There was an old house that was full of squatters. Every time I was driven past it, I felt sad. It was once a beautiful house; wooden, two storeys and verandahs out the front. I never did see what was around the back. My little seven year old nose would be pressed against the glass, hoping and dreaming of a day I would be able to help that house.

Twelve years later I returned to that stretch of road. I felt uneasy about passing that house. I never had the chance to make it beautiful. As we drove past I saw that some visionary had restored that beautiful home. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t me that did the work. I was so happy. Something broken had been given love and made beautiful.

I have never understood my love for makeovers. Perhaps it is my desire for everyone to be happy and full. Even houses. I love watching ‘The Biggest Loser’ and, ashamedly, all makeover shows. It is the transformation, the joy, the fullness that they seem to have found. To go from broken to whole is a satisfying thing to watch.