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Harriet Lane has lived in the world as a child, moving house and school after a few years because of his father's work. He made friends wherever she went, but lost them when she went on. The lives of their children are more stable

Sometimes I find myself the memory of the places where they once lived. Prints from five or six. I go to our apartment in Ankara, Turkey, concerned about what might be lurking in the shadows of the landing of the first floor, the sound of my shoes echoed throughout the stairwell of concrete, or I China jumps in the dining room, beautiful spring stretched between the dirty chairs. or I'm hiding in the strange little windowless room, which acts as an air space between the living room and bedroom of my parents, knowing that nobody will find me here

Maybe I'm a little older, nine or 10 on a slide with my sister, my woolen gloves soaked in the snow melts, hurtling down a hill not far from our house on the outskirts Belfast Lough. Or I lay on my stomach before a crossroads credits, Laurel and Hardy eager to start.

Maybe I'm 11 in Port of Spain, to work behind the school, in the heat of the day, deafened by the percussion of crickets, sweat appearing on my hair, or I'm sitting in the dining room, at a long table dressed in white wine glasses and silver and faceted like the roar of air conditioning, or I'm running through the gallery, through the smell of burning mosquito coils, and I cry because something - an enormous insect, or perhaps a little bird - made a mistake in my hair in the candle light

Either I am a teenager in Rome, affectionately attached to MTV in the dark basement studio, cigarettes or who sneak into my room balcony, while spying on the

Police

AA have fun change of position, their clinging to the door Beretta booth.

All these cities, all these houses. They were in the house once a year or maybe a few years and then suddenly disappear in the next place. It's funny how many people take this kind of nomadic childhood, must be infinitely fun and exciting. The reality - that children of many - was much more complicated and confusing

My father was in the diplomatic service (other than a year in Northern Ireland where it was given to the public). He wore a uniform to present their credentials: a thick layer of gold lace, a hat with an ostrich feather and a sword in a sheath. The portraits of the queen was placed in the guestbook or on the piano. Framed snapshots of grandparents distant beloved, who sent Puffin books and matching cardigans hand knitted, other rooms were maintained at less starch, where people can play Boggle or work their way through a VHS set Perfect Spy, mailed through the bag and went to a home for expatriates.

These houses were fully furnished, but - according to an old family joke - by the Ministry of giants and dwarfs (small armchairs paired with monumental buffets). We brought with us things: paintings, books, China Daily, large cardboard box with Saks Fifth Avenue printed on the side containing the Christmas balls Crystal spawning in tissue paper, matted tangles of colored lights. And generally, there was a tent embassy, ??where you could buy Marmite, Earl Grey tea and sweets Angel Delight. My parents were enthusiastic and adventurous. They learned the language, enjoying food and culture, combined with (my father did carnival in pale blue satin flashing, dancing nonstop for eight hours). They made friends wherever he went. I made friends, too: in Ankara, Aileen had a full set of Santa Clara and the naughtiest girl in school textbooks, Adam, who collapsed during a performance at the school of Joseph dreamer. I can not really remember anyone from my year in Belfast, although I was happy there, but in the Trinity met Sally, who had dimples and a fridge full of delicious drinks (his father worked for an importer of beverages), and poor Emma, ??who, upon entering the pool to bring our cat, finally, and Catherine, who - can this be true? -. There was a water bed So I made friends, but those friendships did not last long. We have moved, or did. Was normal, as normal as the image of the Queen on the piano or power failures or milk powder or starting a new school every two years -. Sometimes in the middle of a term

Home
, on the other side of the world, has become something far away and difficult to believe. And when I got it, I knew I had to leave soon. Every day during school holidays, I would do the calculations in silence: there are a lot of time, I'm not even halfway. I half. Next week. By this time tomorrow. The holiday ended. I keep the menu on my last meal (always spaghetti with butter and cheese) and we will walk through Port of Spain to the airport.

Now that I have a daughter whose age is in double digits, I think of him often. I think how it must have been painful for my parents, knowing at some level - they never said, since I could not think of a solution - I felt really bad, but stuck to the situation . Strictly speaking, it was not nostalgia, at home to change all the time. What stayed the same, what I missed, they were. Security. And time spent with satisfaction on their own. (At school you were always with other people. Best friends, worst enemies. You can not escape it. Ever.)
Our situation is very different. My children (10 and seven) are increasingly in the house, which made motherhood. They were in the same primary school until the end. My children are creatures conservative and sentimental. He will join what they know. Each request to the same birthday party games, the same blue cake Pedro volcano. They hate to get rid of something old toys, not only with missing parts, but the pants too short, shoes too small. We walked through the park home with my parents, through cycles of crocus and conkers, and is different yet the same thing every year, and my children like that. They change all the time, so they want things around them remains constant. I think I understand.

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