Narnia didn’t start out as a magical creative haven — it began on the kitchen table. I could never leave anything out or walk away mid‑project. Every session became an exercise in packing and unpacking — clearing plates, finding somewhere to put everyone’s belongings dumped there after long days of work or college, and squeezing everything back into cupboards that groaned louder every time I added something new. It was exhausting, but it was the only space I had.
When my eldest son moved out, I inherited the box room. Not a square room by any means — awkward angles, tight corners, barely enough space to turn around — but to me it felt like I’d been handed the keys to Buckingham Palace. It had a door I could close, a door that shut out everyday life, and that was all that mattered.
I wanted a wall of beautiful wallpaper, something that felt like a statement, and with great reluctance my husband hung it, moaning that the design was complicated and overly intricate. I was not popular. He painted the rest in a pale, safe colour — the kind I’d always chosen because it felt familiar. At first it was simple: a large table for my sewing machine and cutting mat, and a couple of shelving units. But as the work grew, so did the need for everything else. I was constantly rearranging, trying to make the best use of the space, but nothing ever fit quite right.
The work kept increasing, and so did the machinery. Every new piece felt like a victory and a problem at the same time. I needed it — but where on earth was it going to live? The room was already bursting at the seams, no pun intended, and every time I made space, something else needed to be squeezed in.
In 2023, the year I turned the big 5‑0h, I decided the room needed a huge makeover. It didn’t feel like a creative space — it felt like a compromise. And I’d had enough of compromising.
So I went all‑out bold. Nothing like the muted greys of the rest of my home. Something completely out of the box and definitely not in my usual comfort zone. But a creative space is different. This room offered me the chance to reflect my creativity — properly, unapologetically. And if nobody liked it, they could shut the door.
Everyone in this house suddenly became a critic from the moment they saw the paint colour I’d chosen, offering their unsolicited opinions with great enthusiasm and my husband groaning in equal measure. I was told I was making a big mistake. “What are you thinking.” “It’s awful.” “It’s too dark.” “It’s only a small bedroom.” And every time, my answer was the same: “You have to trust the process.”
The colour was beautiful. I’d taken inspiration from a cushion that kept calling me until I finally bought it. A deep, rich racing green — dramatic, warm, and full of character. Nobody liked the paint colour in the tin, and when a beautiful pink Roman blind arrived, my kids looked at me as though I’d completely lost the plot.
I’d check on the progress as my husband painted, watching the concern grow on his face. He’d mutter things like, “I’m not decorating this room again, you know,” as though that would change my mind. It didn’t.
Then came the furniture. First, we tried to use what I already had. What didn’t work went out. Then came the treks to IKEA — plural. All I can say is that IKEA must have seen a significant rise in profits that year. I bought more shelving units, different tables, different lighting, and a new desk. The desk I had was everything I needed, but compromise won, so out it went in favour of a smaller one to make the best use of the space.
The amount of arguments my husband and I had… honestly. Apparently I hadn’t measured properly — oh please. I’d hear him mutter, or shout, that it was a “***** TARDIS.” But eventually, everything fit snugly, with millimetres to spare.
This room became my solace. My safe place. A place I could escape to, where my crippling PTSD was calmed. I love my space, and it’s become a bit of a joke that because I lose hours and hours in this room, it’s like I’ve gone to Narnia — and that seems to have stuck. Maybe I do go to my own version of it. And yes, while I’d love a bigger space, this place gets messy enough as it is — and keeping it tidy is a challenge.
Besides, a bigger room would only mean more IKEA trips, and I’m not sure my marriage could survive another flat‑pack argument.
What I didn’t realise, as I settled into this little world of racing‑green walls and pink blinds, was that Narnia was about to be pulled into the spotlight — in a way I never saw coming.