“Struck by the poignant strangeness of other people’s homes."

I remember visiting the homes of neighbourhood kids and being awash in the alienness of them. Specifically, I remember being put-off by their strange smells, which, now that I think about it, might just be an autism thing. I’m sure my childhood home, with its menagerie of pets, had quite a pungent smell itself. But it was MY smelly house.

I remember being a small child and sitting on my friend’s couch. I remember not being completely at ease - not because the couch was uncomfortable, but because it wasn’t MY couch. It felt like the couch was gently reminding me that I was only a guest on it and that I shouldn’t get too comfortable.