Fercucking hell!
I love the NHS. Yup, really. You won’t hear a bad word said about it in our house. After four years in Ireland spent wondering whether each ailment was worth the fifty quid to see the doctor, I am ridiculously grateful. Add that to several mad dashes to A&E at £100 a pop and you can imagine I’m a big fan.
Not only that, but the kids had a recent eye test (you guess it, on the NHS), and we discovered that not only did #1 need new glasses, but #2 needs them now for reading and close-up work. He was not impressed.
He was more impressed, however, when it turned out that he could have funky Quiksilver ones (to go with his recent purchase of skinny Quiksilver jeans from T K Maxx, and enormous DC skate trainers that, combined, make him look oddly like Mickey Mouse’s slimmer brother).
I also had to have a new pair. I’d had my old ones since 1994, it turned out, so it was probably time. Later,#2 was on the phone to his Dad:
#2: I’ve got this new pair of glasses – I’ve got to wear them for reading and stuff – they’re wicked! They’ve got Quiksilver on the side! And #1 got some new ones too – his are Red or Dead.
Hubby: And what about Mummy, what are hers like?
#2: They’re okay. They’re kinda brown and they say ‘fercuck’ on the side.
The really quite fabulous human blender theory
My husband, bless his cotton ones, doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He’s a ‘take no prisoners’ kind of chap, and his politics are, as my Disreputable Dad would say, slightly left of Attila the Hun.
I admire this quality enormously. Especially as I’m the kind of person who apologises when someone treads on my toe. Take his blender, for instance. It’s not a real blender, it’s kind of a standing joke in our house: a human-sized blender reserved for the total and utter tossers in this life – you know the ones, the real wastes of skin we come across all the time.
Recently, we were discussing the two awful brothers who attacked the two little boys in Edlington. Some bobbly-jumpered ‘expert’ with huge bottle-bottomed glasses was busy on Sky News telling us how it might even be possible for them to be rehabilitated enough that they could slot back into normal life.
‘Pah’, said Hubby. ‘They should get the blender’
And the more we think about it, the more people there are that we’d toss in to join them: how about the little buggers’ parents for instance? Then there’s any number of arrogant ‘me me me’ celebs… those drunken dickheads hurling haywain punches outside any high street pub on any given Sunday morning. Oh, and the adorable Nick Griffin – I’d love to give him a whizz on high speed. Oh god and then there’s Katie bloody Price. Wouldn’t we all love to whip up a quick Jordan smoothie? I know I would.
And imagine the money we’d save on prisons: Terrorists? Blend ‘em. Murderers? Chuck ‘em in too. I reckon we’re on to something – maybe I should write a letter to Number Ten?
Over to you then. You’ve got one person to hurl into the blender. Who’s it to be?
That ‘special’ cuddle
Oh lord. Oh lordy lord.
I’ll warn you now, this is going to be one of those ‘too much information’ posts to which I am especially prone. But I need advice, so I’m going to have to overshare. Brace yourself.
Last night, the husband and I retired to our ‘boudoir’ (yes, the £99 Ebay bed is holding up, thank you for asking) and erm… well… y’know, we… erm… had a ‘special cuddle’ (this is the name I used when my children enquired about what Mummies and Daddies do to make babies.
Later, I popped to the bathroom (I know, I know – oversharing again). As I was sitting on the throne with the door open (listen, we’ve been married 15 years – there are no secrets), I noticed something. Reader, I went cold.
#1′s bedroom light was on.
Oh good grief.
As I sat, horror-struck, debating whether I should pop my head round the door and enquire if he’d heard his parents engaging in a little bedroom gymnastics if everything was okay, the light suddenly went off again.
Well. I scurried back to bed and whispered urgently that we might have been rumbled. Sadly, all I got in response was a little snuffly snore-like sound. Damn. I slept fitfully. My dreams invaded by pictures of small boys holding up little signs with scores on them: 5.5, 5.9, 5.4…
And then this morning, in response to my breezy ‘good morning!’, I swear I detected a hint of embarrassment amongst the usual looming clouds of deodorant and teenage mutterings that accompany a 7am start.
