Home-home is where you can simultaneously pig out on Belivta breakfast soft bakes in bed with a book, perhaps play some Lego Harry Potter and replace your blood with sugary cups of tea. Because really; if you cannot do what you want or eat what you want when you go home-home, then when/where can you?
Coming home is one of my favourite times of the month. I am literally like a kid at Christmas, leaving out beer and sweet mince pies for Santa – and a carrot for Rudolph of course – when it comes to the night before I am reunited with my cat and dog… And my mom and brother.
As I say, I do try to book an extortionately-priced train ticket home every single month – whether it be just for a short weekend or for an extended-stay over a holiday such as Easter. The prospect of escaping Manchester and reconnecting with my family, however, is enough to keep me sane. As well as a good book of course – February’s journey involved me diving into Elizabeth Gaskell’s ‘Mary Barton’ – and a Costa soya vanilla latte to accompany. Hashtag am I the pinnacle of basic?
Arriving home and lying in my squishy bed, taking advantage of our amazing bath and raiding the pantry always makes me nostalgic. When I am home-home, I always find myself trawling through my old school yearbook and giggling about what pictures me and my friends used or what quotes we generously decided upon. I vividly remember the nights we would head on down to a house party, down various flavours of Bulmers cider, sit up to watch Ice Age and listen to ‘Careless Whisper’ being belted out on karaoke. The pain of not being able to transport me into the past is real.
I miss home. I miss my dog, Moss and my cat, Mog. I miss my beautiful mother and my brother. I miss my best friends and I miss the fun we used to have on the regular. I miss my first job and I miss how simple things were back in the day before I moved to uni and had to pay RENT and buy my own biscuits and mini-cheddars. In all honesty – I miss living at home, and I do not realise how strong the feeling is until I step over the threshold.
I might be 21, but I am far from a grown-up, and I am not sure that when my mooching into higher education is officially concluded that I will be ready to grow-up either. Maybe an extended stint at home would do me good? Maybe it would drive me insane? Waking up to my dog licking my face every day does not seem like too bad of a shout to me, I must admit!
ELLA LOUISE SCOTT 