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Mystics and hippies say that houses absorb the echoes of events which take place in them. So I had assumed the Freud Museum would be an oppressive place soaked in the neuroses which had poured into Sigmund’s famous couch (which no, you can’t sit on). I was wrong. 

Freud’s study is dark now: shutters block out the light to protect his precious things. But in the year he lived and worked here, the doors were thrown open to the garden, and the light flooded in. 

He believed every object in a home is a choice, a statement about who you are. The statements in Freud’s home say he wasn’t just a bloke with a beard, cigar and an Oedipus complex. This was a joyful place. It still is. 


There are alcoves to sit in, ancient treasures to look at, hundreds of books he’d read, and a custom-made chair built so Freud could read with one leg comfortably flung over the side. He had collected some of the best of what humanity produced, believing that art, history and literature tell you as much about the soul as psychology does.


To me, psychoanalysis means that people can be freed from the weight of their misery by talking. This museum quietly celebrates that. Most museums are designed to move you on pretty quickly. This one encourages you to pause a while. The garden is full of chairs grouped to encourage conversation. I sat in that garden for a good long time, listening to the soft chatter and the coo-ing of wood pigeons, while writing the beginnings of this article.  


Spouse plumped himself down next to me. “So, tell me about your mother,” he said with a feigned thick Austrian accent.  

I eyed him, before giving his hand a squeeze. “She gave you lunch last Sunday,” I said. “Come on, let’s get you some tea and cake.”


Entry to the Freud Museum costs £8, and it is open Wednesday to Sunday, 12 noon to 5pm.  Nearest tube Finchley Road, website: https://www.freud.org.uk/