Its National Tell a Story Day on the 27th April, this is chance to celebrate oral storytelling. Stories can be from the heart, from memory, descriptive, made up, literally anything. I love storytelling and thoroughly enjoy sitting around telling stories to my Beaver group and also to my own children. These are generally tall tales with an element of the supernatural or down right crazy. Its a brilliant way of getting them to learn all sorts of things from general knowledge, sentence structure to the art of sitting and listening. The benefits are huge and its such an easy thing to do with them.
I was challenged by Mecca Bingo to tell my own story. Rather than publish here some of the children’s stories i’m writing in the vague hope that someone might be interested in publishing them I thought I’d tell you the story behind why we love our house:
Home is where the heart is, right? That’s what I used to think when I was younger. When I moved in with my husband and we tried to have a baby and we tried and tried without luck. I began to doubt my happiness in our home. Five years later we decided to move house, within months I was pregnant. Coincidence, right? For me, home is more than where the heart is; it’s where the soul is too. I love my current house from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, partly because it gave me a baby!
Being built on an ancient Iron Age settlement, I think my house has a soul. I often wonder if our good fortune with pregnancies and our general happiness has stemmed as much from this fortunate geographical position. The Chinese believe in the power of Feng Shui and I think we must have just got lucky, perhaps we put the furniture in the right place by accident. Who knows?
There was a dangerous time when I feared that the whole house would be taken over by toys and the plastic artefacts of childhood. Now, thanks to a clean white paint job and wicker baskets we have begun to reclaim the house from children. I still trip over toy buses and find half eaten biscuits at the foot of the stairs. Yet I marvel at how wonderfully lucky I am to suffer these little inconveniences and how short-lived this home invasion will be.
I always think that a home devoid of flowers and pot plants and books is a sad place. My house is full to the brim with books of all shape, size, colour and topic. Each day I sit in my bright pink armchair with the baby at my feet and read a poem to him. We choose different flowers for the large glass vase which sits under the television each week. Not only do we enjoy their scent, but we draw them, photograph and remark upon the amazing things you can bring into your home and how they can change it. This is what makes my home, our home.
As Jane Austen once said ‘There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort…’ and I must admit I like my bed with it’s freshly laundered sheets. If I could, I’d take my own bed and the coffee maker on holiday with me. There is nothing to compare to your own bed is there?
I love my photograph wall, I love my bespoke home-made cushions and even the broken letter box. I love all those things I’ve told you about. This is what makes a house, our home. But, you know, the one thing which has really turned our house into a home is the addition of a cat. It is complete; three children, sofa, television, books and a cat. Who would have thought!