My parents lived in the same London house for thirty-two years. I was eleven-years-old when we moved in and my sister just two. The house, a guardian of our lives, witnessed weddings, christenings, engagement parties and countless birthdays. Dad maintained it was like the Forth Road Bridge, a large house which constantly needed attention. Mum was his decorators mate, holding the wallpaper whilst he smoothed it on the wall, her one complaint was that whilst brushing the paper onto the wall he frequently elbowed her on the top of the head. Dad passed his knowledge on to both sons-in-law and was always available to help out when needed. 
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Never Forget
Is it possible that a room, one which no longer exists in the form you knew, can burrow deep into your soul? A room as loved by your children as it is by you, embedded in family folklore and even after twenty eight years remains as clear in your mind’s eye as if you left only yesterday. Close your eyes and recall every minute detail, the colours, the sun streaming through open french doors, the aroma of baking cakes or roast lamb. The beating heart of this family home which for thirty two years witnessed: Christmases, weddings, christenings and a long-distance love story.
I see Dad on his knees laying floor tiles on the eve of my wedding. I hear my mum stressed and fussing because three days before my sister’s wedding, I’m ill and two of four bridesmaid dresses are unfinished. My darling husband, sat at the breakfast bar, stitching the buttonholes in my jacket, whilst I surrender to the ministrations of the hairdresser and make-up artiste, an hour before my sister’s wedding.
Christmas lunch spread out buffet style, in chafing dishes, help yourself and head to the dining room. There were no wine drinkers here, beer, sherry and martini ruled in this kitchen. Dad giving Daniel, age 14, his first Christmas beer and the flushed pleasure at his grandfather’s indulgence.
My grandparents arriving with chocolate treats, sitting in chairs beside the open french doors, laughing, smiling watching great-grandchildren play in the garden.
Two rooms knocked into one cavernous split level kitchen with sage green, gloss cupboards, forest green, textured worktops, a feature wall created with matching green brick, soft orange tiling and state of the art white goods. In Mum’s 1970’s dream kitchen there were strict protocols to be observed. Only she cooked the meals, cut the bread, poured the tea; you were certainly never presumptuous enough to help yourself. Consequently when I married, I had no idea whether or not I could cook.
The only task Dad ever undertook in that kitchen, other than decorating it, was the washing-up following Sunday lunch. The built in radio allowed him to check the football results, whilst waiting for his supper on Saturday evening. Mum ran her own business and there was a permanent pile of paperwork on the end of the worktop, by the door.
The only remaining original feature, the larder; a cupboard full of fascination, which contained everything from canned food and the ‘nosh ups’ tin (no wonder my dad developed diabetes in later life) to my mother’s ancient collection of Family Circle magazines and the button tin. There was always home made cake on offer, Mum’s Victoria sponge, with buttercream and jam was a classic, but the fact it came from a packet mix was her well kept secret.