A STORY OF HOUSE NUMBER SIXTY-SIX. PART 1.










Yes, I am number Sixty-six, or so I would tell you, if I was a person and had been, by some miracle, given the sense and attribute to talk to people. 

What am I, Number 66, you might be wondering, and, if by some chance you were to guess that I might be a house, then, how correct you would be. 

Because, a house I am. If I were able to talk and converse with you, I would tell you that I am a 4 bedroom terraced house.  Located on a certain busy main street in a post-mining town in the Shire county of Nottinghamshire. 




If you were to dig a bit deeper and become a tad more inquisitive or interested, then, I might even be persuaded to tell you that I am not a great distance off the A617, as you head North along the M1 motorway.

I am a very strong house, blessed with a smallish kitchen and what might be described as a 'decent sized' living/dining room, and a large  lounge. 

Below ground level is my cluttered cellar, which, in years gone by. 

Before 'King Coal and Coke' was displaced by the 'new clean energy' of North Sea gas,  as the main fuel for heating and cooking. 

To be continued!







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