After years spent travelling and desperately trying to get away from the small mining village I grew up in, I now live right across the road from the house where I grew up. If I stand on tip-toes in the kids bedroom I can see my old bedroom window. Crazy. I never imagined living quite so close to my parents. Through my teens I wanted to live as far away as possible and I spent my early twenties attempting to achieve this. This is how I ended up living in a tiny shared flat in Notting Hill, living with two girls I didn’t particularly like and working three jobs just to pay my bills. Not really how I imagined it. That’s the thing though, visiting somewhere and living there are two very different things.
When I moved into my current house, it was through necessity. I needed somewhere to live and this was the first house that was available. It isn’t the best house, the rent is far too high, my landlord is lax and my neighbours are interesting, but I quite like it. For the first time since I packed my bags and left my parent’s house, I feel at home. I have loads of happy memories here and I’ve even grown to like the pink exterior. Yes, it’s a little like living inside a giant cupcake but it makes giving directions a piece of cake (ha!).
The kid goes to the same primary school as I did – with the same headteacher, no less and everything is nicely familiar. I still love seeing new places, (I may have mentioned I’m going to Greece in less than four weeks) but I’ve come to realise that there is no place like home.