Home. Hate it, love it, its mine. To keep.

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Photo by Breno Assis on Unsplash

A key, a fire, pots, pans, junk, mêlée. People I know. Apparently we share blood. I don’t know, I’ve never given blood. I’ve heard, though, that its dead cheap to get pissed afterward. I didn’t see it, I only heard but just to be sociable, I’ll take your word.

Do I leave it at that. Enough said and grease palms at that point?

I can’t because of memories of climbing on air raid shelter roofs, bonfires in watering cans at three in the morning and mother coming in, fumes oozing under the door, breaking into cars (other people’s) at night by mistake, smoking fags out of the window and swinging my heels in the air, chatting to someone in the street below and trying not to wake the whole house —
“Wake up, wake up, the British are coming!”
“Or in this case, the Brazilians”
— reading on windowsills in the summer and dropping fag butts over onto the outhouse roof below and suddenly realising that you’re at the section in “Mrs Dalloway” when Septimus Warren Smith, deciding, plunges to his doom from the third storey and suddenly feeling very unsafe and coming in and shutting the window rather hurriedly.

I can’t forget it. Can’t forget hiding fags smoking away up voluminous fake African sleeves so that Will — little at the time — couldn’t see, Christmas dressings up and peacock magic shows, someone hurling a clog through a front window (meant to hit someone else who ducked rather cleverly) to the surprise of the lady in chincilla who was walking a rather delicate little dog outside. That time I shattered a glass pane kicking in the back door when I was trying to open it in a hurry before school. Rented house that, we didn’t care; policemen at one point did.

Prune stories as well, I’ve never understood them.

Then shinning up a drainpipe to reach a bathroom window and Mary getting smacked for it.

And of course herbal tranquilizers one Christmas. Smashings, bashings, laughs, tears, shouts and scars. Sigh. Yup, I think that’s it, but how can you ever tell?

I think its time in about an hour or so for me to skulk back down. Phone Wayne first of course and apologize about the jazz. But by then family lunch might be cold. Oh well, things tend to happen on a Sunday.

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Good mental health is an art. I am a mental health artist. Writer and advocate in mental health and story telling, work in progress. www.mentalsnapp.com

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