People often assume that because my cupboards are filled with teapots, I must drink a great deal of tea.

I don’t.

Given the choice, I’ll reach for coffee almost every time. Strong, black, and usually before I’ve fully decided what sort of day I’m about to have.

Which makes my collection seem rather ridiculous.

Over the years I’ve brought home dozens of teapots.

Some arrived wrapped in newspaper from village brocantes. Others travelled across Britain before eventually finding their way to rural France. Many stayed only briefly before moving on again to kitchens in Germany, Australia, Japan and beyond.

A few never left.

Not because they’re the rarest.

Not because they’re worth the most.

Simply because every time I looked at them, they made the house feel complete.

People often think the magic of an Emma Bridgewater teapot lies in the pattern.

Polka Dot.

Pink Hearts.

Blue Star.

Black Toast.

Joy.

And yes, the patterns matter.

They’re cheerful. Familiar. Instantly recognisable.

But if I’m honest, I’ve never thought the pattern was the real magic.

For me, it’s always been the shape.

There’s something wonderfully unpretentious about it.

Round without being clumsy.

Comfortable without trying too hard.

The sort of teapot that doesn’t belong locked inside a glass cabinet.

It belongs on a kitchen table beside buttered toast, yesterday’s newspaper and a dog hoping somebody might drop a biscuit.

It doesn’t feel precious.

It feels lived with.

Perhaps that’s what I love most.

It reminds me that home isn’t built from expensive things.

It’s built from ordinary objects that quietly become part of everyday life.

The mug that always finds its way into the same hands.

The old chair nobody sits in except Grandpa.

The battered cookbook that still opens naturally to the page with the family favourite.

The teapot that appeared every Sunday afternoon without anybody really noticing.

I’ve sold enough houses to know that every home has these things.

Objects so woven into daily life that they almost disappear.

Until it’s time to pack them away.

Many of the teapots that arrive at Maison Adorée have already lived that life.

Someone once chose them.

Someone washed them after Sunday lunch.

Someone reached for them every Christmas morning.

Someone eventually wrapped them in newspaper and decided it was time for them to leave.

And somehow they find their way to me.

Sometimes only for a few days.

Sometimes for months.

Occasionally forever.

I don’t think of myself as their owner.

More as their caretaker for a little while.

My husband laughs because I occasionally speak about them as though they’re house guests.

Perhaps they are.

They arrive.

They settle in.

Some stay longer than expected.

Then one day another person falls in love with them, and off they go to begin another chapter somewhere else.

The funny thing is that, despite owning all these teapots…

I still make coffee every morning.

Not one tea leaf passes through most of them.

And somehow, that doesn’t matter in the slightest.

Because they were never really about tea.

They were always about home.