unshelved

Vaguely coincidentally, in the same week as my twentieth anniversary of moving to Edinburgh and reaching 3 kiloblips, I am visiting the house I spent most of my remembered childhood in for potentially the last time, if the SOLD sign at the front gate is anything to go by, though it doesn't need an extra visit to make it any less likely to remain unforgotten under normal memory behaviour. Even without the shelves, with a different carpet, with neither of my previous bedrooms resembling their old selves. The things which really stick in the mind are the rhythm of the way I run up the stairs, the way I reach for light switches, the smells of the different bits of the garden, the views from the windows, the way the back door sticks to the draught-excluder. The twelve years I lived here full-time ended twenty years ago, so the majority of my deeply-embedded memories pre-date the subsequent changes, and pre-date this site as an opportunity to note things for remembrance, but I can still make a note of the way I note them.