When I was about ten, my Mum gave me a beautiful dollhouse. It looked like the Georgian style homes in Notting Hill. I painted it the palest pink, with white trim. Inside, the walls were lemon yellow. It wasn’t a dollhouse for very long. By the time I was twelve, I stashed letters and diaries  in it. Pages and pages of handwritten poetry, confessions and teenage angst accumulated in every room. I still have the house, with all its contents. One day, I’ll re-read all the letters, and I’ll laugh and wince and well up. And if I’m ever tempted to upgrade my treasures to a grander address, it will look something like this.