Chez Spud

Oh how MrSpud just adores this story…

Let’s go back. Way back. Way back when. Back to the early days of me and MrSpud’s courtship, when we were young, less lined and at least one of us was a whole lot less shouty. Let’s go back to Christmas 2001 shall we? We’d been dating for 3 months, it was getting serious – he’d given me a key for his house, I’d introduced him to my cats…you know the score.

He’d impressed me with his ability to actually ‘give me a call sometime’ and I’d started to adjust to Life with a Little Bloke (although I was still hoping he might grow at that stage, or that he might consider built up shoes?)

And then, out of nowhere, it was Christmas and it was time to meet ‘the family’. I remember parking outside MrSpud’s family home feeling a little shaky with nerves, but felt a whole lot better after spotting MrSpud at the window upstairs and giving him a cheery wave and enthusiastically blowing kisses to him. Thank GOD I didn’t take it any further as it turned out to be MrSpud’s brother, and not MrSpud, at the window. Not a brilliant start I will admit.

After that it all went swimmingly. I loved them, they loved me, we all loved each other. There was a ‘bit’ of a moment when they forced me to endure 3 hours of Hobbit related nonsense at the cinema but I was full of bonhomie and only penciled them in to the Grudge Book, for review at a later date.

And then came the time for ‘The Exchange of Gifts’ between me and MrSpud. Naturally, this being our first Christmas, I had spent hours researching and sourcing unusual and fitting gifts…a book he’d mentioned he’d love that was out of print…a tedious TV documentary he had loved as a teenager…and a ‘new to the market must have’ watch with a camera in it.  Each lovingly wrapped and beautifully presented. He was thrilled with them all…I had triumphed.

Then he handed me a couple of plastic carrier bags and mumbled something about ‘not knowing what to get me’. I was alarmed at the weight of the bags but quickly computed that heavy = loads of gifts and relaxed.

I started ferreting around in the bags and was a bit puzzled to find a sea of white tissue paper. At this point MrSpud started to look a bit shifty and mumbled something about not having had time to wrap my presents. These days I would immediately start berating him for such a transgression, but it was early days and I let it lie (whilst frantically scribbling the Grudge Book).  Fiinally I got to the bottom of all the tissue paper and unearthed…a set of saucepans. With the price still on. AND THEY WERE 50% OFF.

Yes, that’s right. My husband bought me saucepans, in the sale, for our first Christmas together. And didn’t even wrap them up, he just handed them over in the bags from the shop. WHAT…THE..HELL…WAS…HE…THINKING?

He will never, ever live this story down. His friends howled at him when they found out. As a punishment he has to cook my dinner every night for as long as those saucepans are still intact. They are Le Creuset. They have a lifetime guarantee….who’s laughing now, saucepan boy?

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• The Gallery… Mustachioed
• Housekeeping
• Love medley
• It’s beginning to feel a bit like…
• Christmas card photoshoot…NEVER AGAIN

Scooting in right at the last minute for this challenge, which ends today, but I couldn’t resist it! Lesley of Funky Art Queen laid down the gauntlet in the shape of a Ten Tiny Things challenge, the rules being:
1) find 10 tiny things and group them together
2) photograph them
3) post about them on your blog
4) go to Funky Art Queen’s blog and leave a comment

The photo above is my entry, and happily it  also doubles as a tribute shot to Julochka who got me hooked on this whole blog thing. I ‘found’ Julochka through her now infamous Moo card photo, and started stalking following her on flickr and then on her blog. I’m going the whole way and will be stalking her to her home for Blog Camp 2.0. She doesn’t seem very afraid, yet. Puzzling.

So this is my entry for the Ten Tiny Things challenge, totally copied from inspired by Julocka’s masterpiece…and contains ten tiny hearts, ten tiny pegs, ten tiny Moo card and ten photos of my tiny boys.

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Postcrossing…and a mystery…
• The Simple Things in Life – 10 simple things that make me happy
• Photo 366 – Week 1
• Competition! Win a family portrait shoot courtesy wish.co.uk
• Bluebell Wood Walk

Entirely random photo in keeping with the theme of the post

Goodness, at this rate there will be nothing left to share! Everyone will have had their bit of me and Chez Spud will have to shut up shop because, finally, I ran out of things to say.

