One of my most treasured things, is a beautifully delicate Nymphenburg shell. It’s the perfect little vessel for fleur de sel or a diamond ring. The Nymphenburg collection –– porcelain plates, vases, animals and figuriness –– is made at the company’s original Munich factory using processes and techniques that date back over 250 years. Have a look at the work, it’s all exquisite.

It’s a lovely experience to relive childhood memories with and through your children. We’ve been in Greece for the last few weeks, and seeing them immersed in a world not so dissimilar to the one I grew up in, is a wonderful thing. On the islands, at least the ones we choose to spend time on, time stands still. The land is rugged and raw, the beaches windswept, rocky and untouched, linens flap in the wind, cockerels sing in chorus, church bells chime and the tavli games go on. Luma runs fast across the blisteringly hot sand to cool her feet in the sea. I remember the sensation, the intense heat, and the respite of that ice cold water. There are street cats looking for scraps, and that unnerves the children. It used to bother me too, their skinny, purry tales brushing against my legs underneath the taverna table. The ice creams from the periptero are so good, they want two a day. They eat patates tiganites with everything. Everyone does. They stay up late, and kick a ball around in the platia with local kids. They don’t speak the language, but that never gets in the way of a good game. At a mountain top taverna, the children plough through bread (the only child friendly thing on the rustic menu) while we drink local wine, and the owner charges us for neither. Generosity is rich in these parts. Back in chora, they pool their money, and buy plastic water pistols and gum like my brother and I used to do with our drachmas. End of day, their little brown bodies are covered in salt, sweat and sand. In the last days of August, I too was a salty, sandy, scratched up, Kalamata olive. And I didn’t shower, so I could bring it all home with me.

Marrakech is one of my favourite cities, so it’s little wonder I’m drawn to the work of Rosie Harbottle. The London based illustrator has spent much time in Marrakech, and the city has an exciting influence on her work. A dusty rose (the shade of most Marrakech buildings) is her central colour, and references to Moroccan culture (tiles, fabrics, ceramics and textiles) are in abundance. There is a mystical, folksy feel to her subject matter. Her style is feminine, whimsical and utterly charming. Have a look at Harbottle’s website — she produces stationary, prints and she even paints leather jackets.

I am terrible at cutting hair. Once, I took my friend Kate’s long blonde tresses and turned them into a jaggedy bob. She did score a modelling gig at the salon who salvaged the hair style, so it wasn’t totally disastrous. I cut my own hair a few times, and I’ve given my son the wonkiest bangs on earth, but generally I steer away from salon scissors. I love this image of Carl M. Dunrud giving his friend Amelia Earhart a haircut. It was taken at in Wyoming in 1934. He looks like he knows what he’s doing.