Home.

I don’t officially have a home.

I am homesick, eternally.

Brought up in Asia, born in the UK. Been back 20 years, can’t wait to leave again.

Lived in Bedford, Sheffield, Leicester, Colchester, Banbury, Bishop’s Stortford, Cambridge, Chelmsford, Saffron Walden, Milton Keynes, Newmarket… the Borderline fleeing her own tail.

I’ve been sleeping on sofas since April. 5 months. They’ve come with differing levels of comfort. I’ve slept on the floor of a box room for months surrounded by a fortress of clothes in bin bags before. Sofas are luxury in comparison.

Oh and I lie – I’ve slept in a couple of beds recently. Hospital beds.

Who would’ve thought that the beds in A&E/the ER would be ten times more comfortable, larger and more plush than the in-patient beds in the psych ward. I experienced my first ever lumpy pillow, on a sticky plastic mattress. It amazes me how every sheet is ironed. Surely NHS money could be better spent? I imagine a load of old ladies and housewives in lines, ironing bedsheets. I suppose they do it industrially. Would I really care if the sheets were un-ironed? Maybe I would.

So I am finally ‘home’ to my futon sofa in the spare room and loving it more than anything. Everything I do now is delectable, even the dishes.

My time, my home, my sofa-bed. Heaven.

Holding off thinking about the future, at least for this bank holiday weekend…

homesick

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