“Christ, where is this fucking place?”
I was getting more than a little irritated. It didn't want to be found and we had been going backward and forwards on this piddly narrow road for the best part of 20 minutes.
“The House of Selotape” had looked intriguing and captivating; a mini time-capsule that had so far escaped the grasp of the national TourBus and its swathes of thieves, vandals, and wankers.
What you expect to see is often very different than what is out there, and therein lies the problem.
“What’s that over there”, exclaimed 
The trees, bushes, foliage, and man-eating vines had been cut back and the angle we saw it from partially concealed the mental image I had in my head.
An inhabited house sat just 200 yards from "The House of Selotape" and we had to approach it before Mr. Angry would open his door waving fists, crowbars, and chainsaws.
Call me cynical, this is what I expect and it’s generally true.
Climbing a farmer’s fence laden with barbed wire we crept through an adjoining field that would hide our approach.
"..We can't go this way dude, the bloody vines are taller than us.."
The ground was ever so squelchy despite it being high summer, and what were these massive weeds getting in our way, and shooting up higher with our every step?
We retreated reluctantly, almost at the fence ready to climb and impeded by monstrous weeds adamant that we were not going to pass.
"Well fuck it, man, it's over the fence, in full view of the neighbours, and then leg it to the house"
After another fence vault we did just that, and luckily saw nobody.
"So... how do we get in here?"
It was taped up, and ready to fall over if we blew too hard. The foliage clearing an indication that “The House of Selotape” was doomed for demolition soon.
It does help to be slightly skinny is what I will say about getting through all the crap and mitigating the anti-climbing fencing that’s also taped to the front.
It's the smallest house in the world, I thought when inside.
Small or not, there were plenty of old artifacts on show, starting with an old crusty TV from the 60s or '70s.
I would have plugged it in if there was running electricity. All those cobwebs would add an extra layer of drama when watching horror films.
It had not entirely escaped the thugs. The wallpaper reflected what would have been around the outside of “The House of Selotape” before the machetes had visited.
If you live in the middle of a field then you have to expect company of the rodent type. This occupant was not a fan.
It was quite neat and orderly inside. I wonder who lived here?
The previous occupant was a fan of the British cup of tea, and no stranger to keeping the place clean.
I personally would take stickers off my glasses before drinking from them. A drink from that one could prove quite tasty, especially with the added insect ingredient.
This one was a gardener, perhaps a little old lady living out her final days.
The more I looked the more I could see it.
A search for ‘Hassall & Whitehead’ reveals nothing at all. I think this might have been the fridge.
The décor was very colourful and light, as well as orderly. I’m still trying to place who lived here.
Just a year before in the COVID days, those bog rolls would have been valuable, and even in their slightly rat-eaten state would still work as decent arse wipers.
Light bulbs and bin liners. This one was an independent type.
What a fantastic view to accommodate you when watching TV. In summer a gentle breeze would waft through the generous gap and keep your genitalia cool.
In winter you would freeze to death. You can’t have it both ways?
It’s little wonder the machete lads had visited with all the shrubs our late elderly lady had been planting.
I was wondering if she was responsible for those goddam giant vines that had hindered our approach.
We vacated not in such a hurry this time to reach the fence and noticed the neighbour was out and staring over, looking distinctly unhappy.
I waved cheerily which resulted in no response at all besides more stares. Could it be he was used to explorers, or that he simply didn’t give a damn?
At least we didn’t get the usual verbal abuse that comes with this hobby of ours.
We took off quickly in case he changed his mind and decided to start taking photographs of my car, as if that is going to make any difference.
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