I come from my father’s house, semi-detached, like him; where nervous Beatles’ chords stain the air like the coffee patterns left in unwashed China mugs. Where faded carpets blush at dubious Woody Allen impressions and old leather photo albums keep the seventies staying alive. Where grey hairs hide in a bedroom where no-one is allowed, and even though you leave the boiler alone, sometimes, it suddenly explodes.
I come from my mother’s house, self-sufficient, like her; where green silk skirts hang Brazilian flags from the ironing board, where your nose crinkles at the thick scent of oil paint, and Columbo’s rough Chicago accent is served hot with every Sunday dinner. Where Smooth FM is sipped with evening cups of tea (three sugars), and the room can often go quiet, as-if no-one has anything left to say.
I come from my house; of average value, just like me. Where Stanley Kubrick and Bob Dylan watch me waste weekends in bed. Where freshly ironed shadows with Radiohead logos are abandoned to every corner, and the curtains stay closed like a dead fly’s wings. Where cold winds howl like wolves at the window, waiting for me to leave.