I kinda think this place will continue to be Home until I finally buy a place of my own. Until then, I've reverted to calling the Swindon house my Home again.
The house is normally a hive of activity. There's me, my sister, my brother (both younger) and my parents, all leading busy and full lives. Sometimes there's a gran added into the mix, and often a boyfriend. Friends drop by from all spokes of the family, and the kettle is always boiling. First and foremost, this is where people I love, and who love me, meet. Home is my family base.
My family moved here in my mid-teens while I was on holiday in Norway, and, mixed with very unsettled teenage feelings, I, (understandably, I think) took longer than the rest of my family to find our house a Home. Staying just two years before heading to University didn't help, but I've found Home since I've officially left. I love the feeling when I take the final turn up the drive and I wonder who might see me pulling up. I wonder if my mum can hear my music. Sure, it's just bricks, but Home is the building too.
This weekend the house is quiet. The main reason I'm back for a night or two is to collect half of my wardrobe (which I left by here by accident two weeks ago and have struggled without), but also to escape. My house share in Northampton is fine, but it's not so cosy. Not half as spacious. And my sofa is weirdly made of two parts which make it hard to lounge about on it without my bum dropping through the middle. I'm also escaping the threat of not doing anything constructive with my precious weekend when I have no real plans this weekend. Home is quiet (this weekend!) and I can work. I plan to do my part in judging a short story competition for Bookmarks Festival this weekend, and I'm going to continue the forward stepping I've achieved this week on the Work In Progress. Home is peace; inner and actual.
And when I no longer need quiet (which won't be long!), I can play music even the neighbours won't hear. I can Skype my boyfriend loudly speakers way into the night. I can play my piano badly and at volume. I'm particularly looking forward to this part - I have some new Adele sheet music and it's re-ignited my love for the ol' keys. I want to be a pianist again. Consequently, Home is quite often a noisy affair.
I brought some perishable groceries with me on this visit, some supplies. Milk, OJ, fruit, yoghurts... My staples. I didn't have to worry too much though because Home has been synonymous with meal times for me. My mum is a fantastic and enthusiastic cook, and there was always a home-baked cake in the tin when we were growing up. I knew I'd have no problems finding something tasty in the freezer for a night in on my own. Home is good food.
A good estimate would be that I come Home every 4-5 weeks. I always feel better for a spell (a night, maybe three) at home. It grounds me, sets me back on course in several ways, and makes me feel happier and more at peace. It's nice to be back, even though I'm dining alone. Hurry back, family!
I totally didn't expect this blog to manifest itself. I was planning on doing something on regional accents in writing, but somehow this fell onto the screen. I've been busy working on the WIP and my magazine column this week, so it's nice to do something different. I hope it wasn't too self-indulgent.
Now, turn off your laptop and go spend some time at home. Good night.
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Born To Be A Tourist