Apparently I am at home.
I am staying at my mother's house for three days while I go to meetings at my company HQ. I've cunningly arranged meetings for Friday and Monday so that I have the weekend between to visit family, friends, catch up, get drunk, chase tail (yeah, right).
Anyway, the thing that is annoying me is that everyone (and I mean everyone) that I have spoken to - from colleagues to family members, people I barely know, people I love - everyone I have interacted with, has asked me the same question....
"How long are you home for?"
OK. Home may well be where the heart is, or maybe it's wherever I lay my hat - I guess it depends on which strand of accepted wisdom you subscribe to - but actually, for me, home is my house. The place where my things are. The place where I live. The place where I get my mail and do my laundry.
Home is in France. It is Lyon, soon to be in Paris. In the UK, at my mother's house, in the office at my 'hotdesk', in the pub with mates, I am not at home - I am a visitor.
So every time I get asked this question I answer with "I'll be back home on Tuesday". Some people get it, most people think I'm being obtuse, awkward, pretentious.
My clothes are in a suitcase, my toiletries in an airline approved plastic bag.
I am not at home.