My First House

My First House

I don’t remember our first house, but I think it was the one shown in the ‘meet the author’ photo of me, below, with the tiled front path, ideal for sitting forlornly like an abandoned Victorian rag doll hired, or hired for a magazine shoot about Dickensian orphanages. 

Also, it wasn’t my house. I’m clearly going through an early Massive Tosser phase, and am trying to sound like a property tycoon, or like I’m auditioning for The Apprentice.

It was my parents’ house, and they kindly let me live in it.

Judging by this drawing, the architect was midway through a fairly intense ‘houses that look like puffin faces’ phase. 
I notice that there are bars on all the windows, giving the happy impression of childhood freedom. 
I also notice that there is no door.

Ditto.

There is, however, a small basement. With a worm in it. 

The worm looks happy.

I hate that fucking worm.

Our cave

Our cave

First-known selfie

First-known selfie