I am in Inkpen, which some people think is an invented place because of its name. It’s actually real, but not entirely, because I grew up here and so there are bits of past places and projects and plans all over the place, floating in the air invisibly, and sometimes you walk into them and get them all over your face and in your mouth like spiderwebs.

And the inclinations and aptitudes of my parents have meant corridors and rooms and staircases and doorways have been growing and reducing and exchanging places since before I was born. If we drew out a new floor plan on tracing paper each time something changed, we could pile them up and have a mess of rooms and walls and gaps, and it’d be difficult to mark the spiderwebs on.

My brother’s bedroom combined with the hallway about five years ago, and now it’s halfway returned to being just a bedroom again except the corridor’s still cut in two. I came home one weekend this year to find my sister’s bedroom door had slid two feet down the corridor, so it was hinged where it used to open, and now it opens where there used to be shelves. 

In the corner of my bedroom behind the door is the place where I laid out red plastic cups and saucers I’d bought with my own pocket money from the Post Office before it turned into a house. We tore the carpet up a good decade ago and there are floorboards now, but the place behind the door is still familiar and I am fond of it.

When I am in here I no less or more make artwork or write than I make sellotape models or read linguistics books or do school projects or put red plastic cups to the mouths of dolls. It all comes open.