Home. Mine was once a launderette, back in the ‘70s. I wasn't living
there then. I was hardly even born then. But there's still evidence of it all
over the place - from the peculiar frontage to the panoply of pipes protruding
defiantly out of the flooring. But times have changed. At least for this building.
For me though, my home is more than a house - more than four walls,
windows, roofs and doors. It's more than the place where my family and I eat,
sleep, or take refuge from the cold and rain. It's the scene of our everyday
victories - big and small - celebrating a good day at work or school, a
festival or birthday, or just an elaborately-constructed sofa den. And of
course, it's sometimes where opinions are argued, tears are shed, and
shoulders are hugged.
Our home isn't just bricks and mortar. It's the stage on which our lives
unfurl. And I know how lucky that makes me, especially when so many people
don't even have basic shelter.
