From my Grandmother (no grandfather on that side):
A cupboard full of Mr. Kipling cakes. Especially bakewells, french fancies and those chocolate sponge things with a disc of choc on top that you could peel off.
The gentle sound of screeched swearwords when the firealarm that she had positioned over the hob went off inexplicably once again.
Black bun bags full of easter eggs or christmas presents.
The heady scent of dog and fags.
Tons of pictures of the family in mismatched, garish frames dotted around.
Her laughing whenever anyone seemed to be taking things too seriously.
Playing with her carousel ash tray.
Garden full of holes that the bloody dog dug.
My uncle who still lived at home demanding his dinner.
The huge amount of tack on every shelf. It was like a treasure trove.
The sickly sweet smell of God knows what in the loo.
Dirty jokes.
Sing songs.
Her glass dining table that I was so scared of breaking.
Clutter, noise, mess, chaos, happiness.
From my grandfather and grandmother:
Silence
Depression
Resentment
Cribbage
Dancing trophies from years ago
From earlier days, view of Oxo tower and a dingy fishtank
From later days, pull cords and emergency buzzers everywhere
Tea without end
Boredom
The market where my grandfather worked for one of his jobs and how he came to life there
My grandmother sitting or laying on the sofa and never speaking
The sofa throw with tassles I used to plait