I came home from the States a couple of weeks back. Train from the airport then bus brought me back to my street. Funny thing, as in funny peculiar, was as I walked into my road I felt this huge sense of alienness. A feeling that I don’t really belong in this environment. This isn’t my home; it’s a place where I experiment with living.

Maybe I’m not at home with the me at the moment. Maybe it’s a side-effect of travelling. I sit in my apartment and play my music and all I want to do is empty it of all the furniture. Start again. Sell it on e-bay. This is not my beautiful house, even though there are patches where it is. I feel ungrounded here. The world isn’t solid under my feet in this place.

Lately, I’m not house proud at all. The tiles have fallen off the wall by the sink in the kitchen and I’ve taped them on a few times but now the tape is too waterlogged to hold them up and they’re down again. The coffee table in the living room is covered in film stuff. The dining room table I bought for dinner parties has only seen one and is now a desk.

Meanwhile, my horrible office desk is in parts outside in the shed. My horrible office chair–which is supposed to support your back and improve your posture but doesn’t really–is in parts in the loft. I have a surfeit of stuff. But it’s not all me. Next week should be a good time to purge.