Describe a place you often went to as a child

When I was a child, I often went to my grandmother's shop in a small village in Iloilo, in the Philippines. It was a sari-sari store, which is a tiny shop in the front of a house, and it sells everything in small amounts, like shampoo in sachets, sweets and cooking oil.

Every summer holiday my mother take me and my brother there, and we stayed for about one month. My two cousins lived next door, so we were four children.

Normally in the morning I helped my grandmother in the shop. Customers came to the window and asked for things, and I passed them through the metal grille. My grandmother let me to count the coins, and I was very proud because I felt like an adult. In the afternoon, when it was too hot, we used to playing under a big mango tree behind the house, and sometimes we climbed it for mangoes, even it was not allowed.

It was special for me because it was the first time somebody trust me with real money. In the city my parents were very strict, but in the village I had a lot of freedom. Also, my grandmother was very kind and she never got angry when we made trouble. She passed away five years ago, but I still remember the smell of that little room very clear.

The place I went to most as a child was my grandmother's little shop in a village in Iloilo, in the central Philippines. It was what we call a sari-sari store, basically a tiny shop built into the front of a house, selling everything in small portions: shampoo in sachets, sweets, cooking oil poured into plastic bags.

Every summer my mum would drop my brother and I off there for about a month, and our two cousins lived next door, so there were always four of us running around.

The mornings were for the shop. Customers would come up to the window, and I'd pass things through the metal grille and take their money. My grandmother, or Lola as we called her, let me count the coins at the end of the day, which made me feel incredibly grown-up. Then in the afternoons, when it got too hot to do anything sensible, we'd play under the huge mango tree out the back, and occasionally climb it to steal mangoes, which we were strictly forbidden to do.

Looking back, I think it was special because it was the first place anyone trusted me with something real. In the city my parents kept a close eye on everything I did, whereas in the village I had a kind of freedom I've never had since. And of course there was Lola herself, who never once lost her temper with us. She passed away a few years ago and the shop's been closed ever since, but I can still remember exactly how that room smelled, of soap, dried fish and the rain.

As a child I spent more time than anywhere else at my grandmother's sari-sari store, in a village in Iloilo province, in the central Philippines. If you've never seen one, it's a pocket-sized shop carved out of the front room of a house, selling everything in tiny quantities: single sachets of shampoo, a handful of sweets, cooking oil decanted into little plastic bags.

Every summer my mum would deposit my brother and me there for a month, and with our two cousins living next door, there was a permanent gang of four of us, more or less unsupervised.

Mornings belonged to the shop. Neighbours would appear at the window, and I'd pass their things through the iron grille and take their coins with enormous solemnity. At closing time my grandmother, Lola, would let me tip the takings onto the counter and count them, which to an eight-year-old felt like being handed the keys to a bank. The afternoons were ours. Once the heat became unbearable we'd retreat to the shade of an enormous mango tree out the back, and every so often we'd shin up it to raid the fruit, which was expressly forbidden and therefore irresistible.

Why was it so special? I think it was the first place I was ever taken seriously. At home in the city my parents kept me on a fairly short leash, whereas there I had real responsibility and real freedom at the same time. And then there was Lola, who had endless patience with four noisy children. She died a few years ago and the shutters have been down ever since, but I can still summon up that smell of soap, dried fish and wet earth whenever it rains.