Old Times found in the Attic

One of those constants of visiting my parents is that I end up with at least twice as much stuff as I came with. This is because at some point I enter the dusty dark repository of the attic to have a root through my old stuff. There is not as much stuff up there as there used to be (either thrown away or already retrieved) but there is still enough to keep me occupied for hours; old Dr Who annuals, some old comics, old bits of artwork, boxes of paperback books... I have a clutch of comics to take back that I shall never read (I never even liked Daredevil at the time let alone now), a 1980s edition of 'Salems Lot' by Stephen King I aim to read on the train, and I'm contemplating taking back 'New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos' edited by Ramsay Campbell.
The attic is a strange and timeless domain. No natural light, just the lightbulb hanging down from the rafters and the heavy black torch that is always kept on the bookcase below the attic trapdoor. The attic smells of summers and Christmas and the last days of Woodstock Drive.
There is a lot of stuff in the attic that reminds me of the last year of living at Woodstock Drive in Ickenham before I left home. This would have been the yuear leading up to March 1993. I'm not sure why this is, or why the stuff that is up there should remind me so much of then. I was unemployed at the time, spending long rainy afternoons in my room playing my guitar, writing stories -a short phase experimenting with painting (which led me to going back to college the following year)- and reading endless books. I remember one book I read over the course of an evening. it was called 'Night of the Twelfth' and was some kind of thriller set in a boys school. The cover superimposed an image of a boy on a photograph of a distant wood at sunset.
The book wasn't one of those I found up in the attic though. That has been long lost over the years, as most things, I suppose, eventually are.