My Childhood Home

What makes a house a home? For me it was the last house when we were a family, before Dad left, before Dad died. Red brick council estate, anonymous on the outside, all the character behind the door. The wildlife too, with mice that nibbled our power-cut candles, and maggoty caterpillars that dangled and spun from the lace in my bedroom, a part of every view.

As a kid you don't think about money. It was a great treat when Pot Noodles were launched and we had them for our tea. The first clue that money mattered was when I got a Scalextric set for Christmas. I loved racing the cars with Dad until one of us spun out. It was gone by Easter, disappearing from the top of my wardrobe one night, taken by the anti-Santa. Mum told me we needed the money. I didn't mind. We'd all give a thousand Scalextric sets to go back in time and live one week again. Family beats racing cars in the stone, paper, scissors of life. A few years later and my dad was gone too, taken in the night.

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