It’s a nice enough home. A 100 years old and declared a heritage home by those who are meant to be bestowing such honours. My parents have struggled to ensure that it stays cosy yet maintains it’s charm and doesn’t slide into decline. The silver is polished and shines. The crystal sparkles. The old chandeliers light up without a flicker. Rows and rows of books on art and architecture line the walls. The upholstery is spotless. Little knick knacks from travels over the years dot the peg tables. Not just their own travels but also those of family members who are now just a fading memory. Fresh flowers dress up little consoles and the grand piano. Art on the walls, a well stocked bar. Everything says this is the home of an older couple with well, some taste.
Until you see this little corner. A shrine to Shrek and McDonald’s Happy Meals. And then you realise it’s also the home of grandparents.
The grand old dining room with the massive dining table is filled with the peals of childish laughter. Sepia toned ancestors look down benignly on yet another generation playing hide and seek behind the antique dresser.