I sat on my hard, green footstool, still, in my grandma's front room, musing over the warm madeira crumbs on my blue-veined white plate.
I climbed up onto my granddad's chair, as familiar as the aroma of his St. Bruno flakes, infused into the dark promise of his worn, warm desk, impatient for his return.
I'm waiting still.
My paternal granddad and grandma died when I was a teenager. My childhood memories are peppered by visits to their home in Tonbridge and in Catford. My son wore his wedding ring at his wedding last week. Good to have continuity.