Home

Home is London. Without a doubt. Amsterdam is still home too in a way. And then there is the village I grew up in, but left over 16 years ago. It's still my parents' home. This weekend I went to both. My mum's 60th at my parents' house and two sneaky white beers in de Jordaan in Amsterdam. I saw all uncles and aunts, caught up with old neighbours, and even my granddad and nan had made it up north. A lovely get together. Bro and I had caught up the two days previously as he visited me in rainy and gloomy London (that is now warm and sunny and heading towards the hottest April in the century), and drove up north together with his girlfriend. But lovely as it is, it's not home. Home is where my heart skips a beat when I fall in love with the beauty of the place for the umpteenth time. Home is where my books are, where my couch with the afghan I bought in NZ are. Home is where I have my phone and internet connection that allow me to stay close to friends. Home is London.