The Return

I moved out of the house in January 2011. I didn't move far, only about a mile up the road, but I never went back. Until now.

 After 14 years of working in the heritage and conservation sector I decided it would be good to focus my career on people, rather than places, and switched to the health and social care sector. I now work with children and young people which is great fun and hugely rewarding. One of my colleagues works with adults, rather than children, and last month I saw she was planning a group visit with them to my old stomping ground. Without giving it the time and consideration it probably warranted I blurted out "I used to live in that house! I can give you an exclusive behind the scenes tour if you like?"

It turned out they did like. Which is how I came to be stood outside the gatehouse in the rain with a small crowd around me, pointing out fascinating architectural features, interesting medieval customs and where my old cat is buried. (There is now a rustic swing hanging from the apple tree in what was my garden, which is obviously very popular with visiting children, given the deep grooves in the earth where their feet graze the ground. If they go much deeper they may soon disinter the late, lamented Janet Cat. Now that would make for an interesting comment card).

When we came through the gatehouse I warned everyone to be careful climbing up the steps if they wanted to see inside and regaled the group with the tale of the woman who fell down both the gatehouse stairs and the stairs in the Great Hall. I was aware as I did so of the volunteer on duty in the house, watching with interest as I entertained my group.

At last, once everyone who wanted to see the bat poo and cluster flies collection in the gatehouse had done so, we moved across the lawn to the front door. "Hello!" I said.  "Hello," said the volunteer, "have you been before?"

I thought that was a bit of an odd question, given that I'd been outside talking about the house to a group of people for at least twenty minutes. I'd have thought that would make it seem unlikely I was a first time visitor.

"Yes," I replied, smiling brightly, "I used to live here."

"Oh," she said.

Just that. I didn't get a ticker tape parade, a klaxon, a flicker of interest, nothing. She was one cool volunteer.

Unfazed I swept by with my group and proceeded to give them the full tour, complete with the new showrooms which had been our family home in years gone by. I got to say things like "Janet Cat weed there so much we had to cut a piece out of the carpet" and "future archaeologists will be able to tell a woman of low social standing once lived here and lost her pendant from Next through the gap in the floorboards".

Afterwards, as I chatted to the group over ice creams in the courtyard, they told me how much they'd enjoyed the tour and hadn't laughed so much in ages. This pleased me, as the whole point of the exercise was to give these people a great day out, as part of my current health and social care role. It also struck me that it had been hard enough to raise a smile, let alone a laugh, from the volunteers I met in the house that day. They obviously weren't having enough fun. I ought to do something about that.

Later that evening I filled in a volunteer form online and hit submit.

Yes, I have been before.