Writing Prompt No. 97
My grandmother lived in a house on a corner in a town by the sea on the North Norfolk coast.
An awkward corner at the end of a terrace row. The windows were tall and low in the front room on the ground level making it easy for people to look in as they walked by. Maybe she had net curtains up. I don’t remember. The walls of the house met the narrow pavement outside as it bent around the corner. Sometimes a large truck would rumble pass making the house tremble.
The house was probably a shop once. It’s probably a shop now. Maybe I should look it up on google. The garden was a small sharp angled triangle at the back of the house paved with concrete slabs and decorated with pots of flowers and herbs and home to my mum’s tortoise who then went missing. His name was Timothy. Timothy the Tortoise who lived at The Corner House. Sounds like a title to a children’s picture book.
I remember Timothy when I was a child. He was my mum’s pet when she was a child.
Our neighbour has a tortoise called Percy. He likes to play football. He was in the local paper once. FOOTBALL PLAYING TORTOISE SENSATION. Or something like that. He was found many years ago wandering the pavements of Brighton. Lost. This was maybe eighty years ago. Who knows how old he is now.
He escaped his garden one sunny afternoon when we had all sat down for tea. All of a sudden he appeared, crossing our garden at some speed. For a tortoise. We ran out and picked him up and handed him back over the fence to our neighbours. He’d found a perfect tortoise sized hole in the fence. Maybe he was looking for a new home.
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