Going Home Is Tough
On Friday morning, I packed all of my dirty washing into the back of my little car and drove up to Wauchope to visit my Granny - to spend some quality time with her chatting and pottering about in the garden, to hear the sounds of birds in the forest trees and the occasional hum of cars along the main road in the far distance. I was out in my natural habitat - a quiet country town with not much noise and little reception. Just my thoughts and the sound of my Granny in the kitchen making cheesy biscuits (hello, is that the sound of my entire childhood?) and tea.
I was engorged by the end of my visit. It's custom for me to arrive, give her a big hug and then beeline to the kitchen where I suss out each and every container in the cupboard. Nuts, soya crisps, Lindt chocolate, peanut butter. I'm in what I like to call "heaven". We go out for coffee at The Living Room and I order a slice of lime pie. It's chilly and we sit outside in the low chairs with busted springs in the cool air with the dog, watching everyone in Wauchope show us how terrible they are at driving.
And when I get home I sit in the quiet on the couch, cross-legged with a quilt cover that she has had since I was born and used to spend nights with my brother having sleepovers at the house. It's familiar and familial - a soft fabric that's almost as old as I am covers my shoulders and I'm at least comfortable whilst I sit for 8 hours hectically trying to write an essay on Constitutional Law.
Dinner time soon approaches and I'm already full from the nervous snacking, but roast chicken? Yes please. Have you ever noticed that when you have a roast at different people's houses cooked by different cooks, it is never quite the same ? The pumpkin is a soft, gooey but crisp mess on my plate and the potato is cut exactly the way she always would. The chicken is that same chicken from the fruit and vegetable shop that we'd go to in the afternoon and I'd get to choose a yoghurt to eat after school. It's tasty, needs no seasoning, and is beautifully tender.
Why am I describing in detail the experience of staying at my Granny's? Because holding onto these moments is so important. Because understanding how things make you feel is important. You realign yourself when you visit cherished memories, or even relive them with new eyes.
I'm sitting now in a noisy café at the university. There's chatter and the drone of industrial fluorescent illuminated fridges branded with "Coca Cola" and filled with sickly sweet soft drinks. The café itself is warm lit - light bulbs hang low off red cords and most people have their heads down hoeing into a croissant or a chapter on business management. It's subdued but alive. Kind on the eyes, but the noise, the quiet bustle is disconcerting to me. I want to be home, listening to my Granny talk about her mother's writing in South Africa and upbringing in India. I want to be watching Egg Heads with her and The Antiques Road Show or Escape To The Country. To watch her prod at her iPad and ask me to load up more pictures of Corgis. I want to be surrounded by love.
