We're in the kitchen. The men's footsteps are climbing towards us up the back steps. We will soon be six in this room designed for two. We've bypassed the second bedroom. My bedroom.
The pressure's mounting but this room is already too full . The carving knife, the fridge, my father in his Bond's Y fronts, feet up on the table greeting Mrs Hebley, the next door neighbour who's dropped in to get a cup of sugar on a Sunday morning, the pig's head, the family meals, the arguments, the love, the suppressed anger, the accusations, the reconciliations.
My history is in my head. My head is dealing with overlapping memories and our guests want to talk about real estate. I want to know more about that carving knife. Real estate will have to wait.