That’s the E. Rivers theory on Home. Home is where your toothbrush is. So, across the country, I have four. One here in my parents’ house in Home Town. One at my house in Uni Town. One, now, at P’s, after I yet again forgot to put mine in my sponge bag before I went to stay at his (and before you say anything, no, this wasn’t strategic encroachment-by-toothbrush, I’d never sink so low!), and one at my friend TH’s where I spent most of my last summer and at least part of this summer.
Home is where you feel at home. Where you can wander freely round the house, where you know where the wherewithal for tea and coffee is and you are free to make tea or coffee as and when you want it, and to bandy it around to other people as and when they might want it, where you can bring back friends if it’s convenient, where you can take a bath or a shower when you want one and borrow a dressing gown when you need it, where you can retreat to bed and not feel like you’re being antisocial, pick through the CDs and DVDs and put them on yourself, offer to help with lunch and dinner, borrow keys and waltz in and out. These are four houses in which I feel at home, increasingly so in some cases.
Anyway, there we go. That is home, to me. That, and my own company, and no-one else’s, anywhere, any time, with no obligation to think or move and hopefully music or a good book and a cup of tea.