Missed.

The floor creaks underneath your feet even though it’s covered in thick blue carpet. If you sit down there long enough you’ll notice clumps of fur stuck in the fibres and spiders wandering across to get up to the walls. The skirting boards are off-white with chipped paintwork, spots of dirt and spots of green paint from the walls too. Two shades of green, dark at the bottom and lighter at the top, brushed over a pattern that itself looks like deep brush strokes moving in different directions. The right hand corner has small windows with grubby net curtains tacked up over them, and thick psychedelic red, green and black curtains threaded over that, frayed at the edge where the dog sometimes likes to chew on it. All the furniture is mismatched with a squishy chintz armchair over near the door leading out into the hallway, a dirt smudged white chair next to it with a little table in between balancing coffee mugs, and a green sofa at the back wall with white cushions scattered over it. The smell of home made sausage rolls and cakes waft in from the door of the kitchen left ajar because Nan never likes anyone coming in and interfering, or the dog wandering in for her to accidentally step back on.
Opposite the chairs is a cabinet holding up a small TV, and a shelf next to that covered in keepsakes and family photographs and a blue clock bought as an anniversary present with a golden sun on one half of the face that moves into a half moon on the other side when night draws near. Above the shelf is an oval mirror with a gold frame made to look like crawling ivy, and more dusty frames with more family photos in, a painting of a Lancaster Bomber in flight as well as photo of one too.
There are scurrying noises coming from the ceiling where mice have burrowed and where birds are landing because Nan has just thrown some stale bread up on the roof for them, and rattling on glass pots being washed out ready for a fresh batch of jam to be scooped in then delivered to everyone else living on the road. Nan is singing old war songs over the top, sometimes humming because she’s forgotten the words, or sometimes stopping completely to change into a chorus of “I’m a secret Lemonade drinker…R.Whites!”

Before I get into the swing of this.

I don't claim to be a good writer.
I don't produce the best material ever, nor do I produce anything that is 100% perfect in terms of spelling, punctuation and grammar.
I don't claim to know what I'm talking about or claim to have some kind of profound message hidden behind anything I do.

I just write. I do it as a release. I do it to entertain myself and my friends. I do it to order my thoughts and feelings, I do it because my real voice gets hindered by problems.

I'm doing this to keep me writing because I don't tend to do it creatively and much as I should anymore. I don't care if nothing is punctuated correctly, spelt correctly or if it even makes sense. This is for me to just soldier on and DO SOMETHING. If it's too messy to follow then that's fine, but I'm not changing. No lecturer can nag me here.