How not to tell a story - Part 39: The Autobiography
I grew up in a 3 bedroom house on a suburban cul-de-sac, in a quiet neighbourhood on the outskirts of a small city. With a park across the road that connected to a paddock, that contained collections of gorse, grass, short-cuts to bus stops, poplars, old car wrecks, rubbish, tree stumps, (for a time at least) 2 horses (one brown, one white), wasp nests (the insect not the racial grouping), lots of field mice, other assorted nothingness (I don't think it was ever very productive) and a house that some people said was haunted. Because it looked slightly neglected and run down. A throwback to the rural past of the area, that is not far from market gardens and lifestyle blocks, with huge driveways and nice houses. The paddoch through disuse had retained some features of a time before the post-war developments that rapidly expanded cities. The house was really just owned by a reclusive old shut-in family, that sent their son to a fancy school in town, but never seemed to do anything with the section of land that at one time must of given income to someone. I used to feed apples from the tree in our back yard to the horses in the paddock, when I was very young. I also like eating raw carrots. The end.
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