IN THE early days I pined for home. So I invented a rhyme and I would chant it.
H-O-M-E, home is where I want to be.
H-O-M-E. Back at home with my wacky family.
It was my war cry, a way to protest. Unfortunately for all who heard it, I was not a good singer. I would jump on the couches in the lounge and yell the chant. H-O-M-E
When I wasn’t allowed to sing it in the house any more – the foster mother didn’t like it much – I would run around the bus stop and scream it it in the mornings.
The mothers would look at each other cautiously, even Shari’s foster mum.
Once on an access visit with my mum, I sung the song in the car.
BACK AT HOME WITH MY WACKY FAMILY
Mum laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.