He didn't really (Jack), or if he did, I don't know about it. But yesterday, the house I grew up in was in the Maltese news. Very exciting to see a picture of your old house in the news. (Not so great to read that the adjoining bridge is falling apart, but let's not go there).
This is the house I spoke of in my post Lines of Light and Dark. I loved that house. It holds so many beloved childhood memories.
Afternoons spent playing dress-up with my sister (sometimes by candle light if there'd been an electricity cut - all the more authentic as our games were inspired by Road to Avonlea where there was no electricity anyway).
Hours spent sulking at the dinner table in a battle of wits with my parents when I refused to finish my dinner (I was a very fussy eater).
Fantastic birthday parties, girly sleepovers and boy crushes. Evenings spent moaning over my French (or Italian or Maths or...) homework.
Our first computer. Our pet cats. All hundred of them. My grandparents living upstairs. Treasure hunts in the garden. Hose pipe fights in the summer. Throwing shredded paper onto the banda from the balcony during the festa. Bulging stockings hanging off the fireplace on Christmas Day.
The house is the one behind the bridge. Well, the only house you can see - with jade green windows. My fancy arrow points at mine and my sister's bedroom window. I am convinced that the reason I am such a deep sleeper and can literally sleep through anything (can be confirmed by David at 3am on certain nights...) is the amount of noise we regularly slept through that was amplified by that bridge.
The bridge that is now falling down.