Thursday, 27 April 2017
My aunt and uncle's house was a great place to visit when I was a boy. For a start it was three storey, and with a loft conversion too - it felt like a maze. Loads of stairs to run up and down and rooms to explore. It was always warm and full of people and animals and the smell of cookery, and noise. My uncle collected jukeboxes, slot machines, BorgWarner cars and flintlock pistols. There were big black and white 1950s posters and old adverts and rockabilly paraphernalia. If I asked for a whisky and lemonade at the age of twelve I got a pint. They had a black cat called Martha and a revolving line-up of other cats who would stay for a couple of years, sleeping on the old towels on top of the boiler, before moving on. Chaotic, but in a loving sort of way. I thought it was great.