Text: My Street- Reception Venue

from Harrold, 21.08.08

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On my dark, dark street there is a dark, dark mansion. And in that dark, dark mansion lives a dark, dark woman…

Ok, so maybe my street isn’t ‘dark’ and maybe there is no woman living in some ‘dark, dark’ mansion, but the huge building still scares the heeby jeebies out of me. The tall oak trees surrounding the premises look like the kind you see in movies about witches and ghosts. The large green hedges and fence pickets create spooky shadows leaving you wondering what is behind them. The only good things about the place is that when friends come over who have never been down my street before, they think that it’s my house for a few seconds before their mum drives straight past it. This means that for a few seconds of that day somebody is feeling just a tad jealous of me.

Also this beautiful giant is a wedding reception venue, so young couples come here to celebrate the binding of their love. And from what I read in books, love is meant to be the, “Closest thing we have to magic,” so the mansion must do some good.

Anyway, the reception venue is just one part of my street, which is a long windy road with a variety of different styled houses and different styled people. Not that I know a lot of them, but from the people I do speak to, I can see that my street is home to many diverse personalities and living situations.

Take the man across the road for example. His house is just a huge dump. The paint is peeling (although half his house is painted and the other half isn’t); trash is shoved up one end of the drive way, making it look like a rubbish dump; and many of the concrete slabs have fallen off the front wall. But he doesn’t seem to care. He walks around as if he’s the luckiest fellow on the planet, saying, “Hello,” whenever he sees us outside our house. I really love that about him. Seeing him happy somehow makes me happy.

The group of boys living down the road who always skateboard up and down the street are different again, with their long hair, baggy tops and skate shoes. They think they’re so cool, but they’re so NOT.

Although I see these people and occasionally say, “Hello”, I’m not friends with anybody. There are no kids who are my age, just the “skater boys”, but I’m not really fond of falling over and grazing my knees. My sisters are lucky, though. The street has an abundance of annoying little tweens. And my parents have all the adults to talk to. But here I am, stuck in the middle. I’m used to it, though. I’m stuck in the middle of everything. For example, in my family there is no one else my age. They’re all either too ancient or too infantile. *Sigh*.

Speaking ‘looks wise’, my street is quite ordinary. But the family living a few doors down (who own the beautiful, golden retrievers that just glow with radiance when they’re walking down the street) are so darn perfect. Heads turn, eyes widen. With their manicured garden, well groomed canines and white toothed smiles, they’re so ‘soap opera’.

To tell you the truth, before I wrote this piece, my street seemed like a pretty dull place to live. Now it’s more than a just few planks of wood, some paper trees and grey concrete pavement. It’s exciting. It’s an adventure.
It’s my street.

~By Georgie ~

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Tags

• Writing
• Documentary
• my street

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