When my parents settled into their new home in the winter of ’62 it was so cold that my mother took to feeding my new-born brother in the airing cupboard.

I arrived two years later, another winter baby, but don’t recall any such tales attached to my mealtimes so things must have warmed up by then. 

Certainly I will always remember that house as a characterful and cosy blend of family, books, photos, mementos, assorted pets, and long, loquacious dinners round the table either inside or out in the well-tended and much-loved garden.

Nearly 60 years later I found myself back there on a Tuesday morning in March, surrounded not by cheery chatter but by the sound of the vacuum and the thud of heavy furniture being lugged to a lorry. 

My parents had died, the house was sold, and I was on hand for the final clearance and deep clean. Although there was a sense of closure, I couldn’t help but cry for this dismantled childhood home.

The firm we’d hired was taking away the enormous chest of drawers from the landing, the bedframes and mattresses that we hadn’t been able to rehome or recycle. But the real treasures had already been divvied up and passed on, part of a long process of deciding what to part with and what to keep. 

We’d gathered as a family and gone from room to room, everyone choosing the things that meant the most to them. Anything left over was fair game for the recycling centre – no questions, no recriminations.

I’d be lying if I said my attic isn’t still home to cardboard boxes containing things I just couldn’t bear to throw away. Things too important to discard apparently, though, honestly, I can’t think who else will want or value them. One day I’ll get them down and re-start the process. Something tells me it will be a whole lot easier then. 

In the meantime, a new family is calling my old house home and, I’m sure, busy making memories — and clutter — of their own.

LT, Norfolk