A couple days just wasn’t enough time in the George. Missing it. Even though our house is totally old and crumbly… with no shower, only a claw-foot bath… and the halls are piled with old books and yellowing newspapers and boxes of old junk. It’s home and there is nowhere else like it. Mum and dad love pottering in the garden – dad with his vegies, mum with flowers and ferns. A few years ago a plot of mint went crazy and spread throughout the lawn. Now, every time dad mows it’s like living in a mojito. Delicious.

Our house is opposite the town fire station, and every Monday evening the firies sound the alarm to practice their moves. The siren is weirdly pitched and drives all the dogs in the town crazy. It’s probably close to a decade since Jack, our imaginatively named Jack Russell Terrier, met his fate beneath the wheels of a passing motorist. But to this day, every time the siren starts up I still expect to hear Jack’s whining bark at the front fence.

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