Back To The Old House

Morrissey would rather not have gone back to the old house, but I quite like it, in a melancholy way.


His problem was that there were too many bad memories, but for me the memories are overwhelmingly happy.  Or at least safe, content, uncomplicated.  I went back to the house in Sleaford today, you see, to collect some things.


Mum and Dad's cherished dining table being the main one.  It was their pride and joy, highly polished, made of hardwood, measuring about two metres long by one and a half broad.  Ish.  To size it almost exactly for you, it fits a Subbuteo football pitch on it exactly.  It must have cost them a hefty sum back in the day when they saved up for it.  Must have been at least fifty years ago, maybe sixty or more, as it's been around as long as I can remember, and all my siblings (who are all at least a decade older) remember it as part of the fixtures and fittings too.  Sam held the doors for me to bring it in this afternoon after I picked him up from school.


I'll confound Morrissey and go back again next week, this time probably for the last time.