The British like it that Way

Home. Everyone has one right? Well I’ve never really felt one actually. This place I’m in right now, this apartment in Singapore was meant to be temporary, and has been “temporary” for eight years now. But I’m never relieved when I enter this place, never really happy. I just feel a surge of anger rising up when I step through the door and lock myself into my room. Adelaide. Don’t remember much of it, but I do remember all the games I played with (shock) my brother back in the day. Melbourne, non-existent.

One place I love being in though is that horribly painted pink building to the right. Theoretically my mother’s home but I love it. It’s full of surprises at every dark corner. A spider here or a wasp nest there. Since childhood I’ve been told to sweep the bed before I go to bed because the roof was degrading. Never took it seriously. Now the 130 year old house (yeah, the infrastructure is THAT old. It’s like 5 meters high because “the British liked it that way”) needs to be bulldozed down. If it isn’t it’ll eventually collapse, one plank from the roof almost fell on my cousin while sleeping. I have so many memories attached to it. See the staircase, there used to be more steps but when I was like 1 I fell down and my grandfather made them smaller and wider. The roof where the people are, that’s where I sat and wrote all those postcards (painful process and I managed to get a stalker in the process because I made the mistake of waving at him when he was staring at me). It’ll be a while before it’s demolished but I don’t want it to leave. Maybe it’s the closest thing I got to home.