31.05.26

No.71

Number seventy one, the mid-terrace house I live in has reached a grand old age of one hundred and six, which is quite an achievement, but nothing as ancient as some of the homes that can be found scattered about through the UK.

It has aged well, sure, like most of us the bones and joints creak a bit, there is a wearing and withering down of the facade, but when you peer into its soul, it remains the vibrant, welcoming home it always was and is.

The problem is less about the building itself, but more about its surroundings. The noisy neighbours, whose voices, tv and music travel through its thin skin. The rising temperatures, that it can no longer keep at bay. The windows that fail, the gutters that leak, the roof tiles that dislodge and fall after a century of withstanding all forms of brutal weather.

These things are fixable, it is not yet time to give up hope or put this dog down.

Acoustic insulation and dense plasterboard help keep the pesky noise at bay, stopping it in its tracks, to help the occupants cocooned in their bed inside sleep well at night. Insulation is added, like a thick woollen jumper, its soft and comforting embrace not only keeps the cold at bay in the harshest of winters, but reflects and stops the ever increasing hot summers, cuddling and protecting the now cooler spaces within. Roof tiles are replaced, mortar is repointed or repaired as and when needed, windows that were fitted in the time it was conceived, now replaced with modern and advanced ones, more suited to the challenges of this time.

All of this while still maintaining its purpose, a sanctuary, a safe place, a big welcoming hug.

A home.