Boo!

I visited the flat upstairs again, this time with a tripod. The weather was changable and (in relation to the room in the photograph) the sun was on the far side of the house. So no possibility of photographing fat, dreamy sunbeams leaning into the old mirror. Instead, I tried a self-portrait, using a bicycle torch to make light-scribbles. None of them came out quite as I'd wanted, though the one above was closest.

The room holds many memories: family Christmases etc. It used to be the 'orange' room, because, I think, of the vivid, orange cord carpet (by 'Tintawn', a common brand then). The orange carpet was replaced decades ago. But the name held.

The mirror is another constant. I don't think it was there when my aunt's family moved into the flat in the 60s, though it surely wouldn't have been out of place prior to that; or farther back, reflecting the hearth and gaslit evenings of the original Victorian owners (who apparently had a chapel out on the landing). Quite accidentally, the tail of the light-sperm in the mirror connects with an artifact that does date from those days: a defunct, ceramic bellpull, fixed in the wall near the fireplace.

I love that mirror. But the main memory it holds isn't pleasant. One evening, when myself and one of my cousins were bored, 'imaginative' teenagers, we found ourselves alone in that big flat with nothing useful to do. So we told each other ghost stories till we spooked ourselves silly. Granted, we weren't entirely sober. The highlight was when we stood before the mirror and waited for our reflections to move before we did. Didn't happen of course, though it would have served us right if it did. At times like these it must be difficult for the architect of the universe (the embodiment of The Fates) to restrain him/her/itself.