So the sassy Jules of Just Jules tagged me for ’7 random things about me & a pic too’. Go check out her blog, she takes wonderful photos and is currently playing a brilliant ‘Tell me a Story’ game which I can’t play as I’m rubbish at imaginative writing. Sighs huffily. So go and check out her blog and then come back here to see if I’ve managed to think of 7 random things, ooh it’s tough timing though as my 30 secrets in 30 days project is nearing conclusion and I’ve still not settled on the remaining few. I might have to start lying.

OK here goes, random but not that interesting things about me in case I need them as secrets:

1. I have 4 piercings only 2 of which are now fully operational.

2. I don’t eat fish. I just don’t like it and, yes, that includes smoked salmon and seafood. If it’s fishy I don’t do it.

My idea of hell

3. I am a hopelessly lapsed Roman Catholic and my confirmation name is Colette (chosen entirely because I thought it was very elegant).

4. I once emailed my boss, in error, and told her that she was annoying me so much I wanted to stab her.

5. I’ve been married twice. This time I’m playing for keeps xxx

6. As a child, I lived in a village where inbreeding was rife. All the children had white  blonde hair and deep blue eyes…one of which turned in slightly.

7. When I was 18, and thought I knew everything,  I turned down a place to study at the Royal Academy of Music in a fit of pique because it was for singing and not flute.

Oh and a picture, and a bonus random thing which is that I love marmite! My lips really really stung taking this shot, don’t try this at home kids.

My mate marmite

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• It’s all about ME…again…5 more questions
• It’s all about me…five questions
• Thoughts that I have thunked today
• Spillage
• 39 things to do before I’m 40

Oh I was a HORROR as a child. Feisty, angry, bossy, aggressive (scratching other children was a favoured pastime) and moody. What a delight I must have been! Add in a temper as quick thing from quick land and it was a heady mix. But way worse than any of that was my penchant for throwing monstrous tantrums, often several times a day, for up to an hour at a time. And that went on for years.

My mother, who must be nearing Sainthood by now surely, used to call it ‘having a paddy’ or, more often, ‘throwing a wobber’. “Spud is throwing a wobbler again” she would say, pointing with resignation to the seething mass of chub on the floor – screaming like a banshee, puce in the face, body rigid with fury and arms and legs flailing up and down like paddles. When I go to my Pilates class and attempt ‘full Pilates swimming’ (lying on the floor, arms and legs outstretched and moving opposite legs/arms up and down a few inches) it feels like a graceful version of ‘throwing a wobbler’ and I often take a moment to consider what it would be like if 20 grown women spontaneously moved on from ‘full Pilates swimming ‘ to ‘full on throwing a wobbler’. I think we’d all feel very cleansed, don’t you? Although the instructor might feel a little alarmed.

My favoured response to anything that didn’t please me was to ‘throw a wobbler’ but my other party trick was to take a gigantic, audible breath and then hold my breath for as long as I could, meanwhile going purple in the face while my mother begged me to breathe. Eventually I would have to breathe, of course, at which point I would launch in to high pitched wailing accompanied by running on the spot with my arms pumping the air at the same time. That was called ‘having a paddy’. Sometimes, just to mix things up, I would start the show by ‘having a paddy’ and finish up by hurling myself to the floor and ‘throwing a wobbler’.

Outtake shot...NB purple sparkly eyeshadow used as face paint

After a few years of this tension was running high Chez Spud, as you might imagine. But a quick trip to a motorway service station on the M6 put a stop to it, more or less. I went in to the shop with my father and demanded a Cadbury’s Chocolate Machine. Dad refused (what was the MATTER with him? Had he not learnt by now just to give in and let me have my own way?). I pushed a bit harder, he stood firm and refused to buy it. So I retaliated with a ‘warm up’ paddy as a kind of warning that the full monty was on its way. Naturally, the show drew quite a crowd and my Dad finally flipped…he had Had Enough. So he rolled up the newspaper he had in his hand, and walloped me round the back of my legs. I went flying. He gasped, the crowd gasped…there was silence…I considered my options. I can remember this moment in time so vividly, I was SO shocked as my parents never, ever hit me. I decided it was game over. And that was the end of the tantrums, I never did it again (well apart from one in 2005 when I was 34, but I’d shrunk my favourite T shirt in the tumble dryer so I really think that was justified?).

