The blue-grey slate roof, solid red brick walls and chimney pot of our Victorian terraced house cast its patient gaze over my childhood and youth for sixteen years. It was fixed in its place amongst a long row of identical two up, two down workers houses stretching out of sight around the bend in Willowbrook road. In 1957 it was the place of my birth; my home, my happy, sad, turbulent and tragic home. After the death of my father in 2005 this house in which he had spent almost forty years of his life was packed, cleared and made ready for sale to the highest bidder; just like that. The times and memories of our lives in this place were not for sale. They stay with me,...
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