A mere assemblage of rickety poles and flimsy cloth walls; the wendy house, tall among the wild grass at the bottom of the garden where no adults dare to tread. We carried the narrow poles up in pairs, through nettles and brambles, stinging and scratching bare legs, bare ankles. A space was cleared, upon the ancient slabs now deep in moss and old garden rubbish, to allow construction to begin. Swiftly the toy house's skeletal frame was built. A cheesecloth panel was inexpertly attached with ribbons and pins to each side of the frame, and to form a roof. Some of the more sophisticated houses had makeshift box-chimneys, sometimes with cotton-wool smoke, as fire was forbidden to us especially among such inflammable materials. There, we said to each other. It is finished. It is our wendy house. We shall have tea parties there.

Biscuits were brought there, of course, and old wooden boxes to sit on, and tiny porcelain teacups from which we drank imaginary tea. Sometimes the wind would take hold of the house entirely, and toss it up in the air. We would hold on daintily to our teacups, little fingers poised in the ladylike fashion, politely discussing the weather.

The traditional wendy house is named after the house built for Wendy, in J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan.

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