My Dad and I laugh about it now, but at the time he was very shaken. It wasn’t against the law to smack children in those days (hell, he WAS the law…he was a policeman!) but certainly wasn’t in his nature to do so. Still, I’m sure he must feel there is a certain karma at work right now as Diggy LOVES to tantrum. He nearly always ‘throws a wobbler’, but any day now he might broaden his repertoire and ‘have a paddy’.

Diggy doing the 'wobbler warm up' - NB bottom lip, nice touch

Today Bertie tantrumed all the way around the supermarket, most unusual for him I must say. Not to be outdone, Diggy had a couple of turns too. I noticed they both piped down momentarily when I approached the newspaper stand though, wise move my boys, wise move….;-)

Bertie having a 'warm up' tantrum in the car this morning

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Secret 29…I’m a disgrace to the nation
• Secret 21…I’m not much of a good sport
• The Gallery… Mustachioed
• Housekeeping
• 30 Secrets in 30 days…everyone’s at it now!

Despite threats, I have held on to these 5 questions from NBF Ali to be scheduled while we’re away this weekend. She was most indignant and demanded  immediate publication – I see she is an instant gratification kind of gal. Well, she’s just had to WAIT. Mwah ha ha.

So, with thanks to the impatient one for some really fun questions, here goes:

1.What is your most precious of all childhood memories, one that will stay with you always?

This one had me thinking! Being sent a vast, and I mean gigantic, bouquet of flowers by my grandmother when I tuned 7 “because you are a grown up lady and grown up ladies like to receive flowers”. I was so blown away, no one I knew sent or received flowers by Interflora and the whole ‘you’re a grown up lady’ thing was right on a money for a 7 year old. I’m surprised I cherish this memory as my grandmother was a difficult character, to say the least. But clearly there were times when she was very special to me.
2. When you’re invited to a party do you (a) make a big loud entrance (b) slide in and look for someone you know or (c) fall over the threshold ripping your tights and swearing out loud because your pre-party, party was fabulous?

Easy, it’s (d) stay home and blog all night because I’m too ancient to go to parties. Seriously, I never ever go to parties any more – apart from children’s parties but they don’t count as they are mainly torturous. But in the old days it was (b) as I’m not really a big party kind of gal. Small and intimate is my thing. Say, just like Blog Camp ;-)

3. What’s your ideal vacation spot and who’d be your ideal companion?

Hmm, well I’ve been all over the world but the places that have stayed with me are Pathos, a tiny Greek island, and South Africa (where I honeymooned with MrSpud). I think if I had to choose it would be Pathos, for its unspoilt beauty and quietness. Of course ideally I’d be there with Michael Palin, but if he wasn’t there I guess MrSpud could come along. But NO CHILDREN. We’ve not had one night away from our children yet and it’s taking its toll. We neeeeeeeeed a little holiday!! So who wants my kids?

4. What was your very first gainful employment?

Washing dishes on a Saturday night in a pub, it was awful. I worked from 6.30pm until nearly midnight for £5.00 (about $8). Non stop dishwasher loading and unloading, and washing pots by hand. Hideous.  I think I was 14?

5. If you were asked to do something risky or illegal would you hesitate, jump right in or just run for the hills?

Ha ha, so easy…run for the hills. I’m the world’s biggest goody two shoes EVER! Damn, you’ve actually uncovered one of my secrets. Grr, because I’m running out!! I’ve never smoked a cigarette, never taken drugs, never done anything remotely ‘dodgy’ and I never, ever ‘risk it, it’ll be fine’. Well apart from conceiving second child by mistake but that’s not my fault, I was drunk. Hmm, perhaps not ‘quite’ so goody two shoes. More like goody one shoe?

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• It’s all about me…five questions
• 7 Random Things about, you guessed it, me
• Thoughts that I have thunked today
• Spillage
• 39 things to do before I’m 40

Every day I stack and unload my dishwasher 200 times. I ‘may’ be exaggerating, but it certainly feels like 200 times a day and it’s one of my Worst Jobs…right up there with putting clean duvet covers on. Mostly I don’t like it because of the sheer monotony, I feel like I’ve entered a little, domestic Sysiphus moment…always unloading clean dishes, only to find they are all dirty again a moment later. I hate that.

