We’re up to our eyes in boxes here. And official-looking correspondence. And scary-looking surveyor’s reports. After 6 years in our lilliputian house and 15 years living in the middle of a big city we’re off to a new place in market town suburbia. Call it entry-level countryside for soft townies, if you will.
This little house has seen us through a lot, but we’ve only been its custodians for a small part of its 111 year lifetime. Oh, to take a tour, ghost-of-Christmas-past-style, of what this house has seen, and how it was used. Tin baths, cast iron ranges, front parlours and kids crammed into every available drawer. Followed later by gas fires and meat and two veg. Now wireless radio has become wireless internet. The phone box on the corner has been rendered redundant by the iPhone in the pocket. But the trains still chug quietly at the bottom of the embankment, the church bells still ring on a Sunday, and the twit-twoo of owls can still be heard at night as they hunt for city rats on the train line.
We hope we’ve served you well. You are now a laminate-free zone. And your chimney is warmed by real flames again. Your clean but crooked angles are no longer sullied by cheap yellowing pine. However, I must apologise for not sorting the anaglypta. If it’s any consolation I hate it as much as you do.
We will miss you little house.
19th century modern squared 