No place like…

 
I’m home. After 6 magic months in NZ, (campervantastic) and a two week stint at my mum’s (fridgealwaysfullofediblethingswithinusedbydate = heaven), I am now back in my flat in West London.
These are the shelves in my kitchen and I love them. They were the first thing I built with my dad when I first moved in. (He banged nails and I made tea. Am excellent tea maker).  I adore their higgletypiggletyness.. and the stories behind each thing placed precariously upon them.

 
My French enamel coffee pot which I carried back on my bicycle (one handed) from a vintage market in the South of France. I fell off my bike (obviously – I can’t cycle one handed) and still have the scar. I tell my neighbour’s children it’s from wrestling with an alligator. They believe me.
My Jamie Oliver cook book with his killer recipe for Steak and Guinness Pie, which when you cook, people (Karen) think you are actually a world class chef, which also means their expectations rise and this can only lead to inevitable disappointment when you make scrambled eggs on toast next time they (Karen) come over for dins… 
And my Orla Kiely biscuit barrel, which I haggled for in John Lewis. I didn’t get anywhere, but I gave it my all. On my journey home my bus driver forgot which route he was on and somehow I ended up in Putney, but I’d already filled my barrel up with jaffacakes so I was happy gazing out the window and munching them (all) until he found his way back to Notting Hill. 
These are the small things that make home, home. Little things, big-swallow-you-up memories.
It’s good to be back.