Oh god. Did he hear? Should I enquire? HOW does one enquire? ‘Darling? Anything keep you awake last night particularly?’, or maybe ‘sweetheart, you know that chat we had when you were in junior school about the facts of life…’
I put a quick text in to the other half: ‘oh god, I think he heard us. Kill me now’.
But it was the reply that really killed me:
‘Just hope he didn’t record us and isn’t currently entertaining his mates with his new ringtone’.
Argggghhhhhhhhhhh!
To Ireland, with love.
So that’s it, then. Packing has commenced, the chickens have been collected in a trailer and carted off to their new home, and in a very short time we shall land back on terra firma in the good old Kingdom of United.
I have mixed feelings, frankly. When we first moved to Dublin I was miserable. I missed my friends, my family, the familiarity of having lived in a place your whole life; bumping into people you know in Tesco (frankly, being able to even go to Tesco without an hour’s round trip). It was rotten. The children hated their new school (#1 was the only native English speaker in his class), everything was alien, everything shut for lunch, or on a Monday, or on a Wednesday or had to be requested in writing, and I lasted about 6 weeks before I fled home, leaving poor Hubby blinking in a bewildered fashion in a big empty Irish house.
Still, we made it back. And with a new school for the boys, a new dog (the wonderful and much missed Becks), a new friend in Jenny and a new blog to take up my time (EnglishMuminIreland.blogs.ie – where it all began), I started to settle in. The Irish are a wonderful breed: open, friendly, always up for a laugh, never too busy to help… With Hubby’s new job we found ourselves here in Cavan and from the moment we walked over the threshold of English Towers, we felt at home. With the lovely C next door already terminally ill when we arrived, a sad by-product of being able to help in small ways like minding children or fetching medicine from the chemist was that we (selfishly) felt needed and wanted very quickly. We made friends with The Lovelies, the Galway Cs and Poppy’s Mum and her family (if you’re new here, check out ‘All about me’ at the top of the screen for more info), all via D, who was unceasingly generous with both his time and his friends, and have felt happily and contendedly as though we were home for the past two years. D now has a new, lovely lady in his life. The children are delighted and so are we. We wish them all the love and happiness that they so deserve.
But things change. The Recession came and bit us on the bum and it’s time to move on again. I’ll miss the beautiful countryside, the wonderful people and the laid back lifestyle, but the hustle and bustle of town life is calling me back too. Living in this huge house with the dog and the chickens and the lovely garden has been a massive adventure for us all. The children have made lifelong friends, received a fantastic education and enjoyed some amazing life experiences. They have benefitted immeasurably from their time here, as have the Hubby and I. We’ve been lucky enough to share this fantastic place with our friends and family when they came over for our wedding blessing and have even been welcomed into the new community of the church by the kind and gentle Revd Craig - something I never would have imagined in a million years. I know we’ll return so much more open to new experiences, and with a fresh appreciation for all the people and places that we’ve missed over the last four years.
Onwards and upwards, then. Pass the bubble wrap. Goodbye Emerald Isle. It’s been a blast.
Restaurant Review: The Forge Restaurant, Pottlereagh, Carnaross
So here, finally, is the review of The Forge Restaurant where we celebrated English Grandma’s 70th. We went with open minds because (let’s face it, like most restaurants) some of our friends had had fabulous experiences, and others not so good - we’d also heard tales of being rushed through desserts to free up tables, but when I phoned I spoke to a very friendly waitress who assured me that we could take as long as we needed.
