There was a time when going home felt like the end of fun. You stayed out as long as you possibly could, stretched dinner into drinks, drinks into clubbing, and felt disappointed when somebody finally said we should call it a night. These days, the minute I set foot out of my house, I am counting down the hours until I am back.

I love the feeling of getting home. The moment the front door closes behind me, my shoes come off and then every piece of jewellery. ‘Going-out’ clothes are exchanged for the comfiest things I own, hair goes up, face gets washed and within ten minutes I look like I never left.

The funny thing is that this doesn’t mean I enjoy going out any less. Dinner with friends can still be fun. So can a concert, a party, a day in town or an afternoon wandering through shops. But coming home is next level, and at some point it has become extremely difficult to compete with.

When we are younger, much of life seems to be happening somewhere else. Other people’s houses, cafés, parties, shops, holidays, anywhere there might be something going on. Home is where you change clothes before leaving again. As we get older, though, we start to build our home around ourselves. There is our chair, our mug, the lamps we like on in the evening, the blanket we always use and the very specific place we sit.

Outside the house, we can never be fully relaxed, there is always an amount of being “on”. We are dressed for other people. We notice the time. We make conversation, decide what to order and remember to be courteous while remaining vigilant. It’s taxing, but then you get home and all of that stops at once.

You know where everything is. You know how bright the lights will be, which floorboard creaks and whether there is anything good in the fridge. Nobody needs directions to the bathroom. If you want tea, you know exactly which cup you want it in. There is an enormous amount of comfort in not having to take in anything new.

Perhaps that is also why the changing-clothes ritual feels so good. Yes, ‘home-clothes’ are far more comfortable but there is also something about taking off the things we wore out into the world that signals the day has changed. The earrings on the dresser and shoes by the door say that we can relax.

Every household seems to have its own version of this. Someone puts the kettle on immediately. Someone else opens the back door for the dog, turns on a particular lamp or checks on the children. Bags land in their usual places. Coats are hung up, or more realistically, draped over the chair they will remain on until tomorrow. Within a few minutes the house has absorbed everybody back into it.

These little arrival habits are rarely planned. Nobody sits down and decides to establish an intentional coming-home ritual. They just develop because something feels good, so we do it again. Eventually the sound of the kettle, the evening lamps or the click of the front door can produce a tiny feeling of relief before we have consciously thought about it.

There is also the luxury of being able to become slightly less presentable. At home we can sit oddly. We can eat something over the kitchen sink. We can wear a jumper that should probably have been retired several winters ago and have very strong opinions about which side of the sofa belongs to us. The outside world gets the earrings; home gets the elastic waistband.

I think with age comes a greater appreciation for the smaller things, which are really the bigger things. Staying home was once the worst day ever and now I can’t think of anything better.

In saying that, a good day out is still a good day out. A dinner out should still be lingered over, friends are worth leaving the house for and there are plenty of places worth going. But there is just something about eventually turning the key, stepping inside and knowing you are done.

You take off the jewellery. You change your clothes. You put the kettle on.

And somehow, going out has made being home feel even better.