I have a notion that your neighbourhood is not where you live physically but where you live emotionally. I have moved around the UK but I still consider where I grew up and my family live to be home. Mrs G who has crossed the Atlantic seems to have the same feeling. She has now spent over 10% of her life in the UK but she is still resolutely a New Yorker.
The buildings and roads outside your door are just that, they are static objects with which we can imprint our feelings and memories and this is what creates that neighbourly feeling. But they are still buildings, it is the people who really make it.
I’ve lived in places destroyed by fire,
Curled up in others where I’ve been in the mire,
W’er the goings been great or dire,
It’s not bad for this boy from Warwickshire.
I won’t say where I should be,
I goes w’er I needs to be,
Grand or small is where you’ll see,
Myself drinking down a cup of tea.
There is no adventure outside my door,
Stuck on the sofa like a bore,
Refusenik to go check the score,
Comfortable with the walls I saw.
For me there is no neighborhood,
I’ll stay inside if I could,
Live like a hermit, I wish I could,
Just me, my food and some fire wood.
One with nature? This I’m not,
The cold I’m fine but detest the hot,
My comforts I couldn’t be shot,
WiFi and TV, I love the lot.
One day I’m sure I’ll move again,
A new place to avoid the rain,
The roads and shops may be the same,
I may still have to catch the train.
Why are we defined by where we lay,
We are more than where we stay,
I speak more than how I say,
Where I’m going home that day.
I have lived all over the place,
But my block is a simple space,
It’s somewhere people know my face,
Where I rush home with all my haste.
It’s the place where family’s near,
Where those I love are found here,
My neighbours are those I hold dear,
New York, Elsewhere or Warwickshire.