So my last business trip of the year is complete and after the four and a half hour commute, I have just turned my key in the lock and opened my front door to the joys of coming home.

And here they are:

A few moments of reshelving favourite books, boxing up adaptor plugs, sliding pairs of shoes into their familiar hidey holes, and walking in my mother’s homecoming footsteps of ‘getting the washing on  the go”.

The particular hum of household appliances, the faint squeal of lightbulbs turned down on the dimmer, the strike of a match put to the gas fire tiled with fragments of my great grandmothers china and pebbles from my favourite seaside, the familiar rhythms of the boiler.  A symphony.

Settling straight into the routines of my home neighbourhood – tomorrow is recycling collection, so it’s back to me to take it out (my kind neighbour does this when I’m away).

Conscientiously watering plants before they die of neglect.

Warming up cherished cold corners, scented candle on the hearth, hot-water bottles in the bed, scented oils in the bathroom, a spread of chords on the too-silent piano.

Friendly things to eat – favourite tea tonight and tomorrow the prospect of my beloved favourite breakfast.

The smell of laundry.

Everywhere treasure: favourite cards, tea lights, cushions, books, mugs, chair, pillows, cosy clothes.

Catching up with connection, responding, calling, delaying, writing.  Being available to my friends and family again after days of intense focus.

Pink (seemingly outlawed from any business hotel I’ve stayed at in the last several years).

Prettyness – in delicate colours, in intricate textures, in contrast, in details, in scent, in light.

Storing my suitcase and turning back into someone who lives in their house, and who does not drag their possessions with them everywhere like a maladapted snail.

‘Pottering’; a mundane but beloved verb that rarely occurs away from home.

Presence, to myself, to my life, to now.

And thankfulness; what riches.