I love coming home. Always. Even if I’ve been doing something really, really nice, or visiting somewhere really exciting. I always open the door and let out a big sigh and just feel glad.
Home. Where I can be me. Where I have my stuff and can do my things and where I always feel safe and cosy and contented.
I admit that I’m not all that wild about the unpacking or the laundry mountain or the sudden chaos that always prevails when we come back from holidays. I could do without having to rush straight out to pick up the cat and hit the supermarket.
But once those essentials are taken care of and I can close the door in the knowledge that come hell or high water I will not have to cross the threshold again today, I can more than deal with the mess.
I like to take things slow and get myself back into the swing of things. Light a fire, put on some candles, contemplate a simple, late dinner….. I even feel a modicum of pleasure at the prospect of cooking after a week of eating way, way too much in restaurants. Scrambled eggs on toast sounds like a real treat. Flannel pjs and a cup of tea. No make-up. An early night after a nice bath and a little read of my book.
Sleeping in my own bed.
Can anyone better that?