I can see you, your poorly concreted driveway shining in the sun

I suppose that, as soon as my sister told me that the house we grew up in was up for sale and therefore open for inspection, that it was inevitable that I would be unable to resist checking it out. And it was as weird as I should, perhaps, have expected.



To set the scene, up until 1997 I lived in a house that looked pretty much like this:





Or, indeed, exactly like that. I'll spare you to interior pictures, which are very tragic indeed.


It had been a very long time since I set foot in that house. It was before my boys were born, and before I met and married the love of my life, and therefore at a time when my life was pretty close to as different from now as it could conceivably be.


Honey Bear like the idea of seeing where I grew up, and suggested that we should take this opportunity to make out in my old bedroom. This lead me to the depressing realisation that I had, in fact, never kissed anyone in that room. This is not a record to be proud of, considering that I lived there until I was 24. Sadly, we forgot to actually carry out this excellent plan, so my perfect record remains intact.

I was probably distracted by how little the place had changed in 11 years. And oh the little things that I had forgotten that came flooding back because they were still there. The bathroom where we inexplicably had 40 plain tiles and 12 with a pattern on them, and the tiler decided to use 6 of the patterned ones as a feature, and then to scatter the other 6 randomly around the wall. The wall in the laundry where my parents created a blackboard by the simple means of painting half a wall black. The tiny electric stove that was there when we bought the place in 1978 and probably still doesn't work well. The awful kitchen cupboards. And, most pleasingly, the basketball backboard and ring that my dad and I built together and secured by the highly sophisticated means of digging a hole and sticking a really big post in it.


I'm surprised that no-one thought to take it down. I'm even more surprised that it hasn't fallen on someone yet.

The one thing that was new was the sattelite dish concreted into the back yard which was of sufficient size to have me looking around for Sam Neill and Tom Long. There was another, smaller, one on the roof and a spare one in the space between the garage and the fence, presumably just in case.

Bundle and Cherub enjoyed seeing where I grew up, although they were disappointed by the absence of toys in the back yard. Fortunately, the frankly dangerous rope swing had disappeared at some point. The boys had a fabulous time running up and down the driveway with their cousins (my sister brought her husband and daughters for the tour as well) and seemed entertained by seeing the bedroom window that I used to jump out of when I was over it.


Honey Bear's reaction, apart from the stunned silence at some of the excesses of decor, was to comment, perhaps more than once, that this answered an awful lot of her questions about me.


My sister and I finished the tour with a photo out the front of the house, which is surely the last time we will be able to do that before someone knocks the place down and builds at least three units on the quite sizeable block. And finally it was time to say farewell, one last time.


I don't have any particularly profound insights to share about this little experience, although I will say that I was pleased not to be at any risk of being overwhelmed by nostalgia. Life was very different when I lived there, and perhaps even somewhat less complicated, but I wouldn't trade it for where I am now. This is not just because I now live in a much nicer house, although that is undoutably true. It's because Ilive in a much nicer house with a hot babe and two adorable kids and I have no desire to return to any other life thank you very much.

I should add that it did get me thinking about what makes a a building into a home, and how to make the house I'm in now as good a place to grow up in for my boys as that poorly decorated bleached brick place was for me.

So, in closing, for no particular reason other than that it's quite a pretty song, here a complete set of the lyrics to Amy Grant's "If these walls could speak":

If these old walls,If these old walls could speak
Of the things that they remember well,
Stories and faces dearly held,
A couple in love living week to week,
Rooms full of laughter,
If these walls could speak.

If these old halls,If hallowed halls could talk,
These would have a tale to tell
Of sun goin’ down and dinner bells,
And children playing at hide and seek
From floor to rafter,
If these halls could speak.

They would tell you that I’m sorry
For bein’ cold and blind and weak.
They would tell you that it’s only
That I have a stubborn streak,
If these walls could speak.

If these old fashioned window panes were eyes,
I guess they would have seen it all
Each little tear and sigh and footfall,
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after,
If these walls could speak.

They would tell you that I owe you
More than I could ever pay.
Here’s someone who really loves you;
Don’t ever go away.
That’s what these walls would say,
That's what these walls would say.