Boho

Flowing dresses, wide trousers, embroidered blouses and a suede fringe jacket that you will never part with. Colours are earthy and warm: terracotta, mustard, rust, olive, faded indigo.

You layer jewellery the way other people layer clothes. Rings on several fingers, bangles that chime, a necklace with a stone someone gave you. Woven sandals in summer, worn boots in winter. Hats are wide-brimmed. Bags are woven or embroidered and bought from the person who made them. Nothing quite matches and everything goes. Your look tells the story of every market and festival you have been to, and people stop you in the street to ask where you got that, and the answer is always a story.

A jungle of plants, trailing from every shelf. Rattan chairs, macramé hangings, rugs layered on rugs and cushions in four different prints that somehow agree with each other.

Your walls hold textiles, mirrors and art from markets and friends. There is a floor cushion, or a daybed, or a hammock if you can find a beam. Lighting is fairy lights, woven pendants and lots of candles. The kitchen has open shelves of spices, jars and handmade bowls. Every object has a story and you will tell it if asked. Your home feels lived in, loved and slightly incense-scented. Guests sink into the sofa and stay until midnight. Plant cuttings leave with them in jam jars.

Folk, psych rock, world music, a long playlist that starts with a guitar and ends with a drum. You like music with sunshine in it.

Weekends are spent wandering. A vintage market, a car-boot sale, a festival field, a long lunch on a terrace that goes on until dark. You love a road trip with no plan and a hostel with a hammock. At home you repot plants, rearrange rugs and cook something with a lot of spice for whoever turns up. You go to yoga in a park, sound baths, open-air cinemas. Summer evenings are spent outside around a fire. You meet new people easily, and some of them become friends for life within a single weekend.

A white room with nothing in it. A matching furniture set bought in one go. Anything sterile, chrome or ruthlessly beige.

You would never be caught with a wardrobe of grey suits or a sofa you are not allowed to put your feet on. Fake plants feel like a betrayal. Mass-produced wall art with a motivational slogan is not for you. You would never be caught throwing away a chipped bowl that you love, because a chip is just history. You avoid strict schedules, dress codes and itineraries with timings in brackets. And you would never be caught saying no to a spontaneous trip unless you genuinely had to.

Travel more, even locally. Markets, festivals and small towns are where your best finds come from, and the stories matter as much as the objects.

Learn one craft with your hands: weaving, ceramics, macramé, block printing. Making your own pieces is the most boho thing of all. Then edit, gently. Take a third of the cushions away for a month and see what you miss. Group plants so they look like a garden, not a scattering. Boho at its best is abundant but intentional, full of warmth and story without tipping into chaos. Keep your door open, your kettle on and your plants watered, and the rest will follow.