’ve learned that home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling. I can make the flat look as pretty as I can, put as many flower boxes on the windowsills as I want, put a welcome mat outside the front door, hang a ‘Home Sweet Home’ sign over the fireplace and take to wearing aprons and baking cookies, but the truth is that I know I don’t want to stay here for ever.
It’s like I’m waiting at the train station, busking to make a few quid, just enough to catch the next train out of here.