I was allowed to take a look around a house this weekend. I don't normally get into the emotional side of photography, but given the pictures and the subject I felt maybe it was time to try to supplement what I had rather than just tell you what I did.

I'd never been in the house before. I'd often past it and one summer years ago I stood at the door and talked to him about festivals and football. He'd lived there once, but even years ago it wasn't where he lived. But it was his home.

With his passing, the house was closed up. His children respectful of the memories and time was allowed to pass...

At the weekend, for too brief a time, I was allowed to intrude on those memories. I'm not a good enough photographer to do his home justice, but hopefully these pictures go some little way towards it.

Inside the house I could see the two lives lived there. On the one side, the home for a man and his family, on the other his place of work.

The family man with the memories laid out in the trophies and the religious items.  Whilst dust and damp had started to claim ownership, the family and the warmth of their love was still there.

He was a tailor in a time when people put value in clothes beyond the name on the label.The tools of his trade still present in the workshop, from the yellowing patterns to the hangers, its all still sitting waiting for the next customer.  Whilst in pride of place beside the window sits his Singer.

I took other photos in the house. Mostly they don't show the house well. Not because the house doesn't have a story to tell, but because I'm still not the photographer I'd like to be.

I'm not sure I'll be in the house again. I don't know if it's disrespectful to his family to tread on memories or if it's painful for them to open the house up to me. But if I am, I hope I can take something more from it.