Grandad's house

In creative writing, we are writing memoirs.
This is what I wrote.

Grandad's house was on two levels. That was a novelty for us, who had only ever resided in bungalows. We therefore took great delight in sliding down the wooden stairs one after the other, or sometimes having races. it did result in a sore bum afterwards, but so totally worth it.

The stairs led into the dining room where we ate our Sunday lunch. On the windowsill were little glass bottles, all different colours. My dad said they eld alcohol, but I still like to think that they were potions, rewards in return for perilous quests.

On other days, when the table was pushed to one side, we pulled out the lego. I was never very good at it, always planning a house but only building a wall. There was often a fight for the boat and the door pieces, not because they were needed, but to give a greater sense of accomplishment.

Later on, my grandad got some dolls, barbies and the like. They were the new lego. I distinctly remember this one dress. It was bluey-green and tiered. It looked ridiculous and, to this day, I would never wear one. I don't remember if there was a Ken doll because we were all girls and eschewed boys with a firm hand.

The lounge was beautifully old fashioned. Old plates my grandma collected lined the walls. They always looked clean, but how they remained that was is still a mystery as they were up by the ceiling. The chairs were so comfy. They were a weird sort of beige, but the feeling of sinking into a cloud when sat on totally made up for it. On each arm was a doily. There were quite a few doilies. I don't know why, they didn't do anything I could see. My mum thought they were silly, too.

On the wall hung an owl. Not a real owl. One, it turned out, my mum had made when she was in high school millions of years ago. It was a strange texture and had a freaky looking face. I can't say I was that fond of it.