The euphoric sense of belonging, safety and comfort, the sigh of enormous relief. When I step past the ceramic head of jack-in-the-green and the colourful Friends of the Earth sticker which adorn the rainforest porch at 11 Arthur Road. Best feeling in the world.
My dad crunches in from the allotment and settles himself among the mountains of books - borrowed and bought. I do a crossword and ask his help with 6 across, 13 across, 21 down.... He knows all the answers. We hesitate for a moment over the president of Syria. I should know this. Dad gets it, frustrated by the delay. He knows the name for a wobbling fleet of boats and a flat-topped hill in the USA. I recall the greek goddess of marriage. Happiness in a bottle. I love home.
A sing-song hello as my mum crashes through the door. Laden with shopping, bursting with joy - as she always is - to see my face. We all drink tea. I ramble. Throughout my monologue, littered with un-neccessary detail (bit like my writing then..) I see both sets of eyes glaze over, not really listening, just contemplating. Lovely to have her back, skin's clearing up, hair needs a trim, she looks just like..
We clean up. Mum tidies her hair, I dab on lipstick, Dad manages a smart shirt. April's house is a palace, all overgrown trees and feral cats let in to warm by the roaring stove, antique china and enormous portraits of exotic birds, porcelain cats stare back at the real ones, an eclectic crowd. Nicola and Hugo are the young couple in the fading frame, he with a Spanish bullfighter's tassled jacket, her with a victorian bonnet. It's a strong look, I tell them. The seventies. A long time ago, they say. Hugo definitely isn't quite as sexy anymore. I talk with their children, they like me. I like them. The oldest is 17, not too cool to chat though, he tells jokes in between his little sister's eager list of teachers' names. My old secondary school. I recognise a single name, ealry in the list.. no others. She chatters on, undeterred. She wants to be an actress and playwright. A just-remembered dream.
I drift away. April is glamorous in satin with an african sort of print. Bright red hair and flawless foundation at seventy-who-knows-what. I tell her I want to be like her. How nice to be admired by the young she trills. I meet a half chinese baby. His name is Ivan. His mother tells me he likes all the girls, especially pretty ones. I swell with pride. Get over it I think, but it's so much fun, prosecco in one hand, snow falling in the lamplight outside, chubby little Ivan on my lap, dropping whatever he can find into the glass. I drink up anyway.
My dad crunches in from the allotment and settles himself among the mountains of books - borrowed and bought. I do a crossword and ask his help with 6 across, 13 across, 21 down.... He knows all the answers. We hesitate for a moment over the president of Syria. I should know this. Dad gets it, frustrated by the delay. He knows the name for a wobbling fleet of boats and a flat-topped hill in the USA. I recall the greek goddess of marriage. Happiness in a bottle. I love home.
A sing-song hello as my mum crashes through the door. Laden with shopping, bursting with joy - as she always is - to see my face. We all drink tea. I ramble. Throughout my monologue, littered with un-neccessary detail (bit like my writing then..) I see both sets of eyes glaze over, not really listening, just contemplating. Lovely to have her back, skin's clearing up, hair needs a trim, she looks just like..
We clean up. Mum tidies her hair, I dab on lipstick, Dad manages a smart shirt. April's house is a palace, all overgrown trees and feral cats let in to warm by the roaring stove, antique china and enormous portraits of exotic birds, porcelain cats stare back at the real ones, an eclectic crowd. Nicola and Hugo are the young couple in the fading frame, he with a Spanish bullfighter's tassled jacket, her with a victorian bonnet. It's a strong look, I tell them. The seventies. A long time ago, they say. Hugo definitely isn't quite as sexy anymore. I talk with their children, they like me. I like them. The oldest is 17, not too cool to chat though, he tells jokes in between his little sister's eager list of teachers' names. My old secondary school. I recognise a single name, ealry in the list.. no others. She chatters on, undeterred. She wants to be an actress and playwright. A just-remembered dream.
I drift away. April is glamorous in satin with an african sort of print. Bright red hair and flawless foundation at seventy-who-knows-what. I tell her I want to be like her. How nice to be admired by the young she trills. I meet a half chinese baby. His name is Ivan. His mother tells me he likes all the girls, especially pretty ones. I swell with pride. Get over it I think, but it's so much fun, prosecco in one hand, snow falling in the lamplight outside, chubby little Ivan on my lap, dropping whatever he can find into the glass. I drink up anyway.
Me a bit drunk by the fire with Tiger on my lap.
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