My sense of England as “home” took a beating in 1990, when my father died and the house on Mapesbury Road—where I was born and brought up and which I revisited and often stayed in when I returned to England, the house of which every inch was suffused for me with memories and emotions—was sold. I no longer felt I had a place to go back to, and my visits thereafter felt like visits and not like returns to my own country and people.
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