Last Night at the Baddeleys
No.67 had been a family home of the Baddeleys for over 24 years. The sale had been agreed months ago but it wasn’t until last week that the family got the, “GO GO GO” from the Estate Agent. Like an SAS Sergeant Major she rang on Wednesday and gave the go ahead to hand the keys over Friday. Luckily a bit of sense ensued and the evacuation was delayed until after the weekend. This gave them the opportunity to have a little get-together.
It’s a funny old thing when the “Family Home” changes, especially after one established for so long. No. 67 had been the one and only Family Home for Fern, now aged 21, her other siblings, for well over 80% of their lives. And even though the family has been slightly more fragmented over the past few years this place has always remained as their metaphorical ‘watering hole’, a place where kids are dropped off and collected, a place where family get-togethers happened, a haven, and more importantly, a place where you meet people with whom you have unconditional love for.
I think the Family Home is much more than bricks and mortar. For some people it’s a direct extension of them, they spend years modeling it making it both functional and pretty, it becomes like a lifelong sculpture, an art piece. And the ease at which you can find an everyday item like a spoon or a pen, life gets slightly more inconvenient for a while. The natural smells get overwritten and forgotten by the scent marking of the new occupants. You no longer have ‘Right of Way”, you are now banned from the property without permission; you can be prosecuted for trespassing where you once could roam. And it goes way beyond the boundary of your property.
You won’t see the people that surround you as often and when you do have a chance meeting you’ll think, “Don’t they look old”, and they’ll be thinking that about you. The names of the people who work in the local shop will shortly be forgotten. Your favourite meal from the local takeaway won’t be the same and you’ll be an outsider to the neighbourhood, maybe not immediately, but soon.
It’s a funny old thing when the “Family Home” changes, especially after one established for so long. No. 67 had been the one and only Family Home for Fern, now aged 21, her other siblings, for well over 80% of their lives. And even though the family has been slightly more fragmented over the past few years this place has always remained as their metaphorical ‘watering hole’, a place where kids are dropped off and collected, a place where family get-togethers happened, a haven, and more importantly, a place where you meet people with whom you have unconditional love for.
I think the Family Home is much more than bricks and mortar. For some people it’s a direct extension of them, they spend years modeling it making it both functional and pretty, it becomes like a lifelong sculpture, an art piece. And the ease at which you can find an everyday item like a spoon or a pen, life gets slightly more inconvenient for a while. The natural smells get overwritten and forgotten by the scent marking of the new occupants. You no longer have ‘Right of Way”, you are now banned from the property without permission; you can be prosecuted for trespassing where you once could roam. And it goes way beyond the boundary of your property.
You won’t see the people that surround you as often and when you do have a chance meeting you’ll think, “Don’t they look old”, and they’ll be thinking that about you. The names of the people who work in the local shop will shortly be forgotten. Your favourite meal from the local takeaway won’t be the same and you’ll be an outsider to the neighbourhood, maybe not immediately, but soon.
However, once all the strangeness subsides I think they will soon understand that "Home" isn't all about a postcode and house No., it's more about "People".
Any road, this melancholy was just below the surface of the family but people came to say goodbye to No. 67 knowing that it would comfort the Baddeleys and to join in the reminiscing.
I told Fern that Freddie Mercury was never gay and she confessed that she had never thought he was gay; she also thought Portsmouth was in Scotland and women didn’t have a ‘crotch’. She went on to absolutely annihilate 5 year old Shnai in a towel whipping competition. The next day she was in tears. (Not guilty about whipping kids, sad because of the house and other things!)
The Mother cried in the garden whilst the Father, like the Patriarchal Host he always is, ensured everyone was happy and warm. Those who know him knew that this was a bit weird for him too.
Kerry chatted like a bird in a cage to anyone who listened and she lollopped about being pregnant, maybe she suffered less emotional hurt than the others because she was nesting herself. The day after she would have me re-arranging our house.
I took photos and sent texts to Kerrys family using her phone whilst she was on the toilet, they read, “HELP: MASSIVE SHIT STUCK UP BUMHOLE. NEED HELP TO PULL IT OUT. BOG”. No one believed it was her.
Any road, this melancholy was just below the surface of the family but people came to say goodbye to No. 67 knowing that it would comfort the Baddeleys and to join in the reminiscing.
I told Fern that Freddie Mercury was never gay and she confessed that she had never thought he was gay; she also thought Portsmouth was in Scotland and women didn’t have a ‘crotch’. She went on to absolutely annihilate 5 year old Shnai in a towel whipping competition. The next day she was in tears. (Not guilty about whipping kids, sad because of the house and other things!)
The Mother cried in the garden whilst the Father, like the Patriarchal Host he always is, ensured everyone was happy and warm. Those who know him knew that this was a bit weird for him too.
Kerry chatted like a bird in a cage to anyone who listened and she lollopped about being pregnant, maybe she suffered less emotional hurt than the others because she was nesting herself. The day after she would have me re-arranging our house.
I took photos and sent texts to Kerrys family using her phone whilst she was on the toilet, they read, “HELP: MASSIVE SHIT STUCK UP BUMHOLE. NEED HELP TO PULL IT OUT. BOG”. No one believed it was her.
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