I organise homes across the Algarve. The work is practical. The result, mostly, is that you stop thinking about it.
Whether you're in the Algarve all year or only for the seasons that matter, the same thing is true. The time you spend here is finite. It should be spent at the beach, at the table, with your family, at lunch. Not standing in front of an open cupboard wondering where you put the saffron.
My job is to make sure it isn't. I work on one home at a time, properly. Kitchens, pantries, walk-in closets, the storage rooms nobody likes opening. I sort what's there, work out what's missing, and put it back in a way that fits the house, the family, and the way you actually live.
The result, the bit you can't really photograph, is that the house feels ready the moment you walk in. And stays that way.
I've always been the one in the house who reorganises a drawer at 11pm because I can't sleep until it's right.
I'm Bonnie. I grew up between a busy family home and a head that wouldn't switch off. What I now know is ADHD, what for a long time just felt like being wired wrong. The thing that quietened it, every time, was sorting something out. A cupboard. A wardrobe. A drawer of forgotten cables. My friends thought it was a hobby. It was closer to a coping mechanism.
For years I did it for everyone around me for free. The pantry that got reorganised on a Sunday afternoon because I'd come over for lunch and couldn't stop looking at it. The kitchen drawers I sorted while housesitting. A friend's wardrobe rebuilt in an afternoon because she "didn't have anything to wear", and then did.
I still do this on my own time. I reorganise my own kitchen when I haven't been hired to reorganise anyone else's. I notice the back of other people's pantries when I'm at their houses for dinner. I'll be in the bath, three days after a job, and remember the corner of a drawer I want to come back to. It isn't a thing I switch on for work and off at the end of the day. It's the thing I do, and the job is the version of it I get paid for.
So I am, and I do. I moved to the Algarve a few years ago. A long story, mostly about light and space and the kind of life I wanted to be inside rather than just visit. What I found here was a whole category of people I understood instinctively: people who care about their home, who don't have the time to think about it the way it deserves, and who would rather spend their hours here doing almost anything else.
I'm not Marie Kondo. I don't believe in spark joy. I believe in the four mismatched chopping boards you'll never use, the spice jar that's been empty for a year, the wooden hangers your closet has been waiting for, and the labelling system that survives a houseguest. Practical things, done properly, that make the house feel like yours again.
The brand is called Organised by Bonnie because at this stage of it, it really is just me. One woman, one notebook, one set of standards. That'll change. The standards won't.
There's a moment your friends open a cupboard. There's a moment you do, alone, on a Friday night. Both of them should feel the same. That's the brief.
Two days in your home. Every drawer, every cupboard, every spice and jar and tin. Sorted, edited, re-set with a system that fits the way you cook, and a labelling scheme that should outlast the kids leaving home.
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Walk-in closets and dressing rooms. The bit you don't show people.
Twice a year. The house gets put back to itself, before the next chapter fills it up again.
Every home I've ever worked in has a cupboard nobody opens in front of people. You know the one. The one with the four half-used bottles of olive oil, the spare batteries in a tangle, the kids' party bag tat from a birthday three months ago.
The cupboard isn't the problem. The cupboard is the symptom. The problem is that the back-of-house version of your home and the front-of-house version are telling two different stories. The work is to make them tell one.
I work in three deliberate stages, on every home, every time. Nothing precious. Nothing performative. Just the order the work has to happen in to actually last.
A walk-through of the house. Every cupboard, every drawer, every problem space. I take notes. You make tea. We agree what's going where, and what's not staying at all.
The honest part. What's worth keeping, what isn't, and what's secretly been broken for two years. I'll tell you straight. You decide.
Drawer dividers, the right hangers for that closet, jars and tins, a labelling system that survives a houseguest. Put back in a way that fits the house, the family, and the way you live.
A short discovery call. Twenty minutes, on the phone or in your kitchen. I'll listen, you'll show me the worst cupboard, and we'll work out whether we're a fit. No pressure, no PDF brochure.
Book a discovery call