Home. I talk about home a lot. I am endlessly trying to understand what home is. Is it a place? Is it where your bed is? Is it a person?
Right now it is a rented house that I am madly, truly, deeply in love with.
I’ve had many homes, amongst them, in no order of time:
a) My mum’s chest of drawers.
b) The sandpit at the goat farm.
c) The caravan in my grandma’s garden.
d) The crumbling staircase up to the flat in an odd village in the North of Italy with a donkey that chased me around the square.
e) The bedroom in Kilburn where my mum painted the walls with a sea bed, waves, and sunshine.
f) The Barbie council estate I built with cardboard boxes and scraps of cheap velvet.
g) The sofa at my dad’s when I stayed at his and watched Sunday morning TV.
h) The platform bed surrounded by a fish net in Barcelona.
i) The granny flat in Manchester where I first lived alone.
j) Cotton Hill.
j) The stone cottage at Les Seilhols where all my leather belts and bags went mouldy, yet I have hardly been happier elsewhere.
k)The vineyard bedroom with the door that didn’t close and the en suite cave of wine.
l) My dad’s spare room.
m) Toni and Anton’s spare room.
n) My mum’s spare room
o) Cat and Rob’s spare room.
p) The council flat with a permanent leak.
q) The hill in Glossop.
r) Our one man tent that fits two people as long as we don’t get too fat.
s) The Central Library in Manchester.
t) Serra Mitja in the Catalonian mountains.
u) Bar Figueras after school, waiting for mum to pick me up.
w) Scott and Saira’s dining table.
y) The bloody incredible mattress we bought 4 years ago and still makes me sigh whenever i lie down on it.