If You Build It, They Will Come

BY Vanessa Berry

When I’m rich my house will…

Hide high in the branches of a vast tree with leaves the colour of textas. It will be perfectly disguised, so no one can see it from the ground. It is a hut with heart shaped windows woven from silvery grass. The birds that built it bring me presents in their beaks: bags of petit-fours, dolls. To enter my house I wrap my arms around the tree and think of a word so secret it would be foolish to write it here. (Age 5)

Be a harbourside mansion where the many levels are connected by glass elevators. I drink martinis as yachts float by; I wear evening gowns no matter the time of day. My husband, a shadowy suited figure who always seems to hover behind a display of rare South American orchids, silently funds my every whim. In my private suite I sit behind a large desk and write lists of things I want to buy on cream-coloured paper in violet ink. (Age 10)

Shock the inner city with its fire-engine-bright exterior. A red house with black windows and red carpet, wallpapered in pictures of British bands from the 80s and odd newspaper clippings. Lava lamps bloop goo in every corner. There is a room that contains every album I’ve ever wanted on both vinyl and CD. Here my friends lounge on beanbags, take drugs and talk about how cool I am and how lucky I am to have such a great house. (Age 14)

Be built from a 19th century plan for a completely spherical building. A staircase hugs the inner shell of the sphere and there is a swimming pool in the basement. Imagine the Death Star the size of a McMansion, filled with a collection of parasols, a four-poster bed and strange Victorian gadgets for appliances. (Age 18)

Have a garden that grows giant varieties of common flowers: daisies, zinnias, marigolds. It will be the kind of cottage that melts people’s hearts. As they pass by at night they spy through the windows into rooms stocked with expensive art materials and a magical photocopier that never runs out of toner and never breaks down. (Age 23)

Mimic the interiors from 1970s home decorating books. Nauseating wallpaper, heavy glass ashtrays, killer hi-fi, sunken entertaining area. Things are so brightly coloured inside that it makes up for the rest of the city’s greyness. Outside it is square and brick, the ugliest house on the street. Little does anyone know what lies inside. (Age 27)