I came home from work today at about 3 and was met by a pile of papers and books scattered all over the floor in the hall (I imagine they were thrown out of a bag as oldest teen, rushed and tired, aborts sinking ship for revision session at school this morning). The house smelt a bit damp after our washing machine fiasco (said machine is sadly, still in the middle of the kitchen floor). Our bedroom has the air of lost hope, a neglected room used as a dumping ground for washing, mugs of cold tea, discarded clothes after another ‘nothing to wear’ moment this morning and as if that wasn’t enough, a bare bulb dangles despondently just to make it look really depressing …
But, actually, I love my house.
Under the surface it has the mark of a family that has been together for years, bits and bobs (and a couple of stuffed animals) that Jimmy and I have acquired over time, photos of loved ones in days gone by, junk shop furniture, Welsh wool blankets, peeling paint and many oddities that we love. It’s a very old, wonky house with bits that occasionally drop off (which we patch up), but it’s familiar, friendly, warm, safe and inviting. Teens, tears and a load of dirty washing – what the hell, I still love it!
sylkotwist 