BY ROBERT CATTO

I'm home.

Well, it's one of my homes - it feels like I have three, really: in Sydney, Toronto, and Pointe au Baril. But this is where I spent the most time, growing up.

This house has been here longer than I have; my parents bought it in 1962, and have somehow stayed here all that time - while I can't even remember all my addresses in the last 20 years, theirs has remained fixed.

It seems inevitable that this will change, and possibly soon; by the next time I visit Canada, it's quite likely that new people will have taken on this place - and maybe torn it down, to start fresh.

So I'm more conscious than ever of the little details that make it so familiar: the creak of the boards under the carpet in the hall; the way the sun comes through the blinds in the morning; the broken bannister where our dog used to shove his head through while lying on the stairs; the chip in the piano keyboard. (I don't think I did that.)

The lightswitch in the shape of an angel; the stereo my dad built from a kit; the record player that played 78s of Gilbert & Sullivan; Dad's thermos he used to fill with coffee for the drive to work; his tools.

The touch-tone phone, with speed dial buttons to call family and friends - a lot of whom are no longer there to answer.

This could be my last week here. But, for now, I'm home.