I write this on the fourth anniversary of my move into the Hove-l. I am superstitious about anniversaries: I lasted in the original Hovel for ten years to the day, and my eviction from that place was the second most painful eviction of my life. The first, of course, was of that from the family home; the third worst was that of my final day of university. I’d only been there three years but I’d managed to cram six years’ worth of experience into it. I won’t tell you what I got up to but it would make your hair curl.
Getting the keys to my current place put an end – for the time being at least – to the anxiety I’d been feeling since 2017, when I found myself homeless. OK, not homeless in the truest sense, as in sleeping-on-the-streets homeless. But there are degrees of homelessness, and I doubt if many readers of this magazine have experienced it, although I apologise if I’m wrong and also my heart goes out to you.
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