, and there’s a theatrical Jackson Pollock dribbly splat on the hallway window. Their aim is incredible. They shot that one out sideways, like they were in a fighter jet. Maybe the SHOTY cameras could blur those bits out? Or, we could get that window cleaning kit out.
9. My workstation. It’s just so incredibly ugly. There’s my clunky Nineties-era swivel office chair, with an orthopedic cushion, and an old overstuffed bureau that acts as my desk. There are about a million cables and cords that emanate from my machines to make a sort of London tube map on the floor. It also features a computer monitor balanced on a few hardback books, including Nigella Express. Perhaps, when the judges come over, I could drape a sheet over it all, Miss Havisham style. Or, they could just blur that out too.
10. Our 15-year-old dark grey Ikea sofa. It’s saggy and slightly smelly, a bit like its owners. If you don’t look at it in bright daylight, it’s fine, but, when the spring sunshine floods in, you can see how faded and manky this behemoth is. If Ikea were to resell it, they’d call it Stinktorp. So many telly hours have been clocked on old trusty. If you want to be on SHOTY, you need a bit of Ligne Roset, or, at the very least, a bright orange or pink velvety number that looks a bit Moulin Rouge-ish.
11. Thanks to limited funds and time, our sense of urgency is poor. It took nine months of heavy duty searching to fill the empty slot above the mantelpiece. Originally, we wanted a mirror, and we ended up with a framed bit of Victorian embroidery from the excellent Scottish Antiques & Arts Centre in Abernyte. That’s just one piece of the jigsaw puzzle, and it took three-quarters of a year to get there. I think we’re going to have to put our application off until 2029.
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