Notting Hill Gate I only have to glance at the Family House for my mind to be filled to the brim of memorable thoughts of the beautiful French windows embracing every moment of the day gorging the house in lustrous light.
The five floor house is a marvel with the ancient vines loyally blooming, each year .The stunning street in summer filled with gorgeous blossom of all colours and the marvellous hedge surrounding our cherry tree.
All the front gardens of the houses have their own theme, but ours has none. It is purely an array of flowers engaging every person who passes by and I like that.
There is no such smell in this house that I can be sure of because there is a mixture of fragrant blossom and the typical rotting fruit. But most of all there is a mixture of smells that sing through my brain neither beautiful nor nauseous.
When I sit on the sofa and gaze out of the French windows my sudden distraction is a beautiful wandering melody of tuneful song from the ever frequent blackbird.
The old back garden with a rotten Guinea Pig hutch and ever growing vines has an abundance of wildlife from creepy crawlies to the neighbour’s brown tabby.
In the hottest days of summer we go to Hyde Park with a picnic and the whole family: my uncle, my granny, my cousins and my family.
My mother’s old room (shared with her sisterr) has old figures and soft toys layed around the room hither and fither.
Old pictures of family past framed in old Victorian frames, and the portraits which always bring out a wishing hope to have met these frequently talked a bout people.
But the most amazing feeling is when the windows are open and one leans into a gust of air spiralling, lifting piles of paper into the air yet to land in havoc.
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