If you’re lucky your childhood home goes through four stages.
The first is the eighteen or so years of your life when you actually live there.
The third is very short and hopefully comes many years down the line, when you have to pack up your parent’s things and sell it on.
The fourth will be when you view it from the outside when someone else lives there.
I’m currently, though, in the second stage. The stage where I don’t live there, when I rarely visit there unless offered dinner.
It’s during this stage that every six months or so you receive a phone call from your mum. She’s having a clear out.
A shudder goes down your spine.
She’s in the loft. She’s in the garage.
She’s got black bags.
My instructions are always the same.
“Do what you like, but don’t touch the Goosebumps books. Don’t touch any on my Nintendos. And don’t touch the Lego!”
I’m probably never going to use any of them again, and when we get to stage three, I will probably transition them to my own home, never to be touched again.
Maybe I should learn to stop hoarding, but all three of those bits are massive parts of my childhood. I’m not ready to move on yet.
Prompt: Lego or Meccano? Trains or Planes?