Today my short short story was triggered off by my youngest grandson. He wanted to brush his hair, taking the brush he sort of did it.
photo is of my eldest grandson because he is far more obliging
My thoughts went back to when I was about four, we were down at Worthing, the home of the person we had been evacuated to during the worst of the London bombing. She was lovely and we called her Auntie Feast (her surname). I remember her as a lady that was always in a hurry, rushing around here there and everywhere.
This particular morning she had called us to breakfast and mum was struggling to get my baby brother ready so I picked up my brush and brushed my own hair. I was excited about it and rushed to tell Mummy what I had done. Trouble was Mummy was so pleased she said oh that is good you can do your own hair from now on. I remember feeling very sad at that I didn't want to do it I wanted Mummy to do it, I'd only done it that morning because breakfast was ready and Mummy wasn't.
So even at that young age I hated changes.
Thinking about Worthing I have so many sweet little memories about it from my early childhood. The red pavements, the coffee shop where they roasted the coffee in the window. The bow windows of a building in the high street. The pantomime shows on the pier. I still remember the address where we stayed 18 Brittany Road