Walking through the front door of Georgia Coleridge’s London home is like stepping into a rainbow. Georgia is wearing a violet jacket and blue scarf, which zing against sharp yellow walls as her scarlet-socked feet pad along orange-striped matting and past coral curtains. We sit at a long, white-clothed table where vases of multicoloured gerberas nod in the sunlight next to bowls of oranges and lemons. ‘I love colour,’ she says. ‘It brings joy.’
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Oh dear. I don’t know why I did this, rashly, the evening of 29 February. Leap Day. I took a leap. Maybe because I have a completion date on the vicarage looming and I need help, someone to share it with, and who is willing to change light bulbs*, heave boxes and dog-sit. Cook.