I keep in close contact with my inner child. I still watch cartoons (good ones - Pixar and the like), I love the snow and sometimes I just need to be silly. I wish they built playgrounds for grown-ups. Pirates are still cool and part of me still thinks it's not too late to be Indiana Jones. I still love Star Wars - the originals, of course.
This weekend we cleared out our attic and part of my inner child died. Or was in a very deep sleep. I'm hoping for the latter. An attic for an adult is a place to throw shit you hope never to have to move again, which then attracts dust like Charlie Sheen attracts hookers. In the summer, which it is at the moment, it's hot enough to roast chicken in and that, combined with the disturbed dust (which as a child was atmospheric) chokes you rotten while you're hunched over trying not to smack your head against one of the beams, chucking stuff down the ladder as fast as possible so that you can get the hell out of there and breathe again.
So what was up there? Well, lots of clothes, boxes full of copies of my dad's book, boxes full of some strange business literature no one will ever need, more clothes and enough luggage for the wives of the England football squad (though not quite up to their strict fashion standards).
No treasure map
No clue to a crime
No doorway to another world
That's more dusty luggage than anyone will ever need, ever.