today.

Today I haz hormones which means today I iz bitch. 

Sorry family. 

And complete strangers in the supermarket.

image. 

quack.

I can totally see what you have against us buying a houseboat. I mean, it's not like they're the cosiest, more romantic places to live in the world ever. Or like ducks look in your window. Or anything cool like that. 

(I know, I know, bad investment. Bite me.)  

* last image from House to Home* All other images by Pia Jane Bijkirk and via Sight Unseen and Pia's blog.

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happy monday. 

Things (funk)

I'm in a funk. It's January. I hate January. January is one big funk until the end and then it's my birthday and then it's nearly spring and then I cheer up. 

Ammie has learned to kiss. She reaches over and plants her wide open mouth on your mouth and depending on whether or not you have stubble, leaves it there briefly or for absolutely ages. Then she pulls away, laughs then does it again. Sometimes she sticks her tongue in your mouth, sometimes she bites your lip. It's the best thing ever. 

Ella has started moving. Properly moving. Climbing and crawling and hurumphing and falling on her face. We never thought she would let herself fall on her face, that kid spent 6 months thinking about how best to stand up before she gave it a go. That she is hurumphing is kind of amazing. 

We did our first wedding of 2012, it was totally lovely. A pretty arty girl married a long-haired musical boy. The guests wore faux fur, tweed and vintage shoes. There was a gramophone dj and coloured pencils.

We're going to France again next month. I'm absolutely too tired for hairyplanes. If anyone would like to go in my place please apply in the comments. (high alcohol tolerance and GSOH essential.) 

We've been talking about buying a houseboat. Because throwing our money straight into the Thames in a suitcase would be too efficient. 

I cut my hair off. It's now too short to tie back and too long not to bug me all the time. I either need to wait for it to grow (patience) or cut it dead short (commitment). I don't know which of those things I'm worse at. 

*photograph by All The Love in the Universe, aka Pacing the Panic Room. They cure my funk.  

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City doors closed behind them, wrapped up warm, a family of four. Through mist and through fog they drive, passing trees of winter that cling like sentinels to the edges of fields that bear both the scars of the harvest and the wounds of the December snow. Some of us sleep, others, not wanting to miss anything, watch quietly as things beyond their windows. Sunlight emerges through the bare forest just moments before we arrive, bright light fracturing through a web of bare branches, a thousand shards of clear winter sky.  

Drowsy girls are gathered into arms, the yeasty scent of sleep deeply inhaled, warm bodies are briefly squeezed tight as almost imperceptible whispers of 'I love you baby' are whispered into the secret darkness between woollen hood and small ear. Into the warmth where Christmas is for sale, the familiar pungent scent of cinnamon and cut trees sparking the light of festive feeling.
Food is shared between the family of four who are crowded around a table for two so that they can sit by the window where the bright, crisp light floods in and they can see the piglets snuffling and squelching in the cold, rich mud.  

Outside, wrapped in reluctant hats, buttoned tight, they talk to the piglets. 'What do piglets say baby? Oink oink? Oink oink.' And the goats and the sheep and the chickens too. One of the four wrestles and squirms and yells to get away, her small stockinged feet desperate to stand for themselves in the mud and the grass and the cold frost of winter.   

The sun, low in the sky casting long shadows that sing a song both melancholy and celebratory, they get back in the car. Heading in the direction of home they stop to buy eggs. There is a notebook and small metal box. On one they write what they are taking '18 eggs' and in the other they leave what they owe, an insubstantial sum for eggs still warm, still nestling soft white feathers against their speckled shells. Not for the first time they stand and stare at the freezers of meat, the bags of potatoes, the sign that announces 'we operate an honesty box system' and marvel that trust, that faith still exist. 

Bathed in the golden light that makes no promises to return any time soon, they walk. Up a winding track, past orchards of small fruit trees impossibly fragile in the cold, biting air. The shaded side of the path is encrusted in frost, a million tiny rough-hewn diamonds clinging to each blade of grass, each peak of mud, each fallen stick. Puddles crack and shatter under the wheels of the pushchair and in the last minutes before the sun sets two small but full laughs saturate and warm the still, frozen air.  

Back in the car they doze, trusting entirely that he will take them home safely. Trust exists, faith exists and even in the depths of winter the sun will make its appearance. 

questions.

Christmas Day: what I want to know:  

1. who you spent it with
2. what you ate
3. what you watched
4. what you got
5. who you fell out with 

I'll start shall I?  

1. Nye, Widdle & Puke (and virtually: Nye's parents, my mum, my gran, two aunts, two uncles, a dog-in-law and a cousin in a pear tree. God bless Skype.)  

2. Scrambled eggs & smoked salmon on multigrain french toast; vegetable lasagne, sprouts, parsnips & potatoes; French fruit tart & custard; champagne truffles.  

3. In Bruges (which was hilareous btw.) and 10 minutes of the original Miracle on 34th Street 

4. so much, but the top 3: a lush People Tree jersey scarf from my mum, tiny gold triangle studs from Nye & a Henry Holland tee with TWO BUNNIES on it from my aunt. 

5. The babies. (turns out that if your babies hate your homecooked food and throw it at your head every day of the year then expecting them to enjoy it on Christmas because you spent two days making it and had it ready early so you could eat as a family is a big mistake and may result in tears. On your part and theirs. It was short-lived though, they're kind of forgiveable.)

* santa, by Poolga via Flora's pinterest, which is one of my favourites.