'I like in-betweens'
A dozen years ago, or so, my family moved house. I was four and a bit. I don't remember much about the move, mainly because my sister and I slept over at grandma's whilst mum and dad shifted everything. I do, however, remember looking round the house beforehand, because the previous owners had Tracy Island in their garage.
Back then, that was all I cared about. Since then, I've discovered various interesting things about the people who lived in our house; there were apparently some very interesting IRA connections, not to mention the rumours going around about a helicopter that they owned and just what it had been used for. They were, apparently, Involved in things, although just what these things were has never quite been revealed.
The four-an-a-half year-old me knew nothing of this. The four-and-a-half year-old me was just very disappointed when he discovered that the model Tracy Island didn't come with the house.
The reason that I mention all this is that during the time that they lived here, they did a huge amount of work on the house - they tacked on the playroom and half of the lounge, added an extra bedroom upstairs, and converted the loft. (Which, technically, was probably very illegal, but they went ahead and did it anyway.) Which means that the house is very, very oddly shaped.
It also means that, occasionally, it has some very interesting nooks and crannies, and over the last week and a bit I've discovered two of them that I had completely forgotten about. The first I discovered because I had foolishly promised to give a book to Robbie - an old Warhammer codex that I no longer used, because I couldn't quite see the point of him buying a new one when mine was just languishing somewhere - and that meant that I had to find it. My quest to locate it is a story in itself, describing many perils - ambushes by bags of building blocks, assassination attempts by disenfranchised posters, and incessant lobbying by piles of Stuff and battalions of boxes, and hats - but eventually it ended in victory. And, like so many quests, the important most important thing I gained was not the same thing as that which I set out to find.
The book, when I eventually caught up with it, was in a box, which had been dumped in the spare room on the top floor, which was, in former days, a loft. It's literally up in the roof, as one would expect - and, in keeping with the shape of roofs, there is a triangular gap between the vertical walls and the edge of the house. However, this prismatic space isn't just a dead zone, but is accessible by two oddly shaped, truncated doors set into the wall, one of which is behind the sofa and the other of which is almost directly under the window and usually hidden by the clothes hanger. However, they are there; and it seems like someone has decided that they are a very useful place for hiding boxes, and suitcases, and other such things, which they are. (Typing this, I am reminded of a bit in an R.L.Stein book - I think the one with the camera that takes photos without people in - where the narrator explores the fact that a modern house has no need for purpose-built sliding panels and secret cavities to hide stuff in; there's certainly a line in the first chapter of The Subtle Knife to much the same effect) That notwithstanding, they are very cool places indeed; they have bare light bulbs and skeletal looking wooden beams, and despite being full of stuff have enough room to lie down in and more. (One of them shocked me by having pristine-looking carpet - I think it must be the excess from my room, because it's the same colour, but how and why it ended up there will forever remain a mystery). Despite being very high up and probably not very safe, they remind of Anderson shelters, or mini-nuclear bunkers, and I have a vision of me sitting in there in the event of a holocaust and emerging in a new, post-apocalyptic world unscathed. To that end, I am very tempted to stock it with a blanket and some form of storable snack-food, and write poetry there instead.
The other place is almost the opposite, and is neither a nook (1. A small corner, alcove, or recess, especially one in a large room; 2. A hidden or secluded spot) or a cranny (A small opening, as in a wall or rock face; a crevice). And again, it has a bizarre story attached to it.
Last Sunday, a huge bunch of people - Rachel, nosesaretasty, purplefringe, Karen, Robbie, Leanne, Todd, Joe, Rach, Claire and myself - all went to see V for Vendetta at the IMAX in London, which rocked. The film is fantastic, and not just for its fantasticness. There is also a peripheral fact that I really enjoy, which is the fact that it is all about rain. And I love the rain. And on Monday, it poured, pretty much all day.
I sat by the window and watched it, and the word that came to my mind was torrent. If it hadn't been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, I would have gone out and stood in it. I attempted to write some poetry, and failed; and then I went upstairs to revise.
When I'd done several hours, it was still raining. I looked out of my window at the rain for a moment, and then I noticed that my window was open. I walked over and stuck my arm out of it and into the rain. And then I looked at the window, and at the window-sill, and at the end of my bed, and at the flat roof where the people who lived here before we did had built a room where there had never been a room before, and thought aha.
Two things surprised me: one, that at sixteen, I was able to slip out of my window; and two that I was sixteen and had never climbed out of my bedroom window before. (As I did so I had a sudden recollection of my sister doing so, when we were much younger; she would climb out, run across the roof and climb back in through my parents' window, and I would worry about her.) I climbed out and just stood and looked out for a moment, and looked at the tree in the garden, and marvelled at how green it was, and looked around; then I discovered that I can also swing myself back in through the window, which was a great relief.
Then I put on some trousers that weren't jeans, and went back out, and stayed there until mum called me down for supper. One day when it is sunny and dry I shall clamber out with shoes and work out how to get down to the ground, because it is something that I should know, should I need to, just as I should know the location of a hidey-hole that I can escape to in case of nuclear family war. And when I need somewhere to just sit and clear my head and think I shall sit there and do so, in a little space that isn't really anywhere.
('I like in-betweens,' Delirium says, somewhere in Sandman. It seems somehow appropriate.)
Or perhaps I shall just sit there and bask in the sun, or in the rain, and dangle my legs off the edges of the world.
