I love my home.
I love the place that one day may be home.
At home in the Outer Hebrides maybe, will my first language return?
I love the memory of sleeping outside on the posh lawn of my old home, then later in the 80s sleeping with my clothes in the bed, so they were not so damp on the up.
I love my forgotten Nairobi home and the generous welcome to a daughter of colonisation.
At home in the free (no charge) culture of the London southbank.
At home in a gay bar after a work do, when I am asked “do you know what kind of club this is ?”
At home in my holiday tent, with a stunning Welsh view.
At home in my tent that holds the love of the women who have shared and broken my air bed with passion.
I feel the luck that I can love my home.
At home in a posh hotel on the Brighton sea front, at home with the lovely women who perform sing and give joy there.
At home and privileged as I pass the tents, and the pallets and the tarps and the sleeping bags, and the people that the hotel permits to make a meagre home at its’ front, so the sun can shine on them, this day any way and give a little unhomely warmth.
Harriet, (age 60) Woking