When it collapses, your place is where people go.
Your address is the one people arrive at without warning, at bad hours, with a bag. You have had a friend sleep on your sofa through a breakup, a cousin stay four months, someone's difficult sibling for a fortnight that had no discussed end date. You do not make it a favour and you do not bring it up afterwards, ever. What the Eye notices is the arithmetic you have never run: your place has been the shelter for so long that you have never had one, and when your own thing collapsed — and it did, twice — you did not turn up at anybody's door with a bag. You stayed home. You reorganised the kitchen. You told two people it was fine.
Get your read — free on iPhoneNext time yours collapses, turn up at somebody's door with a bag. You have run this arrangement one-way for years and you have never once found out whether it goes both ways.
your place has been everyone's shelter for so long that you have never once had one of your own.
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