Mostly he was indifferent to the squalor of his flat, the meaty black flies and the leisurely patrols. When he was out he dreaded returning to the deadly alignments of familiar possessions, the way the empty armchairs squatted, the smeared plates and old newspapers at their feet. It was the stubborn conspiracy of objects — lavatory seat, bedsheets, floor dirt — to remain exactly as they had been left.
— from The Child in Time, by Ian McEwan.
I feel the same way upon returning home after a day at work or a weekend jaunt. Sigh.