There’s no place like home. However, the word itself can be a little confusing. I find myself managing to refer to altogether far too many places as home over the course of conversations with various folk. One factor that doesn’t quite help is that my main residence (had to come up with an alternative word to home didn’t I? There’s a reason why this particular term doesn’t come out in common parlance, it sounds a bit overly grandiose and clunky, like I’m a courtly lady of old or something. Or I’ve been a bit too absorbed by that Tudor documentary on the BBC) has only been mine for a few months.
The regular shuttling around between places that I’ve been unable to put my stamp on (it’s a lovely stamp, red ink and incredibly official looking) means that none of the places I’ve lived have felt quite the same as home. In spite of the fact that neither of my parents is in possession of the house in which I lived during those all important teenage years (yeah, we upscaled in my youth, jealous much?). Perhaps it’s because I’ve moved away completely from the area I grew up in.
Anyway, it’s very nearly Christmastime so clearly we’re due for a comforting dollop of familial nostalgia. The past may well be a foreign country but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a lovely holiday there. Think back to a previous festive season, one where you woke up early on that key December morning and sprinted towards that heaving sack of tantalising gifts. One feeling you may have overlooked, perhaps as it was so ever present, you took it for granted, is the fact that you were in the precise place you were always welcome. You don’t know if I’m over romanticising a bygone era or not. Maybe your jealousy is increasing.
Song choices courtesy of: Bombay Bicycle Club and Murray Gold