Home Is Where You Park It
I write a lot about the countryside, probably because 23 years of my life have been spent living there. But the 24 other ones have been spent living in towns and cities.
In the 70’s we spent Saturdays at my grandparents’ house, on a street in the heart of the Black Country. The houses on that street were stuffed with my relatives; Aunty Dolly, Uncle Jack, Aunty Vera, Uncle Ted, Aunty Esther, Uncle Harry… a tight tribe, full of portents and proclamations. My grandparents were much older than the other children’s; they called me ‘wench’ and seemed to belong to another time.
( From left to right) My nan, my Great-Aunty Dolly and my mum dressed as a cowboy circa 1956
Their house was very interesting. There were shoe boxes of sepia seaside photos, drawers containing mysterious old papers and a visiting Communist uncle who called me ‘comrade’. These were different times: the Rag and Bone man still visited and stray dogs patrolled patches of…
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