I come home. A cat jumps into my lap. My daughter smiles. My wife strokes my hair. The stream burbles its way through the garden. I don't like spending half of every week away from home. When I'm in London, I sleep on friends' living room floors, and live out of a bag. I can have nothing I cannot carry on my person. I used to keep some spare clothes, stuff for showering, a shaver, some sentimental trinkets, and my climbing gear (for I sometimes go climbing with my friends) in the office, until one day I found it all in a bag by my desk with a note on it asking me to take it away.