The House where I was Born:

Sits at the end of the row, in Ryeburn Ave.

Here is a picture I have stolen from the Manchester Public Library service. The house is the one at the end, just being obscured by the lampost - complete with our Caravan.

This was taken in 1979, so my father was dead and the caravan waiting to be sold.

The avenue was a haven of safety when I was a child. Outside the circle at the top, danger, strange creatures, chaos: In the circle, a place of security. It is a time of pre-traffic - notice how few cars there are. And there is grass on the sides of the very narrow entrance.

A Garden City - social engineering from a Utopian view.

But the house where I was born, and the room I spent most of my childhood sleeping in, is visible in this black and white image. As are the houses of the Coley's and the Cockles - our neighbours.

Shiela Holgate's house is there too - the girl I shot in the ear with an arrow from a bow, so recently acquired at Blackpool Pleasure Beach so soon destroyed as punishement by the old cow, Daisy, Lady Ryeburn (my mother). It was, I must say, a magnificent shot. Later in life I toyed with the sport archery as a direct consequence of my certainty of a natural gift, based on the shot of Sheila's ear.

I notice the gates, jointly owned with the Coley's. He had an immacculate, lined lawn and cut the hedges with a pair of nail scissors (literally). Not the ideal neighbour for a growing child - but kind and considerate in many ways.

And Mr Cockle, the other side, he of the rampant blackburry bushes: Equal in Garden-ship, but of a very different nature - wild vicious utilitarian plants, and a warm welcome smile always on his face.

Fifty years ago today I was born into this world, in the house you see - in a back bedroom, not pictured. I presume it was the same bed i was conceived in. My time here ended not so long ago with the death of Lady Ryeburn, after around seventy years in the huse, I suspect her spirit still infects the place.

Et In Arcadia Ergo.