The Roof of My House by Maisie

 My special place

My special place is the roof on my house; my house is in a quiet road in London, I have lived in it all my life and have many great memories there but my favourite ones take place on my roof. Each year I go out onto my roof less and less, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy it. I remember hot summer days sitting on the roof with my friends; we would throw water balloons at anyone who went in the garden. Then my nanny would rush out and yell for me to get down but we wouldn’t and there was no way she could get us to because we had locked the bathroom door. There are to windows in my bathroom and both lead out onto the roof, one is small and a tight fit; to get through it you have to stand on the closed lid of the toilet. The other one is big and easy to get through as it is above the bath, but you need to find the key to open it first which is close to impossible as it is usually lost somewhere. Above the roof I claim as mine is my mum’s roof as her room used to be an attic but she had it converted into a bedroom and it is very hard to get onto as it a big climb from my roof and a big drop from her window. My cat once got stuck up on her roof and we had to lower a ladder down and then my brother, the rescue mission was a success  although my mum managed to pull a muscle in he arm while pulling my brother back in.

My special place, a place to calm down, play games and hide from my troubles.  The only place where I truly am alone in the busy city of London. A place that neither of my siblings know about. The place with the beautiful views of my streets colourful gardens. The place is my roof, though in my imaginary games when I was younger it could’ve been anything from a pirate ship to a spaceship, even through the ever changing weather of London it still manages to maintain its natural beauty.

I remember in the summer when my cousin and I were up on the roof playing one of our imaginary games, I am not quite sure but I think the game was “lost” were we where survivors floating through the ocean on nothing but a raft. The sweet aroma of honeysuckle surrounded us, it was coming from my neighbours’ honeysuckle bush which had overgrown into our garden but did not bother us as it smelt so sweetly. The shade from the houses on either side gave us protection like a suit of armour from the sun; towels were spread across the ground as a makeshift raft and also to protect our bare feet from the boiling ground that was not protected by the shadows. This particular game had a surprising twist as it ended by us finding a “castle” which in real life was just house. A few years later a remember holding a meeting for our “secret club” on the roof, it was winter and the sharp wind was dulled by the protective walls that surrounded us and often were useful in the unpredictable weathers of England. The dulled wind wrapped around us sending shivers down our spines as we discussed if we should let my brother join. No matter what happened on the roof it always managed to be fun.

What I enjoy most about my roof had to be the sense of danger I get when I go up there, when I was younger I felt like a villain, clambering around on my roof and having pretend wars with my friends. The roof overlooks my neighbour hood, the feeling that anyone could look out their window and see us and tell my parents just made it more addictive. What I liked most is that the plain walls made it easy to change it into anything I wanted in my mind. The roof was a canvas for my imagination.

The smell of the honey suckle worked as a natural calmer, but my new neighbours moved in and hacked it down; only leaving chunks behind and even then they didn’t water it. The honey suckle now is a pile of dead leafs and their once beautiful garden is an un-cleaned litter tray for their dog. Our carefully nurtured garden has become a public toilet to their new kitten that doesn’t even bother to go in the bushes but out on the beautifully paved floor. But even then the magic of the roof is still there. The aroma is replaced by freshly cut grass, the rough floor of the roof is smoother from the many years of rain. Then sound of my other neighbours singing as they garden still fills my ear and although it is not as perfect as it was before, the roof is still my special place.

From my roof I could see the whole neighbourhood; it was like my very own watchtower. The garden opposite had carefully clipped roses, a neat patio held a barbeque though they would only use it in the summer so it was left to rust in the winter.  The garden to my left had an always carefully mowed forest green grass with beautiful sprouts of purple and pink flowers, their washing line swaying gently in the breeze as the warm summer air slowly dries it. When you quickly skimmed over the gardens the general image is carefully nurtured gardens, full with green bushes and colourful flowers.