My husband just returned from a business trip to London and took this photo of his hotel room at the Kensington Gore. I love it. The rumpled cushions, the golden afternoon light, the detritus on the table, it perfectly illustrates my new theory of "order plus disorder equals charm."Too perfect is beyond boring. You know how a certain glossy interiors magazine features endless spreads of million dollar rooms, usually bloomless and overlit, where you could swear no bawdy joke has ever reverberated, no mud has ever been tracked across the threshold and (perish the thought) no meal has ever been cooked? I'm SO over it. Perfection is the most overrated quality in existence. It's soulless. Personality comes from quirks. Houses with charm have scuff marks on the floor, rumpled cushions, unironed napkins and flowers that are just a bit wilty. They're charming not in spite of their disorder, but because of it. There's nothing as off-putting as a spotless house to make a guest feel ill at ease. "Where do I put the drink? Do I need a coaster? Where can I sit?" he or she wonders. Who wants to make someone feel like that? They'd be much more comfortable scooching a pillow to the side and plopping down on your couch while you trundle off to open a bottle of Prosecco.