Every so often, M. likes to travel down memory lane. Literally. We drive down the street and the house he lived in when he was the Little Guy's age. He points to the school that he used to study at and the spot where the skating rink used to be. ("We would walk there with our skates on.") Down the road was his best friend's house and the place where they made a fort out of some old discarded wood. Not to be forgotten, the dairy farm they would buy milk from. It was on one of these drives, that I spotted the 'moomin house.' A typical wooden house with little moomins pasted on every window and two life sized moomins by the front door. Sitting on the steps between the two giant moomins was a long haired raggy looking guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a beer bottle in hand.
(This is probably the creepy neighbor (complete with moomin fetish) your parents tell you to stay away from.)
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