I finished University. Three years of papers, parties and parental freedom: perished. My standard campus room embellished with vast amounts of junk accumulated over the years has been packed into boxes, bags and bin-liners ready for their new home. My Father arrives and we load the car, a knowing look in his eye; he always knew I would be returning to the nest. The car reaches capacity; just one book, plate or stapler more and I doubt we would make it home. I sit in the heavy car, the engine starts its low groan and the depressing journey begins. As we drive, I watch the clouds covering the motorway; thick, grey, and chubby, threatening to splatter the dirty traffic at any moment. The English weather always manages to make disappointing situations just that little bit more disheartening and dismal.
My Father manoeuvres the car backwards onto our drive and my Mother and sisters appear at the door to greet us. I’m home once again – that stimulating university life slowly slipping into times of yore. It takes time to empty the car and I go it alone, transferring the various bags and boxes of belongings into my unchanged bedroom. We later enjoy a family dinner, my Mother rather satisfied and smug to have the whole family together again. The conversation that fills the room is worlds away from those indulged in a student kitchen; no debates about international politics, no disputes regarding current affairs, and no discussions concerning who drank the most last night and who got lucky. However, there were debates regarding over-the-road putting their rubbish out a day early, discussions concerning the contents of a package delivered to next door and disputes as to whether the hamster got the hiccups last night.... welcome home.
