A while ago, when I was more naively confident of my writing ability, I sat down and wrote this. It was about a real house that was, and remains vitally important to me. Tragically, a couple of Januarys ago, it burnt to the ground. Shortly afterwards, I went to visit the remains - they looked like something you might encounter in a Bronte novel: the garden was covered in blackened timber and broken bricks. The front of the house was gone. From the road I could look down the length of the corridor on the first floor, and see the doorways of the bedrooms where I used to stay. Only the two tall chimney stacks remained untouched, everything around them having fallen away. Now I have frequent dreams about the place, normally where me or my grandparents are living in the half-destroyed house. I'm briefly writing about it because, where previously Google Streetview hadn't covered the place, in its new trawl of Britain's roads, LM is there.