Hiya! You’ve landed at Viona.Space, my daft little corner of the internet where I bang on about home stuff—décor, cleaning, laundry, parties, all that jazz. I’m Olivia Smith, a Yorkshire lass who’s mad about making homes feel good, even when I’m knackered and the cat’s trashed the sofa. I’m from the UK—proper moorland stock—and I’m here to chuck some ideas your way, whether you’re tarting up your place or just trying to keep the washing from swallowing you whole. Grab a cuppa, this might take a bit—I’ve got a lot to say.
Where I’m Coming From
I grew up in a crumbling cottage near Haworth—y’know, Brontë country, all wild and windy. Our house was a madhouse: me, two sisters who’d nick my stuff, a brother who’d climb anything, and parents who somehow didn’t lose the plot. Dad was a carpenter—big fella, always smelled of sawdust, banging nails into whatever he could find. He made me a wonky bookshelf once; I loved it even though it leaned like a drunk. Mum was the soft one—always in a pinny, knitting us itchy scarves or burning the edges of pies cos she’d forget the timer. We’d eat ‘em anyway, cos that’s what you do.
I was the oddball—forever faffing with my room. At nine, I begged for yellow walls and got ‘em, but by 13 I went full rebel with this hideous lime green that made my eyes hurt. Mum still slags me off for it every Christmas, like “Olivia, what were you thinking?” I’d nick daisies from the lane, shove ‘em in old jars, and rearrange my dollhouse ‘til the cows came home. Loved those home mags too—nicked ‘em from the dentist’s waiting room and drew all over ‘em with my rubbish crayons.
How I Got Here
School was a blur—didn’t care much for maths, but art? That was my thing. Ended up at this college in Leeds doing interior design cos I figured I could make a job out of messing with rooms. Loved the fancy bits—learning why blue calms you down or how a rug can trick a room into feeling bigger—but the real stuff came later. Moved to London at 21 with a suitcase and a daft dream, landed in this grotty flat with mouldy walls and a loo that groaned like it was dying. First night, I sat on a knackered mattress and bawled my eyes out. Next day, I found a knackered rug for a fiver at a boot sale, strung up some fairy lights, and thought, “Right, I’ll make this work.”
Bounced around after that—Bristol with mates who’d leave plates in the sink ‘til they grew fuzz, Edinburgh where I froze my arse off but loved the cobbled streets. Every place was a battle—spilt tea on carpets, a shelf I hung that fell down at 2 a.m., wallpaper I put up so crooked it looked like I’d done it blind. But I got better—figured out how to paint without crying, built a coffee table that didn’t wobble (eventually), and started loving the chaos of it all.
Viona.Space kicked off cos of Gran—Violet, but I called her Viona cos I couldn’t say it right as a kid. Found this old pic of her in 2022, grinning with a lopsided cake she’d made me when I was five. She was a legend—grew spuds in a bucket, sewed curtains from scraps, made you feel like the only person in the world when she talked. I was sorting junk, half a cuppa gone cold, and thought, “I wanna do something like her.” So here we are—Viona for her, Space for the homes I’m obsessed with.
What’s This Place About?
It’s me chucking everything I’ve learned at you, basically. No posh nonsense—I’m not one of those influencers with a marble kitchen and no soul. I’m the lass who’s burned toast this morning and still got paint on her jeans from last week. Here’s what you’ll get:
- Décor: Cheap tricks and daft ideas—old frames, loud cushions, stuff I’ve nabbed from skips. I’m a sucker for tatty lamps and chipped mugs.
- Design: How to make a poky flat feel massive or shove a bed in a corner without it looking sad. I’ve lived in dumps; I know the hacks.
- Cleaning: Grubby floors, cat sick, that mystery stain on the rug—I’ve fought ‘em all. Vinegar’s my mate; bleach is overrated.
- Laundry: Saved my fave top from the bin more times than I can count. I’ll tell you how to un-shrink stuff and why I secretly love ironing.
- Celebrations: I go overboard—fairy lights, dodgy homemade banners, a cake that’s more heart than skill. Did a mate’s 30th with a £10 budget once; it was a riot.
- Random Bits: Growing basil that actually lives, stopping Luna from shredding the curtains, finding a tune to mop to. Life’s in the mess, innit?
Me, Unfiltered
I’m in Manchester now—a creaky old house with Tom, who’s been stuck with me eight years, and Luna, our tabby who thinks she owns the place. Tom’s a trooper—hauls my junk home when I spot a chair on the street, nods when I ramble about curtains. Luna’s a terror—knocks over my paint tins, sleeps on clean sheets, stares at me like I’m the help. The house is a state—garden’s a jungle, floorboards groan, kitchen’s got burn marks from my “experiments.” But it’s ours, and I love it.
When I’m not here, I’m rifling through charity shops (got a teapot for 50p last week—score!), trudging round the Peaks with Tom moaning about wet socks, or glued to some daft historical drama—Henry VIII’s wives are my soap opera. I’m a tea fiend—milk in first, fight me—and I’ve got a pile of books I’ll “get to” someday. I’m a klutz too—spilt coffee on this laptop yesterday, glued my thumb to a glue gun once, lost three socks this month. Keeps me humble.
You’re In On This
This ain’t just me yapping—I want you here, mucking in. Tell me your disasters—laundry gone pink, a party where the dog ate the cake. Show me your wins—that shelf you didn’t cock up, the corner you’ve made lush. I’m not some expert in a tower; I’m the mate who’s tripped over the hoover cord and still got the room sparkling after. Drop me a line—I’m nosy, I’ll read it.
Cheers for poking your nose in. Let’s make your place ace—warts, spills, and all.
Ta-ra for now,
Olivia Smith