As of now, the family no longer owns the most magical house I’ve ever known. My uncle lived in the most wonderful 16th century farmhouse. From the outside it’s just brick, but inside it’s a fantasy of beams and wonky plaster and odd corners.
And now it’s someone else’s. I’d have given my teeth to buy it myself and make it into a living building again, but someone else has got that opportunity.
A minutes silence, please, for Ronnie’s house.