Twenty years ago, we were living happily in north London. Too happily. At dinner with friends, the other half declared, “I’d be happy if I only left our house when they carried me out in a box.” The next day, I phoned the estate agent. It was time to move.

Somehow, I persuaded David that it was wise to at least see what was on offer and we even agreed on some search essentials – we would move closer to the heart of the city, outside space was essential and we would find somewhere near a park for the dog. But as we began to view houses, it became evident that my partner had an additional secret list of restrictions and red lines that were likely to make this quest a long one. He took against one house because he said that he found the skirting boards too tall and another because the owners had attached complicated security locks to their internal doors (they owned a lot of art).

And then we came upon a house that we both loved. Immediately. There was something about the space that just felt right for us – we had only seen one room when we told the agent we would make an offer. But it wasn’t to be – someone richer and quicker got in there.

Months passed. Then the same thing happened again in a central London mews. I walked in through the front door and knew this was perfect – the road was quiet, quirky and a few minutes from the British Museum. The house was sun-filled and there was a roof terrace. It had that same meant-to-be vibe. I phoned the other half. A second viewing. Apparently, the stairs were too steep but he was running short of objections this time. We bought the house.

This week, while in the Marylebone branch of Daunt Books, I found At Home in London: The Mews House by Ellis Woodman. It tells the history of London’s mews. They were built in the 18th and 19th centuries at the rear of smart houses as stables and servants’ lodgings. But in the 20th century they slowly became desirable as bijoux homes and artists’ studios. The book also looks at how these small plots, especially from the 1960s onwards, attracted the attention of young, ambitious architects (our road continues the tradition). The book also features a nice shot of our mews – while the photographer had his eye on our neighbours’ large house, we snuck in the shot. It was enough to get me tapping my card for a copy.

As the book points out, there are still people experimenting with making modern mews houses, finding gaps on the urban map where these usually dinky houses can be inserted. Like many London mews, ours is a dead-end for traffic, so plants have taken the place of vehicles, and a sense of community has also taken root. On Sunday, back from the flower market, Frank and Kei came out to help me poke spring bulbs into some of the tubs and pots. Other neighbours came and chatted. A task became a pleasure.

How we make homes, places where lives can unfold, that anchor us, is also at the heart of two new Monocle publications on sale next week. The Monocle Design Directory  – soon to arrive on subscriber doormats – is a brand-new annual designed to be returned to again and again (for inspiration, contacts and stuff to buy). It’s cool and available with four different covers. And in our shops from Monday is The Monocle Book of Designers on Sofas, which features profiles of 50 designers on their sofas. You get to see their homes and understand how this one piece of furniture has captured the focus of so many talented folk. You need both print treats.

There was a twist to our house-hunting story. A year after moving in, we started the process of making the house ours. When the kitchen dresser was removed, we found some flyers and mail that had fallen behind the unit. One of these letters had been forwarded to our home’s then owner from his previous address – the exact same house that we had lost out on. We have often wondered at the coincidence – was this fate at play? And David today – he insists he’s in his forever home. Let’s see.

To read more of Andrew’s columns, click here.