This house is my transporter…

Tell us about a sensation — a taste, a smell, a piece of music — that transports you back to childhood.

For me it’s being in this house. That is my transporter. Consider it as a time machine, casting me back to my teenage years. The mischief I got up to leaves a residue that peremeates itself into the smells, tastes and other sensory features, like traces, of this house.

Those smells that constantly need attending to, through persistent scrubbing of the bathroom, smells of fragrances take the place of the rancid to linger like lavander.

The tastes which I sit with in the kitchen are the same now as they were twenty five years ago. Like burnt toast scraped and starchy rice, and a pasty half-cooked.

The sounds of the piano, which I composed my opuses on, and which I often neglected, sit in the lounge silent, like a monster waiting to come alive.

I look out at the garden, trimmed into a manageable chaos of different trees and plants, reminding me of a gothic stage. Here my teenage fantasy was projected into the overgrown vegetation. Now a memory carried by the branch of a tree or the bud of a flower.

As I walk around this house, I touch the wooden doors, my hand sliding across the painted surface, opening another room, enacting a ritual, an entrance, that I have performed countless times, so many that it passes by my attention, becoming an automatic function.

Were it not for this prompt these memories would have been kept hidden. For I am aware of them, each day, but I struggle to let them go, to lose them if you like. To lose them and grow up.

<a href=””>The Transporter</a>


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