Where I'm from
Apologies first of all because this is a bit of a blog breadcrumb trail. It started here - then here and eventually led me to here. Please find your own way.
Anyway, here is my "go".
I am from the ottoman full of laundry, from ajax scouring powder and Imperial Leather.
I am from the council estate, pre hoodie, living opposite the lonely old woman, who used to watch from her window as we played in the front garden.
I am from the small plot of potatoes and cabbages behind the garage, and the roses surrounded by bricks painted red. From walks along the canal on the way home from school.
I am from eating hotpot on New Year’s Eve and wearing knitted jumpers, from Simmons and Eden and the coal mines of the North
I am from the tendency to lose one’s temper too quickly and forgive too slowly. From not spending what you don’t have.
From the 10 o’clock horsemen who carry away naughty children and from cleaning hands, face and teeth before bed.
I am from the school next to the convent and the church, and wearing ashes. From fainting in a stuffy church, and saying prayers I can still recite – but never do.
I'm from pork pies wrapped in red napkins from the Labour Club, custard creams and jam butties.
From the belief that I really could fly like Mary Poppins with an umbrella, because big brothers wouldn’t lie about such things, standing on Dad’s feet while he danced, and cousins I only saw on Christmas Eve.
I am from the walls of the living room, the mantelpiece, the walls above the stairs in my parent’s house. The banister that still holds the marks from 6 weeks’ holidays before play stations and satellite TV. From scars that I can remember getting, and when, and why, and from whom.
From the family tree that my sister did, and I wonder how far I have fallen from it.
I am from the small plot of potatoes and cabbages behind the garage, and the roses surrounded by bricks painted red. From walks along the canal on the way home from school.
I am from eating hotpot on New Year’s Eve and wearing knitted jumpers, from Simmons and Eden and the coal mines of the North
I am from the tendency to lose one’s temper too quickly and forgive too slowly. From not spending what you don’t have.
From the 10 o’clock horsemen who carry away naughty children and from cleaning hands, face and teeth before bed.
I am from the school next to the convent and the church, and wearing ashes. From fainting in a stuffy church, and saying prayers I can still recite – but never do.
I'm from pork pies wrapped in red napkins from the Labour Club, custard creams and jam butties.
From the belief that I really could fly like Mary Poppins with an umbrella, because big brothers wouldn’t lie about such things, standing on Dad’s feet while he danced, and cousins I only saw on Christmas Eve.
I am from the walls of the living room, the mantelpiece, the walls above the stairs in my parent’s house. The banister that still holds the marks from 6 weeks’ holidays before play stations and satellite TV. From scars that I can remember getting, and when, and why, and from whom.
From the family tree that my sister did, and I wonder how far I have fallen from it.
5 comments:
I want to do this too!! I really must reclaim this laptop.
Great post for a Wednesday morning. Kept me occupied for a good hour! xMx
It is always moving to read these. There is so much of the small child frozen in these words - like a fly in amber.
This is really beautiful! I followed the links & am working on mine too. I'll let you know Where I'm From later....
I really liked reading this.I love the t-shirt you did too.
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