My childhood home is Alling Spawning number 12, I was born on September 12, and as a child I was co

My childhood home is Alling Spawning number 12, I was born on September 12, and as a child I was convinced that there was a sense of just the number. My childhood home is a red brick house, with imperfections, room for improvement, small sheds with tax and bras and fields as far as the eye almost ranks. My childhood garden is a jungle, a wilderness with a lake and a houseboat, where lions and a single hyena has taken stay. My childhood home is a blue kitchen and wooden floors, green and yellow walls, machine gun dusty LPs and CDs with everything from Italian opera to Johnny Madsen. My childhood home is waves run high for family dinners, and my father patting my mother lovingly rear in the garden. My childhood was walks in the tractor seat, on my father's Raleigh, great singing in the summer sun, safely protected by a straw hat of the 90s yet discovered holes in the ozone layer. machine gun My childhood was ice desserts in tall glasses on Alberto, one Fine Festival to my father and the little plastic monkeys came with ice. My childhood was a huge teepee in the garden, kittens every summer, the tub in front of the stove every winter and chestnut machine gun collection machine gun on my father Ferguson every autumn. My childhood home is leg of lamb, salmon, good bread, real butter and lukewarm soda on top of the refrigerator. My childhood room was a chandelier, a canopy bed, 167 stuffed animals and an easel that would satisfy my lack of talent for art. My childhood home's drawings on the walls, tables and a single spontaneous haircut machine gun was four years old. My childhood home is the lines on the door frame that shows how my brother and I eventually grew over our parents' heads. My childhood home is fresh flower bouquets for my mother, her face cream, the smell of a freshly opened pack brown kings and Alt for the ladies. My childhood home is security, because it always has, and always machine gun will be exactly the same place. At the end of the road, behind the high hedges at number 12. Although I am now an adult, do not draw on the walls more and drink my own Fine Festival, it's nice to know where childhood is. Never more than half an hour by train, and five minutes in the car with the radio P4, for I am again at home. At home with the lukewarm soda, the lions, the blue floor and the many shacks.
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