I have lived in many countries; I first left the country of my birth at 6 months old.  Not counting repeat visits, I have lived in 6 countries yet I have always embraced each one as being my home.  This does not mean I placed them above my country of birth, just equal.  However, in my memories, I love many more than my passport country. These new countries were my home countries although I was always a foreigner in their eyes.

I define home as that magical moment when the plane comes onto final approach, the anticipation of being back in your house and soon your bed, where everything is familiar and in its proper place, that is home.  It is where your pet lives, it is where the alarm clock lives when your arm stretches out unknowingly in the morning, groping blindly but finding.  It is where your tea caddy and kettle can operate on automatic as you stumble blindly in the morning.

That reminds me of a friend who moved house, and also sleep walked.  For the first week, he got up left the bedroom, and peed on the corridor wall, just where the toilet used to be.  After a week, his wife retrained him by staying awake and guiding him to the proper place.  Who said men can’t be trained.

Anyway, that’s not my point.  I live on a small rock under the sun.  I live here with my cat. My last final approach to the island was with the knowledge my partner was leaving me.  I had hardly slept for a week, I had marathon running thoughts and dreams that I could persuade her to stay.  But I was still coming home, not to the warm welcome that I allude to above.  But the kettle, cat and alarm clock are still here.  So little relief and comfort met me.

As time has moved on, the sense of coming home has been one of the most painful.  This is not long distance travel and return but just a visit to the local pub or restaurant.  If you have a partner, you may (or really should) know that feeling.  That feeling of anticipation of seeing that person, hoping they will forgive you, yet again for being late, they will be receptive to your recounting of tales of great deeds, the latest gossip, you trying to remember to give them space to tell their day to you.

Of course, if you are travelling home with your partner, there is that opportunity to return together, to have that last drink and discuss, share, bitch  about the evening.  Something shared, something which unites you as a couple against the raging world outside.  Something I thought we had done so well for so many years. Perhaps not enough.

Now, I live alone.  I am OK but I miss so many of those things that make it a home.  I can cook pretty damn well, so having a meal on the table is not important.  I always got up to make the tea, so the alarm clock, tea caddy and kettle are covered.  So is the cat, ready to escort her to her food bowl, first thing in the morning and again at the front gate as I returned tonight from my dinner and drinks.

What do I miss?  A smile, a kiss, the warmth of someone who has missed you who wants to talk to you and listen. That building anticipation of the last few hundred metres before you park the car.  That frustration of trying to get all your belongings out of the car, to get to the front door in one go without having to break your return into pieces by doing repeat journeys and so spoil your arrival. So many other things.

Sadly, I live in limbo.  I hope that I will stay in this house.  It feels right but there is a bargain.  I look after my home and it will look after me.  Until, I know for sure it is mine, where the cat and I can live out our days, I have doubts about our relationship.  I lack the energy and motivation to commit.  I look critically at some peeling paint and promise that I will look after you when you are mine.  I keep you tidy and I find you a place a refuge.  On bad days, I count the hours from leaving bed until I can next get back in, quasi legitimately, for an hour of nothing.

So to make it my home?  I need that long term relationship. probably not just with the building.  I can paint and fill the cracks.  But I guess to come home, there has to be something to come home to?  More than the cat, tea caddy and kettle.  So perhaps to find home, I need to go out more often.

What brought this one on?  It is her birthday today and so she is in my thoughts.