Bittersweet

The house in which I spent my formative teenage years is up for sale.

In case you didn't know by now, my parents are planning on coming to the US to live. After twelve years of me being gone, I think they've finally come to terms with the fact that I'm probably not going to return to England to live. So, before they're forced to tearfully leave their daughter and grandchild at the airport (no, I'm not pregnant), they're downsizing 60 years of their life in preparation for a transatlantic move.

It's mind boggling to think about the choices they will need to make to decide what they bring and what they will leave behind. After 60 years there are so many things with sentimental as well as material value. I know my mother has been sorting through cupboards for what feels like years now, getting more brutal with each sweep. And I am not immune! Every now and again I will get an email that says something like "Do you still want those video tapes of you in the crowd at the Smash Hits concert?" I have to admit that I'm not a lot of help since my answer is always "Don't throw that out!"

So, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that, if I'm having trouble letting go of the odd teenage VHS tape, letting go of the house I've called "home" for almost 20 years is going to be excrutiatingly difficult.

This is especially true because the house next door was my grandparents' house all throughout my life. This street has always been 'home' in one way or another. There are just so many memories! Here is just one

My Grandad would pick me up from school and bring me back to their house where I would wait for my Mum and Dad to come home from work. I would take control of my poor Nan and Grandad's TV set and force them to watch BBC Children's TV. My Nan always ate an apple in the afternoon (an apple a day!) and she would sit in her armchair with a knife, peeling away the skin in one big loop, before chopping it up into bite-sized pieces that she would share with me. Meanwhile Grandad would bury his head in the newspaper, or stroll around the property whistling. He called me "The Pest of Hawthorn Avenue" which was the street we lived on at the time. My Nan called me "Darling" most of the time, except when we were bickering (and it's best not to repeat what she'd call me then!)

When it wasn't raining, I would head out to the front of the house to wait for my Mum, pacing back and forth in front of the front wall and making up little stories about how I was really Princess Diana. At about 5:30 I would see my Mum's bus go past the top of the street and I would start walking until I saw my Mum round the corner. As she came into view, I would start to run until I reached her. I still remember how excited I would be to see that bus go by and how she smelled when she hugged me hello. We would go inside my grandparents' house where they made her coffee and where we waited for my Dad to arrive, usually 30-45 minutes later. At the time Mum didn't drive, so Dad was our ride home. How lucky I was to end every day surrounded by all of my family in one room

I have to remind myself that it is just bricks and mortar and that time with my parents is much more valuable and in short supply but it's memories like these - and lots more besides - that will make it hard not to come 'home' to Spencer Road any more.