Life is pretty simple as a child, eat, sleep and play. That’s all you ever need to think about really. The troubles of the world don’t seem to reach you. My child-hood, as far as I can remember, was pretty much straight-forward. Food, water, loving parents and a beautiful Bath town-house and garden to play in.
Set over four storeys, the house was very typical of the Georgian architecture that comprises much of Bath, behind a honey coloured, classical façade, sat large rooms with high ceilings, decorated in creams and greys. Lavish furnishings, hardwood parquet floors covered by deep, soft rugs and antiques my father had accrued on his various secondments all indicated a level of sophistication far beyond my comprehension. It was not the sort of place a child was meant to live, but I revelled in the stories that went along with my parent’s belongings. Each artefact seemed to have a mystery of its own derived long before my parents had owned them and each begged me to ask questions about the wonders of the world. I was encouraged to look closely at each relic, touch and feel them as if my parents had acquired them simply to help me become inquisitive and subsequently learn. They seemed not to care about the welfare of each piece and I sensed that the value of objects wasn’t necessarily related to how much they had cost. Continue reading