I always smile when I approach the house on the bend. The one near my parent's house, the one with the little gate in the front garden and the vegetable patch in the back garden. At least it used to have a vegetable patch.
My first memory is running around that vegetable patch, being chased by my mother because I wouldn't go to bed.
So desperate was she that I behave myself and retire to my bedroom, that she threatened to call a policeman if I didn't go to bed as I should.
Eventually this worked as I ran up the stairs to my bedroom, much to my mother's relief. However, I was then distracted by my dolls and refused point blank to actually get into my bed. That's when our doorbell rang and my exasperated mother said, "It must be the policeman, now get into bed please!"
I remember feeling very naughty and squeezing my eyes shut so no one, including a man in a blue uniform, could tell me off for not being tucked up in bed, asleep, as a child my age was supposed to be. But then I heard lots of different voices, followed by laughter, and I plucked up the courage to creep out of my room to investigate.
I peered through a doorway and discovered it wasn't a policeman but the Brown family; the tall lady and man, and their children, who were buying our house.
So that was my first memory, dear readers, in the house on the bend, with the wooden gate and vegetable patch. My first house, until we moved literally around the corner to the bungalow. "Where are the stairs?" I kept repeating on moving day.
It has stairs now, therefore it's a chalet bungalow. Plus it has an extended lounge, green carpet replaces the patterned one. Accompanied by a whole load of happy memories.
Family birthday meals in the kitchen, sleepovers in the bedroom, a paddling pool in the summer and snowball fights in the winter.
I love the fact my parents still remain in the house and today my son plays within the same walls and garden. I'm often telling him little stories regarding my childhood in the chalet bungalow. He especially loves the garden, exploring the stepping stones, and I love following him, always in awe of how much the shrubs and flowers have matured. There's a raised area I used to pretend was my tree house and a shed I used to pretend a pixie lived in, always makes me chuckle when I remember these things.
Now I have the pleasure of watching Tommy lost in his own imagination in my parent's garden.
And long may it continue.
Grandpa's shed, where a pixie once lived
Through the stepping stones