Home. There is truly nothing like home. Home isn't just the place where we live, can we all even call our houses homes? Home is where we are truly ourselves, where we feel safe against the World outside. It's our little den, our cozy burrow. It's where we can find true peace of mind, and, where there is peace, our heart can turn any four walls into a home. A home is where the fire is blazing, a cake is cooking in the oven, soup is steaming on the stove, fresh clean clothes perfume the bathroom, paintings cover our walls, music fills our ears. It's a place where it is easy to laugh. It's a place full of love. I've lived in three different continents in a number of houses - some big with pools and others really small; I've lived in houses right on the sea, where you can smell the salty air as you open your eyes in the morning, I have lived in villas with glass walls, I have lived in an old converted barn, in houses falling apart, with broken windows, I've lived in hot sticky places full of mosquitoes and in freezing houses without heating. Not all the places I've lived in felt like homes. When you aren't you, when you can't be, when life seems like a battle in and out of those walls, then the heart tucks itself deep inside and outside remains a vacuum, just walls and a roof. In my later years I've noticed that there are things (yes objects) that make me feel happy and I tend to bring them around with me wherever I live: they reassure me that I have my space to be me. I have my favourite paintings, my little lights, my candles, my crystals, my little fairies, my colourful cushions, my plants.... my kids and my partner put up with me, because they are happy to be there too. They have their spaces and all together we can serenely deal with life, like a team. And homes need hearts. Houses long to be homes, to be loved and to be lived in.... Come, come does no-one feel the need to adopt one of our little babes? You can buy a very convenient little property and transform it into your little Italian nest of love....