First things first, then, it’s in an absolutely beautiful spot. Nestled in quite a rural location, but only about 5 minutes off the N3 (the main road between Kells and Cavan) and just 4 miles north of Kells. I’d guestimate that it’s probably just over an hour’s drive from Dublin. It’s a beautiful old stone building with plenty of parking, and we were given a very warm welcome by owner Irene, who was reassuringly present in the restaurant all evening, and the lovely smiley waitresses.
Obviously the first thing we did was order some wine and we weren’t disappointed with our South African Lookout Ridge Chenin Blanc ’08, which was fresh and zingy. The dinner menu (we booked at 7pm) is small but lovingly chosen, and Irene was more than happy to chat about the decisions behind the menu, their suppliers, where their seafood comes from, etc.
We got an amazing platter of warm home made bread while we were waiting, with some lovely spicy fruity walnut bread being my particular favourite. The fellas all chose a mussel casserole as a starter. The mussels were small and deliciously sweet, swimming in a generous broth of cream, white wine and onion (which was a bit too creamy for their tastes, but I thought was lovely – maybe in need of a bit more reduction, although I’m no expert):
Grandma and I both chose the smoked haddock fishcakes, which were exactly as promised: with chunks of soft smokey fish and a lovely crisp coating:
Everything was beautifully presented and absolutely scrummy.
For mains, Hubby and I both chose salmon with a crab Creole sauce, #2 went for a rib eye steak and #1 chose a rack of lamb. I can’t remember what Grandma chose (I blame the Chenin Blanc). Again, every meal was painstakingly decorated and lovingly presented: the lamb expertly cooked and just pink in the middle:
… the salmon moist and delicate (what? I stole some chips, okay?), nestled on the Creole crab which was amazingly sweet and warmly spiced:
… and the steak (what was left of it by the time we got a photo) huge, meltingly tender and perfectly cooked:
The side orders were beautiful, and generous: big fat chips, lovely creamy dauphinoise potatoes and fresh crisp vegetables. Most importantly, they were included in the price of the meal – it really annoys me when restaurants charge you 6 quid for a teeny plate of veg.
On to desserts, then. And although we were all feeling a bit like overstuffed cushions, the menu was so tempting that we had to go for it. Hubby and I shared a Baileys and mixed nut parfait in a hazelnut tuille with fruits of the forest coulis, which was first class. The parfait had an amazing texture and creamy flavour, and the tuille was light and crisp. Yum:
#2 naturally went for a big slab of squidgy chocolate roulade, complemented by a lovely sorbet (can’t remember what flavour but it was zingy and fruity and fabulously countered the richness of the chocolate roulade):
…and even the birthday girl managed to squeeze in a bit of sorbet:
All in all we were delighted. It’s not a cheap meal, but the care and attention taken with the sourcing, cooking and decorating of each plate of food means that you feel that you get proper value for money. The staff and owners are friendly and welcoming (even to little English boys with very loud, squeaky voices) and passionate about their product, the setting is divine and the restaurant is homely, warm and inviting. If you live in Ireland, do try and make the effort to head north and try out this absolute gem of a place, and if not, then next time you’re in Ireland, you must visit. In fact, you can pop in to English Towers and say hi at the same time.
The Forge Restaurant
Pottlereagh
Carnaross
Kells
Co. Meath
Tel: 046 924 5003
Fax: 046 924 5917
Random conversations: political correctness for beginners
I am baking (I know, what a shocker). Well Hubby is away and I’m missing him badly (I have nobody to annoy, and it’s really depressing to talk during a television programme and not be told to shush), so it’s either brownies or vodka, and it’s 4pm, so brownies it is. #2 is doing his homework at the kitchen table. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: ‘What are you doing?’
#2: ‘I’m writing a recipe for witch’s brew. It’s really cool. I’m doing it in my best writing ‘cos it’s going up on the wall’
Me: ‘Excellent! What have you got so far?’
He starts to read out his recipe. It contains the usual suspects: ‘one newt’s eye, one lizard’s tongue, one tarantula, one disabled person…’
Me: ‘WHOAH! One what?!’
