cottage

Inside is musty. There's a damp hum, which has a warming air. Although I was just a kid, too young to judge the age of an adult, let alone a sofa, I could feel the age of these things, their connection to another age, to time.

There was always a fire in Winter. In Spring the apple tree must have blossomed, but I don't remember that. Summers were warm. Playing cricket in the large garden, shirtless. Throwing apples at the red pillar box across the road. Climbing the giant tree, spying golden fields, the wealth of a child's perception.

Christmases were always special at the cottage. It was special to have to go somewhere. To feel the crisp cold of the country. Frost on the lawn, your breath misting over window panes. Giant socks at the bottom of the bed. I'd try and stay awake, having worked out the facts already. See the ghostly form of my giggling parents tip-toeing into the room, Father Chistmas by proxy.

Christmas morning was the time. Grandfather up and about. Mother cooking. Presents under the tree. Father smoking his first cigarette. A sense of energy, which the kids must have fuelled. Something exciting was about to happen. The world had other worlds within it. This was just one of them. I'd gaze out the window at the bright, lunar lawn, coralling my anticipation.