I have a favourite item of clothing. It is the one item of clothing that I love more than any other. It is a chunky knit, cream jersey. It now hangs below my knees and one arm is twice as long as the other. Holes appear randomly all over it and the ends are fraying. I love it immensely.
My mother keeps trying to convince me to throw it away. She says things like, ‘it’s stretched beyond comprehension,’ ‘you look like a beggar when you wear that’ and other such atrocities. When I haven’t seen it for a while in my cupboard I panic and run between rooms anxiously searching for it in fear that my mom did one of those late night missions and abducted my cream jersey and threw it to the wolves. That is, if we had wolves here. And wolves liked chunky-knit, holed, ten year-old cream jerseys. You get the point.
Anyway, I love this jersey. And the only place in the entire world I would wear it, is at home. I hope no one thought I walk around in public in it? And I look forward to going home sometimes just so I can put on my cream jersey. Like, if I’m out and it’s half three in the morning and my feet are sore and it’s getting cold and the alcohol is wearing off I think to myself, ‘I can’t wait to go home and change into my cream jersey and climb into bed.’ So my holed, chunky knit, stretched, frayed cream jersey has become synonymous with my idea of ‘home.’ This doesn’t mean I consider my home frayed, stretched and outdated. I love my cream jersey because it’s comfortable. I feel comfortable in it. I feel like I am home when I wear it. Yes yes, I know, because I am home since I wouldn’t wear it anywhere else, but no, what I really mean is; because my cream jersey epitomises the concept of home to me.
More to follow on the idea and concept of ‘home.’ Consider this the introduction.