But, no, worse…the thing I really hate is that it involves going in to [sharp intake of breath] The Cupboard of Doom. I have to be feeling very cheery to be ready to tackle it, often I leave things waiting to be put away in TCOD on the work surface – ready for when I’m feeling stronger.

So I unload the dishes in a strict order, which is dictated by which cupboard items are stored in. Firstly, ‘the Good’:

The 'Good' Cupboard

Mmmm, lovely…all white/cream and neat ‘n’ tidy. That’s good. That pleases me. Next, gathering some strength and inner resolve, I move on to ‘the Bad’:

The 'Bad' Cupboard - very naughty

Ick. It doesn’t please me at all, all that plastic tat. But it’s a necessary evil with little children, a cupboard like that is a sign that you’re a ‘real’ mummy now. And check out that ubiquitous Ikea stuff, you know those weird plates that everything slips off and the knives that don’t cut.

Finally, with a heavy heart, I edge towards The Cupboard of Doom (AKA ‘the ugly’). This cupboard pains me, and it doesn’t matter how much I tidy it, put extra shelves in, put yet MORE stuff in storage…it always looks like this. Actually it’s looking quite tidy here, normally all that Tupperware is in a vast mountain and threatening topple any second.

The Cupboard of Doom...enter at your peril!

I feel so cleansed sharing that dirty little secret…but surely I’m not alone …so tell me, ideally SHOW me, your Cupboards of Doom. And any tips for clearing up that mess. Or, better again, come round and tidy it up for me. See that vast teapot in the bottom right hand corner? Holds 12 cups of tea. You bring the cake.

I thank you.

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Dirty Little Secrets
• FINALLY…Secret 30…I am a Big…Fat…Liar…
• Gremlin Catcher

As we all know, men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses…which is why I spent most of my 20s squinting. As, in my crazy head, the vague, distracted, squinty, wrinkled up nose look is an absolute WINNER.

I just don’t like wearing specs, it’s a vanity thing. I hate the way they leave a mark on your nose, or hurt your ears, or slide down your nose, and that awful ‘steaming up’ thing and the way they got lost and broken every 5 minutes. I hate the whole process of buying glasses as I have my Dr Spock eyebrows and droopy eyelids to contend with, plus ‘that’ pointy nose etc etc. Mind you I think these googly specs are quite something, don’t you think? Although they do make me look like Mitzi from The Koala Brothers.

I..hate…specs…but the specs are having the last laugh as the legacy of all that squinting is a whole bunch of deep wrinkles. Shakes fist angrily at the gods – curses to you ye gods of spite.

I also hate contact lenses and, on the rare occasion that I wear them, I am always very unpleasantly surprised when I look at myself in the mirror, wondering who the hell that old hag is peering back at me. One of the few upsides of being a Speccy Twat is that, with glasses off, you see a fuzzier, less wrinkled, less eye baggied version of yourself in the mirror. It’s generally quite pleasing. With glasses on, many of the wrinkles/eye bags are hidden and it’s reasonably pleasing. But with lenses in, and specs off, the full horror is revealed.

The only other advantage to poor eyesight is the ability to ‘take the edge off’ the world, without engaging in any kind off illegal activity. Specs off, and the world is a little blurred all over, it’s not unpleasant…like living in an impressionist painting. Best of all, you can deploy the ‘specs off’ trick to lessen the impact of a shouty email or letter. You know those times when you bang off a feisty email, telling someone how it is…you press send..you sit nervously awaiting their response…and when it arrives you can hardly bear to read their stinging response.

So, you pop your specs off, push your chair back from the desk and then just scan the email, just get the gist of it without causing yourself any unnecessary stress or emotional hurt by digging down in to the detail.Works every time. many a potential Grudge Book entrant has been saved by the ‘specs off’ trick – I’m sure of it.

No secrets this weekend, sorry folks! We are away, I will schedule a few bits but these secrets take more time and energy than I have today. Back Monday for more revelations….

