it was n't properly home - home still conjured up the memory of pillows that smelled like my shampoo , and my beat-up old copies of john buchan novels that i 'd gotten from a library sale so they were doubly dear , and the running-water-shaving-sound of my father getting ready for work , and the radio speaking to itself in low , earnest tones in the study , and the endlessly comfortable logic of my own routine .