I’ve finally moved into the share house that will be my home in for the next 11 months.   I’m normally fine with a bit of transience, but it has been hard going to work every day and trying to function in an alien environment without a permanent base. I had a little moment when I made the bed: I was grateful that I could finally nest.

Getting used to a new house: one suburb away from where I have been crashing for the last two weeks – new sounds, ready to create a routine. Cooked for some of my new housemates and the maid. She was very interested in my lentil cooking methods. I’ve missed cooking.

Instead of hearing the noise of the slums at night, I now lie in my own bed and hear the rickshaw wallahs’ bells as they navigate the broken road in the dark. No street lights, bits of paved road under the dirt, piles of crushed brick for the continual construction, breaks in the sewage covers exposing things I really don’t want to know about. And occasionally, a dusty cat.

A man sits on the road through the night selling individual cigarettes and hot tea to the rickshaw pullers. I watch him before I go to bed, and he is gone in the morning.

This is my second night in this bed, and I’m thinking about eating toast. At least that’s a constant.

In a few nights I’ll be in a different bed again – in India. But now I can look forward to coming home to my own place.

I’ve got a good feeling about this.