My parents took me upstairs to my old bedroom to admire the new wardrobe for my Dad's clothes. A place for everything, and the drawers slide smoothly shut with a satisfying click.
The warmest place in the house, at the front and above the kitchen, I liked that old bedroom when I was little. I could see my best friend's house opposite and keep look-out for relatives arriving on Sundays just before lunch. Before we extended the house, my sister and I shared that room. We made up putting-things-away-games when our mum tortured us with having to tidy our room. We messed it up something shocking, and complained like banshees when we had to tidy it. The room's very neat now, what with the children in their forties, a new wardrobe and everything.
One day my sister and I were given a Roald Dahl book each: I got Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, she got James and the Giant Peach. I loved my book. I read it over and over again, living the story, soaking up every detail of every picture, convinced I got the better deal. A stubborn younger sister, I refused to swap and read hers. I remember picking up her book and staring at it, wondering what the bugs were all about, flicking the pages, slowly turning it over and reading no more than the back cover.
When I'd finished admiring the new wardrobe, my mum suggested I borrow some of the few remaining children's books left on the shelf. I finally relented and took James and the Giant Peach to read to my daughter. It's brilliant!