So there we go. Two secret places, both of them in-betweens and as different as can be, a potted history, a quest, and something else entirely.
Sweet dreams.
Back then, that was all I cared about. Since then, I've discovered various interesting things about the people who lived in our house; there were apparently some very interesting IRA connections, not to mention the rumours going around about a helicopter that they owned and just what it had been used for. They were, apparently, Involved in things, although just what these things were has never quite been revealed.
The four-an-a-half year-old me knew nothing of this. The four-and-a-half year-old me was just very disappointed when he discovered that the model Tracy Island didn't come with the house.
The reason that I mention all this is that during the time that they lived here, they did a huge amount of work on the house - they tacked on the playroom and half of the lounge, added an extra bedroom upstairs, and converted the loft. (Which, technically, was probably very illegal, but they went ahead and did it anyway.) Which means that the house is very, very oddly shaped.
It also means that, occasionally, it has some very interesting nooks and crannies, and over the last week and a bit I've discovered two of them that I had completely forgotten about. The first I discovered because I had foolishly promised to give a book to Robbie - an old Warhammer codex that I no longer used, because I couldn't quite see the point of him buying a new one when mine was just languishing somewhere - and that meant that I had to find it. My quest to locate it is a story in itself, describing many perils - ambushes by bags of building blocks, assassination attempts by disenfranchised posters, and incessant lobbying by piles of Stuff and battalions of boxes, and hats - but eventually it ended in victory. And, like so many quests, the important most important thing I gained was not the same thing as that which I set out to find.
The book, when I eventually caught up with it, was in a box, which had been dumped in the spare room on the top floor, which was, in former days, a loft. It's literally up in the roof, as one would expect - and, in keeping with the shape of roofs, there is a triangular gap between the vertical walls and the edge of the house. However, this prismatic space isn't just a dead zone, but is accessible by two oddly shaped, truncated doors set into the wall, one of which is behind the sofa and the other of which is almost directly under the window and usually hidden by the clothes hanger. However, they are there; and it seems like someone has decided that they are a very useful place for hiding boxes, and suitcases, and other such things, which they are. (Typing this, I am reminded of a bit in an R.L.Stein book - I think the one with the camera that takes photos without people in - where the narrator explores the fact that a modern house has no need for purpose-built sliding panels and secret cavities to hide stuff in; there's certainly a line in the first chapter of The Subtle Knife to much the same effect) That notwithstanding, they are very cool places indeed; they have bare light bulbs and skeletal looking wooden beams, and despite being full of stuff have enough room to lie down in and more. (One of them shocked me by having pristine-looking carpet - I think it must be the excess from my room, because it's the same colour, but how and why it ended up there will forever remain a mystery). Despite being very high up and probably not very safe, they remind of Anderson shelters, or mini-nuclear bunkers, and I have a vision of me sitting in there in the event of a holocaust and emerging in a new, post-apocalyptic world unscathed. To that end, I am very tempted to stock it with a blanket and some form of storable snack-food, and write poetry there instead.
The other place is almost the opposite, and is neither a nook (1. A small corner, alcove, or recess, especially one in a large room; 2. A hidden or secluded spot) or a cranny (A small opening, as in a wall or rock face; a crevice). And again, it has a bizarre story attached to it.
Last Sunday, a huge bunch of people - Rachel, nosesaretasty, purplefringe, Karen, Robbie, Leanne, Todd, Joe, Rach, Claire and myself - all went to see V for Vendetta at the IMAX in London, which rocked. The film is fantastic, and not just for its fantasticness. There is also a peripheral fact that I really enjoy, which is the fact that it is all about rain. And I love the rain. And on Monday, it poured, pretty much all day.
I sat by the window and watched it, and the word that came to my mind was torrent. If it hadn't been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, I would have gone out and stood in it. I attempted to write some poetry, and failed; and then I went upstairs to revise.
When I'd done several hours, it was still raining. I looked out of my window at the rain for a moment, and then I noticed that my window was open. I walked over and stuck my arm out of it and into the rain. And then I looked at the window, and at the window-sill, and at the end of my bed, and at the flat roof where the people who lived here before we did had built a room where there had never been a room before, and thought aha.
Two things surprised me: one, that at sixteen, I was able to slip out of my window; and two that I was sixteen and had never climbed out of my bedroom window before. (As I did so I had a sudden recollection of my sister doing so, when we were much younger; she would climb out, run across the roof and climb back in through my parents' window, and I would worry about her.) I climbed out and just stood and looked out for a moment, and looked at the tree in the garden, and marvelled at how green it was, and looked around; then I discovered that I can also swing myself back in through the window, which was a great relief.
Then I put on some trousers that weren't jeans, and went back out, and stayed there until mum called me down for supper. One day when it is sunny and dry I shall clamber out with shoes and work out how to get down to the ground, because it is something that I should know, should I need to, just as I should know the location of a hidey-hole that I can escape to in case of nuclear family war. And when I need somewhere to just sit and clear my head and think I shall sit there and do so, in a little space that isn't really anywhere.
('I like in-betweens,' Delirium says, somewhere in Sandman. It seems somehow appropriate.)
Or perhaps I shall just sit there and bask in the sun, or in the rain, and dangle my legs off the edges of the world.
So there we go. Two secret places, both of them in-betweens and as different as can be, a potted history, a quest, and something else entirely.
Sweet dreams.