I sat down, cross legged and closed my eyes tightly.
I tried to think of something that would make me want to write again. Something that reminded of when I used to be happy, truly happy, which was a long time ago.
It’s always the people and places that are the furthest away that I remember most, the old smells, that attic smell. I could hear the sound, although distant, of an ice cream van. The music it was playing was ‘How Much is that Doggy in the Window’.
I could feel the wind on my face, goose pimples on my arms as it got colder, the air was fresher and it no longer smelt like stale depression. It smelt like those happy, bright mornings when I couldn’t wait to get up and play.
There were geraniums, that leafy sweet smell of geraniums in the morning. Freshly cut grass, yeah, it was fresh because I could also hear a lawnmower. I could feel my backside, legs and feet were getting moist and the ground was changing from thick pile woollen rug to a dewy lawn. Jackdaws above, cooing. Footsteps, loud footsteps, maybe someone with large boots, and a smaller set of footsteps, a little dog running around panting in excitement of a brand new day.
The sound of runner beans falling into a basket. Someone whistled and the dog halted. I slowly opened my eyes, looking forward, scared.
It was blurry, like a dream, but it was a very familiar council house, I was sat next to a long concrete path with a white painted railing, and all down the sides of the path were these beautiful geraniums, pansies, fuchsias, in all the colours of the rainbow. This old man walked down the path, with his basket of beans, and I knew who it was.
"Annie, get up of the grass, your mum won’t want you to stain your trousers will she? Here’s some pennies, get yourself an ice cream."
Granddad. And his dog, Bonnie.