It had taken forty years to find back to the house where I was born, a two storey timber framed home, smaller than I remembered it to be; painted now it looked rather smug and middleclass, bet the owners were lawyers with pale children.
Although the windows were the same, the house didn't recognize nor like me, staring at me with glassy contempt; 'So, friend, a lick of paint and educated owners and you think you're posh, it's the people who lived here I miss, not you, I know every rotten plank you're made of it only takes a can of petrol and you are history.'
Harsh words it needed to be said, my memories of a happy childhood is self invented, the reality was of poverty and indignity; I hastily left, don't belong here - never did. Nostalgia! Who needs it?
