So this is a reflective post but also a wee bit of a plug. I haven't lived in the same place for more than four weeks since Easter. For the six months before that I couldn't really call the place I was staying in a home. For the last six weeks I have been living out of my car. So what is home? I think a bit of me used to think it was a building, but I'm beginning to realise that home is about people. In one of my places of abiding this last year I had an enormous bed to die for. It didn't make it home. In my Luton house, I have matching crockery, its not home. In my study room I have all my books and things to live- that doesn't make it home. In my car I have everything I have needed for the last few weeks.. no, not home. As I have travelled I haven't missed place or stuff or gadgets or a washing machine that I know how to work. I have missed people. Having them turn up and visit, or finding myself with them in parks, on showgrounds, on beaches.. tha