Having been staying at home, I've enjoyed feeling that warm glow of comfort, slight unease at being amongst family and naturally, the overwhleming urge to run screaming out the door everytime I'm asked if I'm going to leave THAT GLASS ON THE TABLE.
Yet there is something about being home that fills me with hope and vitality. It's like a pitstop, you'll get through the coming days on it. So when my sister was sorting her room we peeked in boxes and found the most glorious peice of memory I've found in a long time: the holiday diary. Little sister and I would diligently draw pictures of our holiday and Mum would carefully help us spell out the caption on the top.
My sister's was a joy of life through a child's eyes. Hair was a main feature (well, it was the 80s) and perspective on the caravan was priceless. My favourite? The little owls we saw at the farm, all drawn in a line looking like spooked pacmen and us dancing along the top.
Sometimes I wish I was 4 again.....