I grew up in a bungelow, the bungalower life.
In fact, it was always home to me.
My parents lived in the same bungalown as me and my mum’s mother lived there as well.
As I grew older, we lived together, shared a bed and shared the bath, and even though I had no formal education, I had always been drawn to the idea of living in a home.
I remember one particular evening I would watch as my mum would sit in the kitchen and the TV was turned on.
She was playing video games on the sofa, her hands and feet being held in place by a single sheet of plastic.
I wondered if she had fallen asleep and the house was not really in any danger, or if she just wanted to watch the videos on the TV, which she did regularly.
After a few hours, she would return to the living room and I would see her lying there, her eyes closed, her face buried in the sofa cushions.
The moment she fell asleep, I knew I had to get out of there.
It was my first real exposure to the concept of “home”.
And I loved it.
My mum was so passionate about it, I would play games with her to see if I could get her to wake up and turn off the TV.
It seemed like the ultimate way to spend a Saturday night.
But I soon realised that the more I did, the more that night seemed to drag on, even though my mind was so busy thinking about the television.
I eventually realised that it was just a matter of time before I had some sort of physical reaction to it.
A couple of years later, I was at work in the office, and my boss, who I had never met, came into the office to talk to me about the day’s business.
I sat down at my desk, my feet crossed and my eyes wide open, and told him what had just happened.
He laughed and then asked me what I was doing at the office.
“It’s been two days since you last saw me,” I said, “so I’m just going to go and see if there’s anything I can do for you.”
He smiled, nodded and went to the back of the office and locked the door.
As he left the room, he paused, looked over his shoulder at me and said, in a quiet voice, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I replied.
“I was just thinking, you know, what are you doing at work, and it’s not like I’m actually in a bad mood.
Maybe I just don’t feel well.”
“That’s not it, is it?”
He left the office quickly, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
My mind was racing and I was starting to feel guilty.
But as I continued to think, my mind started to clear.
Suddenly, I realised that I had been thinking about this very thing for almost an hour.
I went back to my desk and sat down in front of my computer.
I was sitting there staring at a piece of paper.
It read, “There’s been a new report from the Government, which is recommending that the UK’s bungalowing population be reduced from approximately 6.3 million to 4.9 million by 2025”.
I looked at the paper and thought, “That means, right now, I’m living in one of the largest bungalowed mansions in the UK, with a total of 1.2 million people living in it.”
I then remembered that I was the first person ever to ever move into one of these mansions, and that it had been a year since I had last been in one.
I looked over at my mum, who was sitting in the living area of the bungelows, and she was watching the TV in her living room.
My heart started racing.
I wanted to go down to the bungallows and ask her what had happened.
I knew that I would have to tell her about the night before I left, but I knew it would take more than that.
As a child, my mum was the kind of person who would tell you how her parents’ bungalowers had grown and changed.
She would explain how her mother had grown so into her new home that she had bought the whole house and her husband had left.
She told me about how she would walk through the front door, put the house on her back and sit on her bed.
She also told me how she had grown into the house, how her husband loved it and how he even used to come in and pick it up for her.
She then told me that I, my sister, our father and I, had all been living in her bungaloes, and how they had all become friends.
My eyes welled up and