Welcome to my fortress of solitude, my inner sanctum.

It is here, languishing between satin sheets, clad only in exotic oils and incense, that I write my posts.
Well, not exactly.
I'm in my pyjamas, sitting in my parents' house, in my old bedroom. Laptop in hand, lulled by snoring from the next room, and farting mightily.

There's something unworldly about visiting your parents, it's akin to travelling back through time, to a simpler age, when all you had to worry about was homework and bullying. It is the closest some of us will ever get to returning to the warmth and safety of the womb.
It is strange, though. Once you leave, although you feel comfortable when you visit, there's a nagging feeling inside, telling you that you're precisely that. Visiting. My home is elsewhere. In fact, as the eagerly FANTASTIC blog will tell you, I am psychologically homeless.

So, I'm here for Easter. This made me wonder something, as an outside observer. Which event should christians celebrate more; Jesus's birth, bringing the saviour into the world, or his death, sacrificing himself that we (excluding heathens like myself) might be saved?

It's something to ponder as you munch on your chocolate egg. I got a toblerone one this year, so I'm happy.

(since writing this, it's now daytime, and I'm still not dressed yet. I love holidays!)