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Secret 17…I keep a grudge book
• The Gallery… Mustachioed
• 23 365 At Felixstowe Ferry
• Dirty Little Secrets
• Housekeeping

Dragged out of the archives for Scribbit’s July’s Write Away contest as ‘My most adventurous moment’…wearing a blonde swishy wig for a day. Quite an adventure for an elfin cropped curly brunette:

I want therefore I get, it’s simple enough. I’ve always, always wanted blonde swishy hair in an elegant bob rather than the brunette frizz bomb that I have. So I bit the bullet and bought a wig and, once I’d tussled it off Postman Andy who was surprisingly reluctant to give it up, I wore it for most of today. Yes, you read that right, I didn’t just pop it on for a photo. I wore it all day. In public. With people looking and everything. Never let it be said that I am not committed to my Secrets!

Here I am all dressed up and ready to go in to town for my swishy day, trusty iphone camerabag application to the ready:

I was feeling a bit nervous and felt sure everyone was pointing and staring at me behind my swishy back. So I eased myself in with a little sit down in the market square, unsure of which might attract more attention…a crazy woman very clearly wearing a wig with tufts of curly brown hair sticking out…or a crazy woman taking photos of herself…you decide:

I was too self-conscious to ponder for long so took a deep breath and went in to the very posh dress shop – quite an ambitious choice. It was going quite well until, arggh, the owner engaged me in conversation about my shoes and I felt all flustered – I hadn’t really reckoned on up close and personal human interaction. So I took a quick snap while she was dealing with another customer and made a hasty exit. Here I am looking very furtive and a little sallow – nerves?

Next I popped in to a kind of gift shop with some clothes and, hurrah, found a dress for a family party this weekend. Note the vacuum cleaner in the changing room. Kind of odd. I thought I’d take a full length snap of me before trying it on…I dressed up to match my swishy wig, I didn’t think the swishy wig was a jeans and skanky T shirt kind of gal:

The dress, nice huh? And a bargainatious £40 reduced from £130, so that’s another £90 in my dressing up box kitty. Hope the frock suits me with my regular frizz bomb hairstyle though, I’m a bit anxious it won’t. I considered taking the swishy wig off to check but it was a nightmare to get on and, besides, I was quite attached to her by this point:

Let’s pause for a moment for a from the hip shot of the shop. Mmm, I love this shop but every time I go in there I get overwhelmed and generally buy nothing even though I want everything. Why is that? The shop is called Little Mermaid, how do you like that ye Blog Camp 1.0 people? A little bit of serendipity.

Emboldened by my success I then swished off for an early lunch, and here I am looking pretty chirpy at the cafe:

And it was right around now that things started to go a little pear shaped. Firstly, I had a banging headache (ouch those wigs PINCH, mean cows) but much more problematically…the wind started to get up. There’s quite a breeze at the best of times down by the water and I had not factored for that in my al fresco seating choice. The appeal of the swishyness wore off very fast as it swished repeatedly in to my eyes, nose and mouth and stuck to my lip gloss. And I felt sure it was blowing around in such a way that tufts of my real hair were now showing. A surreptitious feel confirmed this to be the case so I quickly scuttled back to the car to banish the tufts before carrying on with my errands. Here I am at the post office, wig slipping in to my eyes and looking a bit antsy:

By this point I really wanted my own hair back, the wig was slipping forward and my head was slowly being boiled alive. But I wanted to try out my swishy on someone that knew me. So I drove over to my friend’s house to collect some cakes she made for me (she is the BEST kind of friend, the clever cake making type). This was her reaction:

Her verdict? That swishy suits me, makes me look ‘so young and pretty’. Hmmm, because my frizz bomb hair makes me….? I considered a Grudge Book entry but the cakes were in her favour. And besides I agree that I look younger in swishy, I guess she hides more wrinkles? Not sure about pretty but I think it suits me?

So now I know what it’s like to have blonde, swishy hair and now I think I want it even more than before – oh no. As for whether blondes have more fun, well I couldn’t possibly comment – this isn’t ‘that’ sort of blog ;-)

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• The Gallery… Mustachioed
• Housekeeping
• Mr Wonderful
• Blog Camps 1.5 and 2.0…here…I…come!
• 30 Secrets in 30 days…everyone’s at it now!

Looking good, looking fine, looking a leeeetle bit like something out of ZZ Top? [hums] She’s got legs, she knows how to use them [/hums]……come on, join in, singalongaspud.

