I tell people I grew up in the country, because it's easier than saying "well, we sort of lived between two towns", but it's not like I lived on a farm. We didn't even keep chickens. But having lived in the city for six years or more now, I'm starting to miss whatever I call "the country".
I went back home to visit some friends over the weekend, and I found myself feeling pretty reluctant to leave. Now that I live in a one bedroom apartment, 13 floors up, all I want is chooks and a vegetable patch. Go figure. I've decided the next best thing is to live vicariously through my mum, and force her to grow me some veggies on her 4 acres of land ("Remember that time pumpkins just started growing in our backyard, accidentally? We should do that again."), and take some pretty pictures of the house and cats so I can look at them when I want to pretend to escape to the country.
That ladder isn't styling, by the way. It is genuinely our builder's ladder - it belonged to his father, who was also a builder. Apparently it's solid as a rock.
Our ginger cat must be nearly fifteen now - she once belonged to our neighbours, and in her long life has had kittens and been everything but abandoned until my mum took her in. She still doesn't trust people completely, but secretly loves being cuddled and having nice warm blankets to sleep on.
It still surprises me that we got such a pretty cat at a shelter. Her name is Baci, like the chocolates.
Now, back to the real world, where my "veggie patch" is basil grown in a pot on the balcony and my cats have never been outside in their lives.