Countdown

2
We didn't buy the house because of the two-storey brick outbuilding at the end of the small garden but it certainly appealed. Erstwhile stable below and hayloft above were crammed with miscellanea from those who'd lived in the house before, some of which I discovered only when I had a serious clear-out of the ground floor 16 months ago. But long before that the children, then aged 11 or so, helped me clear out the first floor to make a den. We worked together on the design (possibly influenced by us living in a flood zone or possibly by being so far from the sea) and the three of us painted it. I, being taller and more used to ladders, painted the rafters with borax to combat the woodworm. We moved in a cast-off carpet and three saggy sofas and put some rickety shelves under the socket for my old radio-cassette player.

For years and years youngsters would knock at our front door then traipse through the kitchen to join their mates in The Stable. They listened to music, they made music, often loud, and they created a huge and wondrous cane and tissue paper light shade around this bulb. Over the years they metamorphosed into adults. At least two of them ended up as musicians and one as a sound engineer. 

A few days after my discovery (link above) that ended up in the County History Collection, I cleared out upstairs in preparation for the move, never imagining the house sale would take so long. Yesterday I went back in to vacuum the carpet ready for next-door's children but the vacuum cleaner clogged with carpet dust and moth-eggs. So we hauled the carpet out and this morning cycled it to the dump.

Vacuuming the floorboards after that was a much easier task than my wasted effort yesterday.

The house is memory-laden and I'm quite surprised, as I stand in the middle of this hayloft and look round, to realise after twenty-eight years that it is probably my favourite room, even though I've spent almost no time in it. May it be as important for those who come next.


Later
On my way back from a walk in this evening's sun, where I'd been wallowing in a bit of self-indulgent nostalgia, I got a phone call from my Afghan neighbour's sister. Where was I? He'd called round with my evening meal and no-one answered the door. 
So soon? It was only on Monday that I returned the bowl he'd brought round last Friday. I promised to knock on his family's door on my way home.
In extras, round three of the food escalation phenomenon. I need to up my game.