There’s something deeply nostalgic and personal about returning home to the place you grew up. I still call it home because I don’t think it will ever be anything less than that. It’s a bit like safety net, or a time capsule ready to transport me back to the days where life wasn’t so hectic and focused. You walk down streets you’ve walked down a thousand times before, at two, at ten, at sixteen, at twenty. You walk past the places your best friends used to live, where you shared stupid secrets, loves and fears – and see them occupied with strangers with no idea. It’s as though the whole town is a battered journal that you’ve written all over in invisible ink. I could wander theses streets all day, and live with the rose tinted memories.