I used to be a biker, in the very broadest sense of the word. In other words I had a motorbike, well a scooter, oh go on I admit it…it was a moped. She was yellow and white, a Yamaha Pasola, with a nasty white top box (adorned with my ‘Yuck! Your disgusting fur coat’ and anti-vivisection stickers – forgive me, it was the 80s) and a whole 49cc of an engine. Top speed? 38mph, downhill, on a good day and with the wind behind me.

Ah how I loved loved LOVED that moped, Speedy was her name. When I turned 16 I mithered my parents to buy me a moped but they were having none of it. Fast forward a few months and, on my return from a trip, my Dad told me he had a surprise for me in the garden. And it was Speedy! She was second hand and was a heap when he bought her, so he lovingly brought her back to life while I’d been away. Isn’t that the best surprise ever?

Moustache has slipped. Damn, that is ALWAYS happening to me...

Speedy meant FREEDOM. All of a sudden I was able to go where I wanted, when I wanted. To school and back, to the various choirs and orchestras I played with, to friends, to boyfriends…or just out and about on my moped for the sheer joy of being able to do so. Life on the open road, nothing can beat it. My Dad claims he could hear me approaching from about half a mile away from the house, due the the high speed I insisted on riding at and the rather strained note of the 49cc engine as a results. Kind of “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

When I look back I think my parents must have been so cool to let me on the roads on a moped at the age of 16 – I certainly won’t be letting my boys do the same until they are, oooh, say…48? This was in the Stone Age when there were no mobile phones, so they regularly had no idea where I was or when I was coming back, for hours and hours at a time. No way of calling if I was in trouble or broken down for example.

Me and Speedy sped around Somerset for a couple of years until I went to university, at which point she went to the Big Scrapyard in the Sky. She’d taken to cutting out for no reason after a couple of miles, just sheer laziness I think.

But mostly we had a happy relationship, I fell off her a couple of times but nothing spectacular and I ran out of petrol once. I had to push her home and I stomped in to the house in a rage and shouted at my Dad, “Speedy is BROKEN!”. But, turns out, that needle thing…when it’s on red…that’s when you’re supposed to put petrol in.

How do you like my biker beard, blowing in the wind? Quite natty I think, although it’s given me a hell of rash. Like shaving rash in fact. Note that it has fake lips attached, those are not – I repeat NOT – my own lips. Since I have thin, evil mean lips as previously discussed.

[hums] she’s never begs, she knows how to choose them [/hums]

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Secret 20…I can’t handle it when people use my stuff without asking
• The Gallery… Mustachioed
• Housekeeping
• Hairy Bikers
• 30 Secrets in 30 days…everyone’s at it now!

I’ve had to cheat for this week’s assignment, although I am well practiced in the art of cheating of course. I sallied forth in to the Big Town ready to snap ‘Music’, but it seems the people of Ipswich were feeling quiet and contemplative today…the music man was definitley not ‘down our way’ today.

So here is a view from my corner a few weeks ago …a very British celebration of May Day including morris dancing and maypole dancing. I absolutely LOVE morris dancing and wish I’d been born a man so I could grow a really funky beard and join in.

It’s very hard to explain morris dancing. It involves grown men dressing up with ribbons on their socks and then doing synchronised handkerchief waving (ideally clean ones)

then kind of skipping around a bit

and then beating each other with sticks

Pretty odd huh? In most normal places such activities would be considered somewhat ‘fringe’, verging on the illegal even or at least confined to dingy basement bars at the wrong end of town. Not so here and thus respectable, upstanding members of the community get to dress up and indulge in sado-masochistic beviour in full public view at the weekend. Only in England.

So the music? It tends to be folksy, of course, and generally involves a fiddle or two and an accordion. This troupe had some kind of homemade stringed instrument too – surely he knocked this up in his shed?

Also, it’s imperative that the band get all boozed up during the dancing. And it must be Real Ale, on the warm side. That is The Law.

But if you think that lot were on the eccentric side, check out the next act, the maypole dancers. Seriously, I have never EVER seen such outfits, it was like watching a road traffic accident. My eyes, my eyes…

It’s the stuff of nightmares…run for your lives!

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• A place of reflection
• Corner View – Street Fashion
• Photo 366 – Week 1
• Competition! Win a family portrait shoot courtesy wish.co.uk
• Bluebell Wood Walk