a childhood thing

In which our narrator looks waxy and autobiographical

I suppose it’s not all that unusual for childhood memories to be richer when they involve specialness of some sort. That is to say, if I’m asked about the homes of my childhood then – ok, I can talk about them, I have a very clear memory and could tell anyone just where they were and what I did and hardly any of it will be interesting or evocative… 

BUT if I think of places that I visited, things like holiday homes, well then it’s a different story entirely, there’s something closer to magic in my mind’s eye. 
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