The big house
The nice end of Cranborne
Swan necked street lamp
The nice end of Cranborne Waye
150 Cranborne Waye
150 Cranborne Waye. Home sweet home for 18 years. The house looks a bit tatty compared to how it used to be. Mum's green fingers made the place a riot of colour when we were there – azaleas were her thing. The house looks small, and hemmed in by the two bay windowed dwellings either side. The lumpy roof is caused by the loft conversion. Huge windows are on the back of the house.
Original 1950s (?) swan necked street lamp. A rare breed these days, though New Addington near Croydon still has plenty to spare. The white cased HPS fitting doesn't do it any favours. I much preferred the orange LPS lamps, and because Hilling don Council didn't exactly spread them close together, our road always seemed quite dark and almost secretive compared to those of nearby friends.
A little patch of green. My favourite end of Cranborne Waye. Speaking of which, “Waye?” Please!!! Why the extra E? I have been told I've made a mistake spelling my own address when a child. Wrong. The twee-est part of a tweely named road.
The “big house”. No-one knew why or how this house got to be placed alongside a load of Warren Bros designed 3 bedroom terrace houses. And people who lived in it were a secretive bunch. Well, I suppose because they didn't have kids, we never found out much about them.
The back bedroom. (Grr, it needs creosoting). Dad built what was known as the Summer House in 1985 or so, which was an extended shed big enough to count as a reasonably sized bedroom with en suite toilet and sink. And despite him not intending it to be used for anything but a place to escape to in the summer heat, I kind of moved in permanently. It was my bedroom and quasi recording studio for two years. My abiding memory of the place was waking up at 4am during the night of the '87 hurricane, feeling the wooden panelling dancing, and thinking, “oh, I wonder what's going on?” and falling back to sleep immediately. The other memory was finding our chicken (yes, I that was the clucking kind of bird you tend to smother with southern fried coating) doing a kamekhazi (sorry, the pun was intended The other memory was finding our chicken (yes, I that was the clucking kind of bird you tend to smother with southern fried coating) doing a kamikaze .He saw a chicken reflected in the water of the toilet, dived in for a fight and drowned his stupid bird brained self. Sophia, my littlest sister, was traumatised for months following the bantam suicide.
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