I love Sharon Osbourne. No, really I do. If my Mum wasn’t as perfect as she is, I’d ask Sharon to adopt me. She’s gorgeous, the perfect matriarchal combination of tough and tender, and whether she’s cuddling her kids or searching for the X Factor, she is always the epitome of warmth and kindness.
There is just so much to love. From the fantastically, fabulous bejewelled Eiffel Tower (Yes please, Santa!), to the tiny little checked office off the kitchen, the abundance of floral paintings you just can’t buy in the U.K and I don’t know whether I dreamt it, but I seem to remember the most perfect white shelved pantry, stocked to the brim with all manner of lovely foodie things. Call me sad,in fact call me what you like, but I would sell my soul for a pantry like that.
And then there is the bedrooms, beautiful decadent furniture and Super King sized beds draped in velvet and covered in feathery cushions, cosy enough to live in. Not to mention the pretty bathrooms, the glam rock living rooms, and oh my life, the gorgeous gardens.
Such a pity her dogs have got such appalling house manners.