This building looks like me on so many levels. It’s stuck. It cannot free itself. It’s battered. It’s derelict but it is a home to some great things. It survived. It’s been torn apart by time but it is fucking timeless.
I am coming home tomorrow. I miss my space. I miss my things. I miss the outrage. I miss Jamaican food and British television. I miss my mum’s voice and my niece’s magic. I miss my mum’s hair. I miss my brother’s untidiness. I miss the fridge. I miss the magnets that cling to the fridge the way I cling to my mum. I miss my front door and my back garden. I miss rainy days in my bedroom and sunshine in Burgess. I miss London and I am ready to come home but I know the moment the Boeing bounces onto the tarmac, I will miss this sleepy little fishing village in Portugal that has awoken something incredible inside of me. Thank you Parchal. I love you.