Tag Archives: Childhood

Size Matters

The home I lived in when I was twelve?

It was comfortable, if I were to describe it in one word; it was just small enough for the four of us that lived there, and still big enough for the six extra visitors we’d get everyday. It wasn’t cramped, though it did get a little tight when you had six children screaming and running after a ball.

It was a terrace, with the same, white walls as both its neighbours. It had too many plants for its own good, though I certainly did find butterflies of many colours more than once. We had a dog, too.

He was old when I was young, and it wasn’t too long before he left us for a better place, but he was a delight to have. He’d never fail to bark at any of the others when they visited. The same way he’d never fail to quieten down when either my mother or myself went to see to him when my cousins got scared.

When I pass it by now, it’s dusty. It’s still unoccupied, just as we left it, and though it looks nothing like it used to.

It brings back the memories of butterflies and company.


Size Matters (Or Does It?)

It wasn’t a big house, by any means, and certainly not a house that stood out in the rows of identical, cream-white strips that lined the streets.

The windows were tinted black, and at the age of twelve, I wasn’t the brightest star in the sky, and nor was I the sharpest tool in the box. I didn’t know what wall-paint meant, and I didn’t titter over the fact that my bedroom (one I still shared with my mum) was always clean in the morning, and in shambles by the time I turned in for the night.

There were four rooms there, though two of them weren’t used for the purposes their furniture stated. One was a bedroom-turned-playroom-turned-study. And the other was a bedroom that was used when that odd blue moon rose instead of our usual one.

The kitchen was small, cramped, and always in use. There’d always be someone in there, be it making a drink, preparing lunch, actually cooking lunch, or heating leftovers up. Surprisingly, I’d never noticed the gas stove running out. Though in more recent years, I’ve been more than prone to seeing these things happen.

It may not have been a big house to many, but it was always bursting at the seams, always happy, and always full.

Happy New-day!

When one thinks about their ‘childhood’, I suppose that I must ask; have we actually passed the point deemed ‘child’ at eighteen? I do have to ask because just a few weeks ago (and which I still do, just in case) I had to ask to leave a room, to see a cousin, to call a friend, and the most understandable … Plan a day out.

I suppose that I could start this by saying ‘When I was younger’ … though technically, I still have the same child-problems, seeing as I haven’t grown (only physically … hopefully) as much as I should have, if at all, but even so.

Very well then, now that my confusing ramble has (probably) ended … Oh, what’s the saying? Ah, yes … On with the show!

If there was anything that I’d remember from when I was younger, I’d remember my grandmother’s cooking, because she was the one I’d go home to every day. I’d remember the spoon of rich she’d put on my plate, and the curry she’d pour over it, and of course, how could I forget the spoonfuls of vegetables I’d frowned and cried and screamed at?

Even through the tantrums I’d put up with the rest of my cousins, she’d remind us that we were fortunate enough to have food to ask for seconds if we wanted (though we hardly ever did, because it normally came with the vegetables we’d despised). It’s only now struck me that maybe she was reminiscing on her days as a mother to my mother and her five siblings. I’d remember the blue and yellow on my thighs when I’d misbehaved one too many times, though now I realised that those strikes made me better in some ways. I’d remember that she always cooked to mark a new day, that she cooked to mark a new occasion, and that no one ever argued with her in the kitchen.

I’d remember thinking that even though it was too spicy for me to eat without gulping down water in a manner that’d make her yell irately at me, I’d always enjoy the food she put in front of me. I’d remember eating somewhere else, when my mum and dad would go out to eat on the weekends, and think that I’d want that plate of curry, rice and vegetables instead of whatever dish my parents would have picked out of the menu, probably thinking that I’d enjoy the change.

No one could cook like my grandmother, and I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything like her cooking.

And I don’t think that I’ll ever taste anything like that plate of curry and rice and vegetables.