In typical middle class style, I like to pretend that I’m from the streets and well ‘ard. Yo. To cement my tough nut image, I like to listen to rap music and pretend I too am from the city that never sleeps. I’m from a village that sleeps at 9pm, or 10,30 if we’re feeling naughty bunnies.
So anyway, I’m currently into Kanye West’s Homecoming. (Which I know is old, but I’m not cool enough to know any hip and happening hip hop right now. So old Kanye is all I’ve got.) Anyway, listening to Homecoming, I always start think about coming home.
Except that unlike Kanye, I have no city to come back to. No home with pebble dashed walls, a pond full of frogs and bushes cut into geometric patterns. And that sounds woefully dramatic, it’s not really. It’s when you’re 18, and you’re living in your third country, your home isn’t a house. It’s not a city, country or artfully minimalist Swedish inspired warehouse/space rocket cross loft space.
It’s the feeling you get when you’re around people who know you. I mean actually know you, as opposed to people who acknowledge your existence before continuing talking about themselves.
People who know that you get angry when you eat the wrong sort of museli. (NO. SODDING. COCONUT.) Or know that you like to sharpen your colouring pencils when bored. Or that you detest being interrupted when reading, writing or talking to oneself.
And being around people you know, and most importantly love, is what home is. Which is convenient because it means you can keep it with you – in your phone, computer and heads. Which is great when you have to fit everything else into 23kgs of baggage allowance.