Home Comforts

I spent last weekend house-sitting for a friend. “Make yourself at home,” she said before leaving. Minutes later I figured there were two chances of that happening - none and none at all. The friend’s home is not a home – it’s an art installation designed to frustrate.

Echoes bouncing off arched ceilings and chrome finishings zapped my normally placid seven year-old daughter into a hyperactive space cadet. When she wasn’t trying to kill herself by swinging out of the spiral staircase, or jumping off the breakfast bar the height of a van, she was tap dancing her way through the ceramic white noise barrier, trailing crayons along walls that are no longer flawless.

But all this was as nothing compared to the dishwasher. What kind of a sadist would programme a labour saving device to wail like a car alarm when finished? I was forced to get up in the middle of the night to engage in a domestic with the bastard’s nagging creation. And this, after stumbling three flights down in darkness fingering walls for discreetly placed light switches impossible to find without first turning them on.

Even when I knew how something worked, it invariably argued back at me. Negotiating the security system was worse than negotiating with my daughter. At least she can be reasoned with on occasion. All the security system could do was squawk: “Invalid operation … try again … invalid operation … try again …" until I was ready to throttle it.

I’d have cracked up completely if it wasn’t for the jacuzzi. Not only did it work first time, the ten hours my daughter spent drowning in it were enough to wind her down and send her to sleep. Relieved, I mopped up the mess and sat down for some television that never happened. Instead, I lost the will to live wrestling half-a-dozen remote controls failing to figure out which one did what before settling for silence. Icy silence. The under floor heating also defeated me. Still, I caught up on some reading instead of gazing at a screen the size of a pool table. It was not comfortable reading however. Minimalist seating does not accommodate slumping.

I’m home now snuggled up on a sofa bought second hand for peanuts and so worn down I feel like I’m being hugged. The only light in the room comes from the flames in the fireplace soothing all manner of ills – carpet stains, grubby wallpaper, scattered toys, and an epic pile of ironing dumped in an armchair. There are only two words to describe this place: cramped and shabby. But even so, sitting here now and comparing my home to that of my friend’s, I’m reminded of how lucky I am. Granted it's a mess but it’s safe, secure, and all mine.

Unfortunately the friend’s not so lucky. She’s facing redundancy next month and unless a miracle happens her house is going, going, gone. She’s not alone. Many people are facing the prospect of losing their homes, while others already have and are sleeping rough tonight, just as they did last night and the night before that.

I was homeless once. It was only for a short time but was the worst of all times. Without four walls, a person is stripped naked and frozen in time. All you can think about is finding a corner to curl up and die in. Only there are no corners.

Once here, I dumped my troubles at the front door, took grateful stock and started over. Time passes and for a while there I was taking this place for granted, bemoaning its shabbiness and jealous of others. But not any more. For who knows what tomorrow might bring or the true value of anything until it’s lost and gone forever?

Besides, cramped and shabby comforts me. I just hope it does the same for my friend when she comes to stay.