Who might testify – and with conviction, testify – that (one of) their fondest memories would (willingly) include those memories from childhood, of hearing fairy-tales? I know I would.
Like the tales themselves, though originating from long, long ago, I delight that these memories despite being distant, resonate deeply yet, and, more so, positively – for they are embedded in such magical times, not least because fairy tales then were categorically assured of certain guaranteed facts: that dreams could come true – as they so truly were, in those fairy-tales as told – and, that everyone would live happily ever after……
Both facts were true, then, and once upon a time – but time passed, and at some point, doubt pervaded, and of such persuasion borne of life-experience as to cast a pall on such gorgeous reminiscing, and to sully the memory: that maybe even then, as it is now, it was but a dream, and that any fairly-tale was only that, a tale; it was not real, nor was it ever – and everyone would not always live, happily ever after…….
But quietly nestled behind an innocuous rough stone facade, a home exists as strident antidote to that insidious doubt – for it has made the dream real……and, as is the case with fairy-tales, it has been made from unlikely sources, fashioned from little more than pots of paint and a passion for junk shops, mixed together with a heady and vibrant imagination.
From the outside one would never guess of the exotic secret kept within. Two doors brightly coloured, one pink, one warm blue, indicate frivolity…..but still, by being two, the secret is safe: for if one had been uncoloured and left ‘normal’, then undue attention would have been drawn to the remaining coloured one. It would have been too much, and would have inferred, and obviously so, its internal intention (for this was hardly a place that warranted nor endorsed outward displays of exuberant colour…say for example that one door had been pink, it would not be hard to imagine the opening line of a fairy-tale: ‘Once upon a time there was a little town, made of buildings dull and stark – except for one, which though as predominantly banal and bereft of passion as any other, exhibited something unique to it alone: colour – in the form of a front door painted a peculiar pink of shocking prettiness…..’ )
But by two doors being so coloured, no such interpretation could be made – an impression reinforced by a bike and a bench, so distinct from each other, being disposed on either side and lacking that self-same sense of collaborative composition indicated by the coloured doors. No – there was nothing further to see. This was just two houses ‘having a moment’. Within would persist as within should, as indicative of the town as a whole: nothing fancy……
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This however all transpired to be a complicit ruse – for one house was in fact wondrous within, and more so really than any home has any right to be. For the inside was indeed, a fairy tale ….
The emblems were everywhere, as soon as one passed through the threshold….roses in particular, that doubtless if touched, their thorns would prick and render the injured to sleep forever until such time as a charming prince would come to the rescue. One could almost see the Disney-esque cartoons skipping through the rooms; one would not have been surprised if the furniture talked; and all the ornaments, the fabrics, and pictures and mirrors – doubtless all come alive when the house is empty…..and inevitably, a castle was also present – for it was pointed out that this home was known to have links to the castle …… but what castle? No actual castle was evident. One can only assume it was an invented castle, a castle that shadows so many fairy tales wherein dragons loiter in the basement, and princesses sleeping or possessing the longest pleated fair hair are imprisoned seemingly hopelessly in spikey turrets silhouetted high and inaccessible against stormy dark and troubling skies. There were enough hints in the darkened living room to make convincing argument that this was indeed the case ….and even if the basement were only perceived to host such dungeon-esque qualities, unquestionably as one moved up through the house, the colours lightened, as if one were stepping into some sort of heavenly ascendance….implying, surely, that this tale will indeed end happily….
It may not be true, this interpretation of this home as a manifest fairy-tale – but this interpretation is mine, and true to me. It is my dream…… it is quite something therefore, to know that a house truly exists wherein dreams do come true……and I do not think it such a stretch to imagine it as such; I would even wish it so, for how remarkable it is to have visited a home, wherein even such an interpretation could even be considered. That in and of itself is a worthy dream……
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)