Then I actually had to engage my brain, which is a bit harsh at this time on a Wednesday morning, but here's what I came up with about where I'm from:
I am from the quiet cul de sac, around the corner from the park, where no-one in the street was a stranger and the kerbs were high enough to play kerbie with a football.
I am from the single “Blue Moon” rosebush in a plastic pot in the back garden, the tree in the front yard that shed blossom all over the pavement in spring.
I am from 26 people for Sunday lunch and demanding your meat and veggies be served up on separate plates, from Nora and Joseph and Bill.
I am from patient, with a hot temper and impatient, with a milder manner (and inherited the worst of both).
From “if you break both your legs, don’t come running to me” and knowing that no matter what I do in life there’s always a place to go home to.
I’m from Sunday Morning Mass. From Catholic guilt, May Day processions and the Holy Days off school.
I’m from dodgy patterned wallpaper that changed every year, and furniture that was moved around at least once a week (because a change is as good as a rest), from over-cooked roast beef, homemade potato cakes and “runny” cheese with bacon.
From fighting like cat and dog with my sister then crying my heart out the day she left home, the house full of foster children, the relatives I saw weekly and the ones I wouldn’t recognise if I passed in the street.
I am from Royal Wedding street parties, walking to school unaccompanied, and hand-me-downs from people you only knew because they lived in your street. From old photos stored in a suitcase in the loft, static caravan holidays or going to “our gate” or “window view” when money was tight.
I’m from knowing that at the end of the day, nothing is more important than family. (Even though there are some days you could happily throttle each other).