In your memory this was the hub of life.
That biscuit barrel was a focus of your young existence.
It contained, not biscuits (at least not these packet things from the shops)
but baking fresh from the oven, to be stolen when Aunt Jean was not looking
(or was pretending not to look). Every jar and box had its use and not always what was written on it.
Even the tea-pot, once it became cracked and useless for making tea, was pressed into service for
other things. Packets of seeds, for example, or cooking recipes written on postcards.
But now the room is dead.
SITTING ROOM | BEDROOM | LOFT | WHAT_NEXT
Tartan Hen