A while back, I started thinking about the house we lived in when I was six-eight years old. It was up north, in a very beautiful area. I guess the only downside that I can think of is that by now I would have hated living so close to everyone else. The houses have such small gardens you pretty much feel as if you're sitting on other people's laps.

Anyway, I started searching for our old house on Google Maps, Streetview and couldn't find it. I was so upset, thinking maybe it had been torn down or burned to the ground. But there were certain differences that couldn't be explained by our house disappearing, such as the houses across the street being older and having bigger and older gardens than the ones I used to look at through our windows.

Then my sister remembered the name of the block, not just the street address. And there it was. It actually looks better than when we lived in it, since back then it was brown and now it's red. My mom doesn't like the little roof over the front door, but other than that it's just like when we moved out. Also, I'd forgotten that the garden was more or less nothing. I guess that's often how it is. Fantastic house, no garden to speak of, or vice versa.

I really wish my dad hadn't insisted on selling it. We could have still had it and never had to live in this dump. It had a huge basement with wonderful big rooms and the upstairs was nice too. There was a big playroom where my sister and I played every day. And you know what? It seemed to be bigger on the inside. ;)

I miss that house so much.