#2: ‘one disabled person’
Holy shit.
Me: ‘Erm sweetheart, you can’t say that, it’s horrible’
#2: ‘It’s meant to be horrible, it’s witch’s brew’
Me: ‘No, I mean you really can’t say that. You’ll get into trouble. That’s terrible. You can’t.’
#2: ‘Why? It’s funny. Sean’s putting “one bulimic” in his’ *
Holy f*cking poo.
Me: ‘That is SO not funny. It’s not kind to make jokes about disabled people.’
#2: ‘I’m not making jokes about disabled people. I’m just putting one in a stew’
Somebody kill me. Please.
So we have the big long conversation about political correctness, about how somebody disabled would feel if they read it, how he would feel if somebody made fun of him or one of his disabled friends or family. It was a long, excruciating conversation, but I think he got the point.
I mean, how bloody hard is parenthood? When you’re wallowing like a whale in your parenting classes, chewing on your 7th marmite and peanut butter sandwich, nobody ever mentions that you’re going to have to explain what tampons are to a four year old who has fished one out of your bag and is now waving it in a restaurant shouting ‘can I have one of these sweeties?’, or why pointing out in a really loud voice that you’ve ‘got a stiffy’ in the middle of Tesco’s isn’t a good idea. Ohhhh no, it’s all cuteness and changing mats and baby powder and solids and all that. But disabled people in soup? Nope, not even a mention.
Have you ever thought about how you’d explain it, for goodness’ sake.
Me (in self important tone): So now do you see how important it is to be sensitive to other people’s feelings? Disability is no joke.’
#2: ‘Yes’
#2 (muttered): But you laugh at Andy in Little Britain.
*name changed to protect the incredibly guilty.
And in the spirit of even more political correctness, I’d like everybody to pop over to Belgian Waffle and read her Eat Your Words post. It’s quite the funniest thing I’ve ever read in my life. Ever.
Minnie the moocher
Y’know, when we started this whole chicken thing, waaaaay back when the wondrous Hugh was starting his Chicken Out campaign, lots of people said to us how they have their own little personalities and you get quite attached to them. At the time we just laughed and thought ‘yeh, right, isn’t it funny how people always want to give dumb animals a personality’. But, dearest reader, it’s really true. Take Minnie the crap Rhode Island Red (they’re supposed to be dark red, but she’s a kind of pale ginger), for example. Her perpetual escapology drove me mental at first. Whatever kind of fencing I put up, however much I clipped her wings (they were practically stumps at one stage) I couldn’t keep her contained, but now I’m actually quite happy that she just wanders around. I love looking out of the window when I’m at the kitchen sink and seeing her bimbling round the garden with her best mate Chilli the Black Rock:
She’s also completely and utterly in love with Hubby, which we all find absolutely hysterical. I think it started when she first followed him as he mowed the lawn and uncovered all sorts of tasty goodies. Now, within two seconds of the garage door clanging, you’ll see Hubby pushing the lawn mower round the garden, followed by a hopelessly infatuated Minnie in hot pursuit, doing that ridiculously comical ’Lee Evans’ fast walk that chickens do so well. He had to take a strimmer to the garden heart today, and ended up having to put her inside the coop lest he gave her an unintentional haircut (see, he loves her really – he only swears at her when he thinks anybody’s listening):
I’m pretty convinced that she actually sees herself as a human, following me back into the kitchen after I’ve hung out the washing, and pootling happily around, pecking at crumbs on the floor whilst keeping up a perpetual little burble of contented clucking.
This evening she spent the entire time perched on the handlebar of #2′s bike. Eventually it got so dark that we had to gently lift her off and pop her into the coop.
Tomorrow I’ll have a chat with her and remind her she’s a chicken. After we’ve had our Cheerios together, obviously.
Personal blogging: cathartic or a step too far?
