Home Is Where The Heart Of Darkness Is

What makes a house a home and how do we know when we get there? Andrew Leci admits to having baggage, but it’s mostly leafy.

I AM HOMELESS.

I have been for many years, and while this may not appear to make much sense – after all, I have always had a roof above my head (notwithstanding a couple of camping trips in high winds) – I think it’s probably true.

I have been an expatriate for many years – more years, in fact, than I haven’t been – which means that I have been living away from my ‘home’ nation for quite a while. My work (I would never refer to any aspect of it as a ‘career’) has taken me all over the world, being forced to reside in rented accommodation – that is, properties owned by other people – and only occasionally putting down the roots that seem to facilitate and encourage a prolonged stay.

The problem with moving around a lot is that there is always what I refer to as ‘collateral baggage’ and this is proportionate to the comfort you experience when in situ at a specific point or place. If I enjoy living in a certain city, I start to get acquisitive. Places are interesting. There is cultural heritage to be considered, and when you’re trying to assimilate, the appropriate bric-a-brac – even the odd, marginally worthwhile art piece – is worth displaying to potential visitors for whom ‘xenophobic’ and ‘misappropriation’ is but a well-intentioned faux pas away.