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It was a house which existed in my life but also haunted my dreams in exaggerated form. It was to me a magic house. The house was owned by my great-grandmother. It was large, Victorian and situated on the Thames. To me it was huge and never-ending. I remember the entrance hall with its marble floor and grand piano. A door on the left went off to the living room and a door opposite opened onto a large dining room. There were further doors but I don't remember where they went. I don't even remember going upstairs although I'm sure I must have. Upstairs was real only in my recurring dream where it was composed of magical rooms. In one room was a horse and carriage which continually changed colour. But as I went through the rooms in my dream I was always searching for a small room at the top of the house, a bedroom decorated in blues, a room which I knew I had been to and to which I desperately wanted to return, so I searched and searched, but couldn't ever find it.
As a child I loved the garden. Of particular interest to me was the old air-raid shelter which was prominent beneath a grassy mound. A solid door covered the entrance but the door had fallen a little leaving a sliver of darkness into the void beneath. I was mesmerised and intrigued. Many years later, as an adult, my cousin told me how he had had a similar feeling about the air-raid shelter and that he had actually gone inside. I was jealous.