There are many things I dislike about my 1970's raised bungalow, but the one thing that will keep me in this house for a long time yet is the deck. It's private and shady and is my favourite place to sit on a summer evening surrounded by candlelight, friends and family. It is my sacred space and I do miss it in the winter months. At the moment it's my preferred location for working on a collection of stories from my father-in-law's time spent in India between 1937 and 1944.
I write here on sunny afternoons, nestled in a chair Dad occupied for many years. Wind chimes ring softly behind me and I find myself transported into a past I've never seen. I am with them in the garden where they sit on the bamboo swing, his head in her lap. His eyes are closed and her soothing voice flows over him as she strokes his brow, telling him of the myths and mysteries of India. Overhead the heart shaped leaves of the peepal tree brush against each other, and beneath their gentle raindrop patter, he dreams of tigers.