I’m at my parents’ place in Yorkshire, helping them pack up to move house.
We’ve done it a fair few times before, but there are always small shocks in store. Going through your belongings means coming upon objects – and memories – that have been buried a long time. Sometimes you’re reminded of someone no longer in your life, finding cocktail napkins, shopping lists, candle holders that would mean nothing to anyone but you – but you, and the person it connects you with.
I also found a box filled with pictures of a very young me!
Here I am wearing a jumper with my name embroidered on it, over the Osh Kosh overalls I wore every single day, topped off by a really tremendous hat. This is only one of many remarkable fashion statements documented.
Here I am, interrupted during a game which apparently required my rabbit puppet, the cordless telephone and my dog, Dudley.
Here is a series that illustrate a story that still gets told by my family.
When I was 3 1/2 we stayed at my Uncle’s house in Massachusetts. I was thrilled by the snow, and by all the stuff that accompanies it – the coats and boots, and the giant plastic shovels. When my Uncle set to clearing his very long driveway, I shouted “I HELP” and ran out after him.
My parents watched from the kitchen as my Uncle shoveled and shoveled along his very long drive. I kept pace behind him, shoveling like crazy.
It was very tiring.
And when my Uncle had finished he turned around – he and I were both very proud of ourselves – and saw that as he’d been working hard shoveling the drive, I’d been working just as hard filling it in.
