Home is ...where there are memories ?

At 11.30am yesterday, at the end of a drive, at the bottom of a quiet cul-de-sac, a 33 year old could be seen swinging on a not particularly substantial wrought iron gate. Look more closely and behind the oversized sunglasses, tears were trickling down. For 33 years I had been told "not to swing on the gates" but this was the last time I was going to be able to disobey this rule.

My Grandma and Grandad lived about a mile away from the home in which I grew up. They were closer to school than we were. Looking back their house was simply a detached and slightly removed extension of my home...only in my memory (with the exception of swinging on the gates) we could get away with more there !

My memories of "26" as it is affectionately known are endless...playing bus on the stairs, putting rollers in Grandad's diminishing hair, dressing up in Grandma's hats, scarves, shoes ...., eating artic roll...I could go on...More than anything the lasting memory is playing "house" in their back garden on a paved area tucked behind the garage, surrounded by a make-shift low level wall made up of bits of broken paving slabs. See we had imagination - and a yellow melamine tea set !

I walked around "26" yesterday replaying all of these happy times and was struck that this really was a home. The decor may not be to my taste but even if I had gone with my work head this wouldn't matter. What is important is that for nearly 60 years this building had provided a base for my Grandma and Grandad to bring up my Dad and Uncle, welcome my Mum into the family and then continue to look after the generations with me and my Sister calling in to wreck the place every Wednesday after school.

I was reminded that although I can try my hardest to create beautifully decorated houses for people to live in, it takes memories to be created there before it can be called a home.