At the top of our house, high in the attic is our guest room. It wasn’t always that way. Before…a long time ago, it was Harold’s tool shop. Grandchildren would sneak up there to play hide and seek and search through the mountains of memorabilia. This was where you would find a stack of ancient, dusty Biggles books forgotten in a cobwebbed corner, yellowing and ripe for reading. If the attic was historical, the second floor was where we lived. Here you would find our small bedroom that opened up to a beautiful view of the canal and the cold hills beyond, starkly contrasting with our bathroom, which was positively tropical. Harold had installed heated floors which kept it sauna-like at all times of the year. Everyone loved that bathroom. If you walked down the polished wooden stairs to the first floor, you would reach my piano, the dining room, and further still, the long kitchen which had a strange slope in the floor that slid towards the backdoor and the canal beyond. No end of plucky youngsters had perfected their skid on that shiny linoleum with the more accomplished experts sliding almost from door to door.
I wonder if she knows how wise and inspirational she is? Another great message.
Love Gran 💜