There’s a Blackberry, an extensive to do list, a rich leather blotter, an idle coffee mug. There are family pictures on the wall. These are all nice things – fragments of a life – but not for me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not philosophically suggesting that accumulated material possessions provide little insight into our inner selves and should be disavowed. Literally none of these things are mine.

Assuming that yours truly is neither a thief nor a stalker, from where you sit this may sound a little awkward. From where I sit, it’s a lot worse. Summer at the office has been something of a peculiar nomadic experience. As the intern in a sprawling corporation cramped for space, I am merely a squatter in an obtuse game of musical desks. Tomorrow the wedding pictures will change, different children will be tacked to different walls, and the to-do list might be ta-done. But it will all be the same.

As my ravings rue my roving, I live a simple truth: it’s the little things that count. For I can be well paid and well treated - and even well written (or so I hope) - but without someplace to hang the proverbial hat, to leave my own dirty coffee mug, or to set a simple dish of mints, there will always be something amiss, something afoot. And speaking of being afoot, I must be a-foot and on to somewhere new today.