I really don’t remember that first house in any great detail. I’m not even sure I could tell you what it looked like beyond some really vivid memories of a mega-80’s carpet and my brother’s red football goal in the back garden. The only real memory I do actually have of living in Pentland Avenue is one of pain.
I’m fuzzy on the specifics, but what I do remember is arriving home on a sunny day with my Dad, and maybe my brother, in his burgundy Rover Metro. I was excited to get home and I had a little purple Monster In My Pocket in my hand – get your mind out of the gutter I was only about 3 at the time – and I got out of the back of the two door car and went running across the carpark without a care in the world looking for my mum and fell flat on my face.
After that, as you can imagine, I didn’t do much other than cry in agony from my newly cut knee. I must have only been 3, maybe 4, at the time and even now, 30+ years, I still have the scar there to remind of this little incident. In reality, that scar is probably the only reason this memory still exists inside my head.
Anyway, shortly after, at least I think it was shortly after, we moved to our newer, bigger and better council house that was about a 15min walk away for my tiny little legs. When I came along the old house wasn’t big enough for myself, my parents, brother and sister as it was only a two bedroom house so moving was an inevitability.
The strange thing is though, I clearly remember the very first night I set foot in the new house. I was amazed at just how big it was. There was curtains or carpets, the whole placed echoed and I felt tiny running up and down the living room in the dark as there was only one light on in the hall for some reason – I don’t think the council had left any light bulbs for us.
I’ve wandered past the old place a few times since then, usually in high school when my friends and I went for walks during our free periods and I’d exclaim proudly that I used to live in that house when in fact, I barely remembered it.