I was interested to read (on Twitter, via my friend Laura) that the legendary blogger, Petite Anglaise, was hanging up her keyboard once and for all. And although our thoughts turned first to the fact that it will leave a space in the #1 slot of the Top 100 British Mummy Bloggers chart (elbows out, girls!…hey, hang on, I’m down 9 places to #15 – the shame!), her reasons for ‘turning the page’ on blogging were very interesting.
It seems that personal blogging, the very thing that earned her the lucrative book deal and led to a career as a writer, had started to leave an unpleasant taste in her mouth. If you don’t know the story, she famously got fired by her boss, about whom she was distinctly unpleasant, when her anonymous blog came to light (she did subsequently win damages against him in court, though). The story made her quite famous, but once the anonymity had been removed, there was the constant worry that somebody would be upset or offended with what she might say, and with that new-found worry came the inevitable dearth of subject matter. Interesting, also, that it was THIS INTERVIEW with Liz Jones, a weirdly neurotic, no-holds-barred journo who has managed to alienate half her family and her entire village (including my friend and fellow Disney 7er Exmoor Jane) with her bare-all style of writing, that finally tipped her over the edge. But in short, she just stopped enjoying it.
I sympathise, I really do. When I started my blog, way back when we first moved to Ireland, I was obsessive about anonymity and never posted pictures of anyone I knew. Slowly, I’ve relaxed this rule. I still try not to post full-face photos of the children, or anyone whose permission I haven’t sought (Mad Uncle Alg is fair game, obviously), and don’t mention people’s full names. But now we’re settled here, it’s natural that more and more people get to know me, start to read the blog, and my cover has been, I suppose, somewhat blown. In fact, I’ve even been caught out giving my rather frank views by someone that turned out to be a reader. Yup, that was awkward. I’d hate to think I’d ever hurt anyone by what I’d written and I’ll always check first with, say, D-next-door before I mention C, or the kids.
With all this in mind, I’ve had a long hard think about this blog and did decide to go back and remove certain pictures and videos, including our wedding vid. You can still email me for a link, but I wondered if I was going too far towards making my family live a life online, so I took a step back.
Add this to the fact that I now write for other websites, such as the fabulous HaveALovelyTime.com and you’ll probably find my first name dotted about, if you really look hard. Funnily enough, when I, and my fellow Disney adventurers travelled to Walt Disney World and met up with our American alter-egos, the ‘Mommy Bloggers’, they were completely dumbfounded by our wish to remain anonymous. Most published their full names, pictures of themselves and their families and couldn’t understand why we wouldn’t wish to do the same:
‘What, you don’t WANT to be famous?’
‘Erm, no, actually, I don’t’.
Englishmum.com is a, I suppose, a bit of an eccentric mix. There’s family stuff, yes, but the foodie/garden stuff tends to take precendence. And if I’m honest, I suppose that as the children get older, it’s harder to write honestly without risking embarrassing them in front of their school mates (#1′s been known to comment whilst in his IT lesson). My readership has risen steadily (thank you!) and though I’m sure I’ve lost and gained different readers as my content has meandered, I am lucky to be blessed with friendly and loyal readers and commenters. I regard my blog as a little piece of me. It’s stuffed full of things that I love and I’m always happy that people pop in and enjoy reading my waffle.
And this, I suppose, brings me neatly on to the fact that after much soul-searching, we’ve decided to have Bert rehomed. This is a HUGE decision for us, but basically he’s been showing some signs of aggression for a while and obviously our children have to be our main priority. There’s a load of history behind this that I won’t bore you with, but my lovely mate Jen is still in touch with a lot of people in greyhound rescue, and is going to make sure he goes to a good home somewhere with people that know his history and will really love and care for him well. I’m sad, but I think it’s the right thing to do.
So for now, I’ll crack on (800 posts, 8553 comments and counting…), I’ll continue to be anonymous-ish, and there’ll be the same old stuff – maybe a bit more food and a bit less about the fellas, and obviously no more Bert, but don’t worry, if anyone humiliates themselves in any way, you’ll be the first to know.
