Not exactly the world’s most profound revelation this. But I’ve been on the road for four days. See the parentals (excellent time) go to London, give a couple of short speeches. See an old school friend, see another old friend, some readers here. Wander around the Tower and that Poppy installation.
All just great: but I have also been on the road f0r four days. I am now back in the flat rental in Czech and I’m not here in any form of luxury. On the drive back from the airport I picked up a half a cold but cooked chicken, bit of bread, half bottle of vino and am now at 1 am, having my supper. So far so very, very boring.
But I’ve been in this flat for a year or so: the fridge has odd bits and pieces that are *mine*, not just the standard stuff you get in a hotel room, or a takeout or whatever. One of those bits of *mine* was some posh style Picalilli. Which does make this chicken and bread better. Again so far so boring.
But it strikes me (and still sober, because I’ve been driving and it’s only a half bottle) how much it strikes me how different this is. I could have had a half chicken, some chutney and some wine when in the hotel in London. But it wouldn’t have been *my* fridge that I took *my* chutney out of. Nor would it have been my fridge that the not empty jar goes back into for the next time.
The striking bit being quite how little of a space has to be that mine to make me think of this as my space, my home. Or, if we’re to be totally accurate, something I’ll regard as *mine*, even if it’s not home (which is, of course, something I own, contains a wife, the detritus of 50 years of life and even, among the pets, life forms unambiguouly pleased to see me).
I don’t mean that I wept with joy to see a jar of chutney: only that I’d quite clearly been here before, influenced this place, and was glad to be back for that reason.
We’ll be back to your regularly scheduled economic sneering tomorrow…..