The space appears not so much designed as evolved. A chintz armchair sits on a patterned carpet, on top of which sits another rug. You just know that room's fragrance is not that of a Diptyque Feu de Bois candle but the muddy dog that's quite probably lying in its brown velour bed by the television, just out of shot.
Everything looks as if it's been there forever and built for comfort rather than cautiously curated for others to admire. The Princess Royal and her husband, Timothy Laurence, appear entirely nonplussed by the idea that anyone might dissect their living quarters. They are, of course, safe in the knowledge that we can't spy what may lie hidden in the corners or atop the dresser.
Let's just say that the parents of a titled friend of mine have a drinks trolley in the corner of the living room, laden with ancient bottles of weird congealing concoctions, which act like fly paper to every passing insect.
We middle classes shudder at the thought, as we rush to pop a coaster under the nearest glass. And that's just it – there is nowhere so revealing of our background or future hopes than our living room. A sort of classless Scandi aesthetic might have washed over the nation, yet the tells still remain. Even the words we use to refer to it reveal much about our age and class. My parents had a drawing room; I have the more déclassé telly room, or occasionally a sitting room. (In reality, it should be called a mindless-scrolling-of-phones room.)
Others have lounges, front rooms, living rooms, sitting rooms, family rooms, parlours and dens. Along with whether you call your evening meal tea, dinner or supper, which label you choose tells the world as much about you as your job or the names you give your children. Watch the upper classes wince if you refer to the lounge; I still touchily recall reading Jilly Cooper, in her 1979 book Class, characterise those who talk of living rooms as not PLU ("people like us").
Wealthy minimalists believe that a lack of possessions on show reflects an absence of consumerist desire that is very expensive to manufacture, while the pristine showrooms of the nouveau working classes reflect their pride in their Instagram-worthy parlours.
But Princess Anne doesn't care what others might think. So what if her extra sofa cushion, family photos and retro-looking TV unit raise eyebrows? In all its rough and tumble glory, hers is a living room only the truly posh can pull off.
Which living room class are you?
Bohemian middle class
Nothing screams artsy intellectualism like a William Morris print and overflowing bookcases, on which the spines are never organised by colour (so naff).
Some of these books might have been written by the owners themselves, but they would never be so immodest as to draw attention to this.
Paintings and artwork abound, either by the owners' friends, or picked up in lovely little galleries in North Norfolk and Cornwall.
Nouveau working class
Pale and not so interesting, the whites and silvers of these shiny sitting rooms should be restful but instead inspire frenzied cleaning.
Common features include glass coffee tables you wouldn't dare put a cup on, deep pile rugs that need combing and an absence of books (aka dust-magnets).
The walls are bare except for framed "inspirational" quotes in swirly calligraphy from a word soup vocabulary of love, life, laugh, dream, breathe and journey.
Flash middle class
A very interior-designed look that stays just the right side of bling. It's ageing rock-wife meets yoga devotee characterised by animal print soft furnishings, velvet sofas and a lot of blue and purple.
There is no distinction between the look of their country and London houses except for an artfully placed gumboot rack in the hallway.
The whole look is more Soho House foyer than a place where real people slob.
Suburban class
These front rooms are for high days and holidays only.
Plastic covers are often kept on the sofas, while high-traffic areas of carpet have an over-carpet to protect from general wear-and-tear.
The furniture has been exiled to far corners of the room in a way that suggests nobody has ever had fun here.