Oh and here’s my rather pathetic review on Mmmmmmcake. ‘It was nice’? C minus for effort there.
The Friday wedding spesh: the gory details
Okay, so obviously as usual I have to maintain the mystique which means you don’t get to see ALL the shots (email me if you want any more), but I’ve picked out the best moments of our day for you to see. From the top, then:
Mable the Merc gets a pink moustache (thanks Moon!):
Moon and Ali being very silly, part 1. It took me about 14 increasingly cross texts to get them out of the pub, too:
The boogie down the aisle (thanks to my adorable niece Lu for these pics). For some reason I seem to have ‘the claw’ with me again. And corr I could seriously ‘out’ some anonymous bloggers with these photos… you know who you are!!!:
The beautiful cake, forever to be known as the ’6am cake’, as that’s the time she finished making it on the day. ‘One day, the full story of that bloody cake will come out’, said Jen’s other half. Oh, do tell! But seriously, how gorgeous is it? God job, Jen, good job (and there’s that claw again):
Our first dance:
Mad Uncle Ali whirling me around the dance floor (you know it’ll end in tears):
…’erm Alg, you’re going a bit fast…’:
The moment it all went horribly wrong (look at his face, he’s going ‘Sis, what are you doing down there?!’):
Two really ugly gatecrashers. Oh no, hang on, it’s Moon and Mad Uncle Alg being very silly, part deux. Moon later decided that to ensure his lift home didn’t leave without him he would steal Mrs Lovely’s shoes. Every time I saw him after that he was guarding the shoes zealously. It worked, though, they got him home, where me Ma was exasperated with the giggly silly buggering about. Kids, eh?:
And here I am wearing my wedding present from Disney. I couldn’t persuade Hubby to wear his top hat mickey ears, sadly:
Well, it wouldn’t have been the perfect day without a little Disney magic, now would it:
Reader, I married him.
So finally, the weekend of our wedding arrived. Through the last year of planning and plotting, I couldn’t have hoped for a more perfect time. We’ve mulled and reminisced and remembered and honestly, there wasn’t a single thing that didn’t go perfectly.
Here, then, for your viewing pleasure, are my top ten moments from the weekend:
- Friday evening. The arrival of a whole bunch of our friends and family from the UK who crowded into our house to eat, drink, catch up and basically be very silly. My two lovely mates from England, Clare and Rebecca with their other halves, along with my Ma, my big bruv, IJ the Cocktail King and his family, and Hubby’s family (who had to go and find a pub to have something to eat when the food ran out, bless ‘em), and the wonderful Moon (Usher/Driver/Photographer extraordinaire) made me laugh until I nearly died.
- THAT dance (email me if you want a link to the You Tube video). I did wonder, as I was waiting outside the church for my big entrance, whether I had, in fact, turned completely mental. There I was, a 39 year old Mum of two, dressed in sparkly lilac and tulle, standing waiting to dance down the aisle in front of my nearest and dearest and the (soon to be very bemused) locals. Luckily, it went down a storm.
- Craig’s amazing service. The wonderful Rambling Rural Rector did us proud. He just perfectly understood that we wanted a celebration of everything we hold dear: family, friends and fun. He pitched his address just right, making everyone laugh (and cry), and quoting from bits and pieces of my blog posts, which made everything so personal. Just bloody fabulous.
- The reception. Wonderful Laura from the Oldcastle House Hotel needs a medal. The girl has obviously had herself cloned, because everywhere we looked, she was there: a calm, smiling presence, topping up champagne glasses, organising every little detail and just making everything perfect. Christopher, the Head Chef, did us proud. The spread that he put on was nothing short of breathtaking. The seafood was utterly amazing (the salmon and the little crab timbale thingies were to DIE for!) and he even surprised some of the fussier kids with chicken and chips. I can’t fault the hotel in any way at all. If you get the chance, go there. You won’t be sorry. Even though we’re probably the first couple ever to request two extra beds in the honeymoon suite, it was absolutely magical – champagne on ice, chocolates, rose petals sprinkled all around… when we finally landed there at ridiculous o’clock in the morning, I could have cried, it was all just so perfect.
