Home For Christmas

(guess who’s back, family!)

So I’ve actually come home, after bigging up the fact that I wasn’t really coming home like the distant, love-starved hero of a Christopher Nolan movie, and things have changed: there’s the obvious Christmas tree, and things like the new oven and new structure of my room, but even the things that I knew were happening, like the dismantling of me and my sister’s raised beds, and their replacement with a mattress on the floor each, surprised me, presumably because hearing about a thing via text is one thing, but actually seeing it is another matter entirely.

I’m also a little upset that my room, in its current state of largely uninhabited flux, is way nice to sit in and write than at any point over the last ten years when I was actually living here on a regular basis; there isn’t a desk, which would have been a problem considering I’ve only had a laptop for a  few months, but I can see space for an IKEA folding table to be awkwardly drilled into the wall somewhere, the sort of wooden square big enough for like an A4 piece of paper and a pencil case to just about sit alongside each other, but nothing else.

But the strangest thing I’ve noticed is how similar it all is; the TV is the same, the plays I’m running on Madden are the same, the sofa feels the same and the corridors are still that awkward width between being comfortably widen enough to walk through, but not quite impassably narrow enough that it’s worth making a big deal over, so we’re all constantly struggling silently and individually though these halls that could serve as inspiration for the most universal airing of grievances the family has ever experienced.

It’s nice to know, then, that there’ll always be some stability in my life I can (or will) fall back on once I hit my failed novelist years, that regardless of how much the bedding or wallpaper of the house changes, it’ll always feel the same, and the people living in it will always be the same, at least in terms of letting me crash on sofas and mattresses at random intervals.

So apologies if you don’t live like twenty minutes from home and can’t get home to see your family/friends this Christmas, and apologies if this post has just made you feel homesick; but considering I’m cooking our own food, treating my own illnesses and moshing haphazardly with more strangers than ever before at this point in my life, homesickness might be the best kind of sickness we can hope for.

Advertisements

Leave a comment if you want to prove you're human

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s