It was two months ago in America, I opened the top drawer where I’m sure my daughter had said the mugs were kept, but a packet of coffee powder stared back at me, or was it chilli powder? But they don’t keep chilli powder on shelves in America, do they? Let it be, I told myself, not ready to solve the coffee and chilli powder problem right now. So, I opened the drawer below, and nearly had forks, spoons and all the rest of the cutlery fall on my toes! I quickly closed the drawer on those murderous weapons and looked into the shelves on top.

I remember my thoughts and what followed: Where’s my coffee mug?

Well, it’s not mine. Nothing is mine here; it’s not my home. My home is ten thousand miles away or somewhere near ten thousand, where my green coffee mug hangs neatly in its place, washed and wiped and wedged in its familiar setting with nobody else going to move it from there.

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