- The band. Eoghan and Amanda and their gang were just fantastic. From traditional Irish jigs and reels (which got us all up and jumping) to a heart-stopping version of the Cranberries’ ‘Linger’ for our first dance, they were amazing from start to finish. The boys and their mates danced and danced (and lasted right til the end!). The band were also, incidentally, still on the dance floor at 2am when Hubby and I finally gave up and crawled to bed. Worth every penny.
- Ali dumping me on my arse on the dancefloor. My mental brother whizzed me around so hard that I managed to step on my dress and fall over. Well, it gave everyone a laugh.
- Seán singing Raglan Road. One of the locals, Seán, took everyone by surprise by getting up and singing a traditional Irish song. His voice was stunning, the band knew exactly how to support him, and everyone had goosebumps. It was the most amazing moment and I’ll treasure the memory forever.
- The cake. Oh. My. God. The cake was fabulous. Sadly, I’ve only got one very wobbly pic of it, but when I’ve got more I’ll post them here. Poor Jen got to bed at something like 6am after working on it all night. Not only was it beautiful, it was yummy too. The zingy lime filling had everyone talking.
- The craic. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever laughed (or cried) so much. Moon, Mad Uncle Ali, Clare’s Hubby R and my brother IJ were on fine form and we just spent the whole day with tears pouring down our cheeks. The locals were just amazing, welcoming all our family and friends and showing them just how hospitable Irish people are. At one stage, I looked up to see Galway C whizzing my Ma around on the dance floor, and Seán dancing with Hubby’s Ma. We really are lucky to have such lovely neighbours.
- The comedown. By the early hours there was only Clare and her hubby, The Lovelies, Moon and the band left with us. We had the last half hour on the dance floor by ourselves and it really was one of the nicest bits of the evening – winding down, dancing and laughing.
There’s so many people to thank I don’t even know where to start, but I’ll have a go:
To our wonderful, generous neighbours, for being open minded and accepting of our slighly left-of-centre church service, and for welcoming our family and friends in your inimitable fashion.
To our beautiful bridesmaids, for looking so gorgeous and doing us proud with the dancing thing!
To our Mums, I think every time I turned round my Mum was cleaning up again.
To my Disreputable Dad (who kept his speech clean as promised). Well done, Dad!
To the Lovelies, Clare and Rebecca and D-next-door for being the bestest friends ever, we love you x
To Moon, who took on about ten roles and performed them all with a stream of dry one-liners that had us all in stitches. You’re the best x
To Jenny my hairdresser for our fabulous ‘up-dos’ and Mary the superflorist for listening to all my demands and providing exactly what we wanted.
To Jen for our amazing cake (Mad Uncle A completely fell in love with her too – he emailed me earlier and asked if I thought she might marry him. I think C might possibly have a few words to say about that)
To Laura at the Oldcastle House Hotel (thanks for the Moet too!) and Christopher the chef, plus their amazing team
To Craig, our Rambling Rural Rector, the kindest, gentlest, most generous man, for accepting us as we are and making our celebration so special. No words will ever be enough to let you know just how grateful we are for making our day so perfect and for opening up your heart (and your church!), for suggesting the big entrance and ‘going with the flow’! x
.. and finally to my beautiful boys who looked so handsome, were such amazing hosts and behaved so amazingly well the whole day and to my wonderful Husband. I’d do it all again tomorrow. I love you guys xx
There are more photos to come, but for now I’ll leave you with this. I love this pic. The beautiful Little Lovely when she finally collapsed, bolt upright, in a chair. Isn’t she gorgeous?
