I am from the home my dad built for us, brick by brick; from eiderdowns and coal fires, Quality Street and Typhoo tea.
I am from the smart bungalow my mum loved, the butterfly bush, the boiler in the kitchen, and the big picture window full of Norfolk sunsets.
I am from long summer twilights climbing trees on the common, lips and fingers stained with wild strawberry juice, and rosebay willow herb growing at the edges of the sugarbeet fields.
Grass snakes in my brother's hands, no front teeth, Chinese skipping at playtime, wellingtons and belted gabardine school macs.
I am from people with too-fresh memories of both world wars; from Grandad in Egypt and Gallipoli who never saw his baby daughter, from Nanna who buried tiny Margaret alone. From Patrick and Violet whose hometowns were bombed and whose childhoods were too short.
I am from unconditional love and being brave.
From family scandals and secrets, and a child given away.
I am from bell, book and candle; from ghost stories, hymns every day, tombstones and superstition; and never being told what to believe.
I'm from age-old Norwich, its castle, cobbles and cathedral ... and from the smooth steel towers and uncracked concrete of shiny-new Perth.
I'm from the immigrant's nostalgia and the settler's satisfaction; the here and there.
I've been missing the will to blog lately, but having read some of these formula-constructed little essays a few years ago, and a lovely one by Fairlie today, I thought I'd have a go. Very hard not to get too mawkish, but fun.