‘I was born on 25th May, 1938, in the front bedroom of a house in Orton Road, a house on the outer edges of Raffles, a council estate. I was a lucky girl.’
So begins Margaret Forster’s journey through the houses she’s lived in, from that sparkling new council house, to her beloved London home of today. This is not a book about bricks and mortar though. This is a book about what houses are to us, the effect they have on the way we live our lives and the changing nature of our homes: from blacking grates and outside privies; to cities dominated by bedsits and lodgings; to the houses of today converted back into single dwellings. Finally, it is a gently insistent, personal inquiry into the meaning of home.
I was truly moved by Margaret Forster's ingeniously structured and beautifully written memoir... A really wonderful book
A beautiful exploration of her life in relation to the homes she has made'
Such a clever idea. It's a memoir sited in bricks and mortar... social and personal history spliced together
Until its shocking, throat-catching end, this latest book is a deceptively simple trek evoking everywhere [Margaret Forster] has lived
Reads like one of Forster's well-loved novels: full of sharp observation and gentle wit