Monday, 10 April 2017 14:54
We slept out in our Summer House on hot nights, breathing in the smell of varnished wood and dust from the fly husks in the corner. We ate treats for a feast, and, with the taste of gingernuts on our teeth defying sleep, we opened the door and gazed at the stars, pretending to know all their names.
In the daytime, we had a secret club with badges and codes and ‘keep out’ notices. We would race our snails on the ancient grey floorboards and tell stories of ghosts and bravado.
One summer a hedgehog crept in by mistake. Returning from holiday we pulled open the door. The air stank of rotten things while bluebottles buzzed around our heads, their eggs glued in all the cracks.
Everything was spoiled, the magic gone, and our Summer House returned to the silence of being a shed.
Published in Jan-Apr-2017