ABSTRACT
I have lived in an awful lot of places, and most of them have been genuinely splendid places to spend your life. I consider this extended, rambling encounter with difference - different homes, different landscapes, different peoples - to be a great blessing. But we all know how difficult moving can be, and how high it ranks in terms of its status as a major contributor to life stress. In my childhood, the regular moving to new towns was compulsory, because of the line of work my father was in, but as an adult, I have not changed this habit, despite now being more or less mistress of my own destiny. I even remain ‘famous’ with my friends for my endless interior decorating reshuffling - they cannot rely on finding even an armchair in the same place twice. As a writer, particularly the ‘historian me’, I have long been interested in exploring issues of place, belonging, and identity. As a self-confessed recovered (is it ever safe to say that?) depressive, I am also concerned that this endless wandering might not appear as glamorous as it once seemed, and instead be a masquerade for a sadder reality, that of the homeless little girl from the wrong side of the tracks. My fantasies include being able to return to the parental home and rustle around in the 96attic to find cherished relics from my childhood - I can whistle to the wind for that one.
