The feeling of being invited into someone else’s nest is a privileged kind of contentment
I can’t remember how much I enjoyed – or didn’t like – sleepovers as a child. I suppose it depended on the other guests. They are not something I recall having a strong opinion on. Yet I find staying at friends’ houses as an adult immensely pleasurable. In truth, I find staying anywhere rather exciting, and hospitality in general a lovely thing. I occasionally stay in fancy hotels in the city where I live, just for a night, to break up the monotony (and for the swimming pools).
On trips abroad, I enjoy staying with locals. But there is something specifically satisfying and, more than that, comforting about staying with pals. I’m sure a large part of this is that I have friends with fancy houses in beautiful locations. I have friends with a stunning house in Oxford, and mates with quaint cottages by the seaside.
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