Spent yesterday afternoon taking pictures at my folks' house cos they're moving on after 28years. I suppose it's a bit sentimental but it felt like a necessary ritual. I've been realising my usual stock memories of 'childhood' and 'home' leave a lot to be desired, straight out of darker teenage misery and doom. well fuck that; when i had a scan through some old family albums a couple of weeks back, the house looked happy and lovely in that late 70s/early 80s little square pictures/old photo-film way. mum looked well glam, pa looked fit and smiley, me and my bro looked cool as fuck playing out in our little outfits, and it was the same summery good vibes yesterday, despite the empty rooms and winter grey day.

But it was in the coal shed, by the rock garden, under the laburnum tree, in the alley that i blubbed away the most, as layers of years that i never knew i still had the memories of unravelled and played out like short movies. i guess it's because these wee spaces and border territories were ours, interesting only to us, were never updated and modernised after we'd gone like the inner fixtures and fittings.

Years later at school i painted corners of sheds and other extraneous crannies and inbetween bits. Just to practice shading and texture i told myself then, though now i'm not sure whether it was as simple as that. Anyway my dad's asked me to do some paintings for the new place which is cool, especially since I 'haven't had the time' to paint for years, and also quite funny, cos i think i'm going to fill their new place with loads of tiny details from our old. c x