I stand here immobile and I think of the many things I’ve seen in the five hundred years since I was first built.
Not much has changed around me. People wear different clothes and speak a different kind of English. They carry strange contraptions in their hands, but they behave in the same way… They fall in love, they joke, they cry…
Years ago, men and women stopped to look at me, commented on my appearance and went on their way.
‘Weird-looking monstrosity,’ they would say.
Sometimes a lady would sit opposite me for hours and paint me and that made me blush. It made me feel special as well.
Now, they just stop for a moment, I hear a click and I know they have taken what they call a photo, or a picture. Sometimes, I even appear in one of their so-called selfies.
‘Have you seen this house?’
‘Wow! It’s cool. Stand in front of it. I’ll take a picture.’
I sometimes think the architect who designed me was drunk. That’s probably why he made me look like this. What other explanation can there be? Could my beams have become deformed over time because of the extra weight I carry? Or the humidity? Well, whatever the reason, I don’t care. I like being different.
I’m a very lucky house. I’m in the very centre of the city, so I never get bored and from where I stand I can see the cathedral. Besides, I belong to the National Trust, which is a great honour.
They call me The Crooked House or The Bendy House. Not very original, I know. I wonder who came up with those stupid names. I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.
I’ve told you quite a few things about myself and you can see me in the picture at the top. So… do you know where I live?