The reason I write about my house often is because I rarely leave it anymore. I am now an introvert, with an extrovert’s communication skills.
I’ve since realised that leaving the house for me has to be worth the hassle of putting on a bra and shoes.
This week I had lunch with one of the smartest people I know, who can riff about religion and sociology, and heartbreak and grief, and I come away knowing something more about the world.
A little while ago I had a drink with another smart cookie who was visiting from London. Again, I came away with more learnings for my slow brain to process.
And then a lunch with a clever bookish friend and her puppy, and after where we went wandering up the road and were handed a bouquet of Vietnamese mint over a fence by a gentleman, and told how lovely we were.
A walk, a trip to see someone special or a place that’s filled with beauty. Buying something delicious to cook for my beloveds. I don’t want to leave my cocoon for anything less than necessary, or rewarding.
Is that a bad thing? Am I snug or am have I merely retreated in perpetuity?
But why should I leave? My house caters to all my Taurean desires. It is filled with rugs and books, plants and art. Candles waiting to be burned and notebooks waiting to be filled. It houses a rabbit named Daphné, who likes to get so close to the dog that their whiskers touch, and there is now new grass growing on my handkerchief of a lawn.
There are herbs in tubs and an angel trumpet tree in a huge chinoiserie pot. There are lemons, oranges, and pomegranate trees waiting to fruit and ferns in proliferation.
I have books by my bed, by my sofa, on my desk. I have music in every room, including my head, and I have a key for when I wish to open the gate and wander for a while.
But I will always come back. Always. It is where everything I love lives, or visits me, or knows where I am.
Knock loud, I’m home.