Going Home


I still lived in the same house that I grew up during primary school. Now twelve and attending secondary school – a different one to where my friends went.

To reach the house, you had to take the long way round going to the only entrance to the estate, then weave your way through the streets to get to the corner where we lived. If you wished to walk to my house, you could cut through the park and walk round the corner only going through two streets.

The house was changing as I was changing, the garden looked like the others – flat and green with a border of roses struggling for life.

Go down the pave-stone with the parked block that is a Volvo over the dull orange chipstone as the Nissan occupies the garage with faded green door. A paint pot sits nearby.

The small back garden which served as the place for adventure, construction and substituted as Hoth a winter long, long ago – now serves the purpose for drying clothes. Hidden from view, there is a hut somewhere behind the garage that grew over the vegetable patch.

Through the backdoor, the kitchen – crammed with work units, not a chefs delight.

Move to the dining room, a large round table made of dark oak. Built to stand the test of time (still does to this day).

The living room next, home of the large TV and family gathering.

The hallway and the front door. Up the stairs that served at a bumpy slide one.

The bathroom in front with the latest in electronic showers.

On the landing, there is a wooden book case, occupied with the hand me downs that the eldest no longer wants. A closed door that says ‘brother keep out!’ where two must share while one gets their own room. It is the room with the treasure. The comics, the dragons and monsters against the metal tanks on the snooker table and underneath there lies the latest in technology – an Amiga!

Get out of that room or trespassers will be shot! past the cupboard and the attic door – never been so can’t tell you what is there.

The parent’s bedroom with the wardrobe that held the clothes that time forgot.

The last room, mine. Tiny. The cupboard shrinks each day. Empty. There is a bed that occupies most of the floor with a chest of oak drawers that replaced the hand painted red and yellow book case. The mess that was turfed long ago.

Rush out. Down the stairs. Slam the front door. Run through the street, past the field where they plough away my childhood memories. The other houses empty, friends gone. Strangers remain.

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