Happy Days

Header picture, Connemara Farm is an oil painting by Elizabeth Ryan


Dear Diary,

It is the time of the New Moon. This is a time of growing energy, renewal and hope.




If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.

Dalai Lama


Every morning I am woken at 7 am by Radio 4’s Today programme; I don’t mind this, especially if it is dear old John Humphries taking the programme. What I do always bemoan however are the constant results of surveys that crop up amongst each daily dose of the news, it is always guaranteed to make my hackles rise. Surveys were never ‘news’ when I was young. When I was young - that phrase is creeping into my vocabulary on a too-regular basis of late. It’s not that I am old, I really am not but I slip and fall too easily into Victoria Meldrew mode because of the way life seems to be going in this country. Is it just me? Or was it ever thus? Is it a generational thing?

Anyway I digress - again. Yesterday’s survey made my ears prick up.

Where is the happiest place to live in the UK?

This sounded Interesting.

Powys came the reply. Folk living here are apparently happier than anywhere else in Britain.

A warm glow of satisfaction came over me. Yes!

And then smugness - weren’t we the clever ones to choose this fair county to escape to,eighteen and a quarter years ago.

This was closely followed by doubts, suspicions and insecurities. As ever in my psyche!

How did they work that one out?

More sheep than people - that always crops up. OK for sheep lovers I suppose but although I adore them all, my love of animals concentrates on dogs, cats, horses and especially donkeys.

Still, millions of sheep have to be a plus point, especially if you don’t like crowds.

The wonderful views. I can’t argue this one . I feed off them daily.










The lack of crime. Another truism. How lucky we are. There is crime of course but it is low scale and we feel relatively safe wherever we go.

I don’t remember the rest of the happiness-inducing delights of Powys as, even though it was Saturday, I had to get up and get ready for work but I can make my own list for sure.

I put it out of my mind but the subject cropped up in the library when one of my borrowers brought it up. This lady is a favourite of mine, a Welsh woman of 83 going on 30 who I see as a kind of role model, such is her zest for life. Her intelligence and energy are outstanding. She is always off here there and everywhere, looks years younger than her age, is still feisty, still drives, maintains quite a large house, gardens, belongs to all the town’s clubs etc but enjoys her own company too (she is a widow and has been for quite a few years). She is an ex-teacher and was originally from South Wales. I have recently helped her to set up an email address and taught her how to use Google Earth so she can both communicate with and see where her daughter is living in Los Angeles.

I have digressed again, whoops.

Anyway P, this lovely lady, told me that Hay-on-Wye had ‘taken over’ the results of this ‘happiness’’ survey, had jumped on the bandwagon and made their town the happiest place in Britain. Clever old Hay I say. But it really is the whole of Powys and not just that dear little town.

M and I went to Hay yesterday after my usual quick 1000 on a raft Saturday lunch. (beans on toast). M wanted to buy a few more Jeffery Farnol books and there is a shop in Hay with a whole section.

And the sun shone and there was no rain. Hallelujah!

Hay always makes me happy, it has to be said and if you’ve never been there it’s more than worth a visit, especially if you are a bibliophile like me.

While M browsed Farnol I scoured the poetry section and struck lucky finding two Kerry poets I love: Gabriel Fitzmaurice and Michael Fanning. Too cheap to miss, I spoilt myself.



An Old Man and His Joy

Today I saw pain’s beauty
In an old man and his joy -
His brain-damaged grandson.
(For years I’d passed them by;

The old man would support him
And clap his grandson’s hands,
But I had no children then
And didn’t understand).

Propped up, protected in the old man’s arms,
The boy shambled down the street,
And while he gave no smile, no sign
(Nothing that I could see),

I felt the care between them.
Though life needs anodyne,
I’m grateful for this beauty.
I suffer it as mine.

Gabriel Fitzmaurice.



Then I did the wrong thing - I went into a favourite clothes shop because they had a sale on. I was immediately drawn to a shirt and matching skirt. I have a weakness for gingham and everything was half-price. I was only going to buy the shirt and not the skirt but, for once, M was interested and actually encouraged me to buy both. (This is a first!). He even chatted to the lady in the shop about how the two items could be worn separately and would go with other things. He was even suggesting colours they would go with, frightening stuff, this is most unusual behaviour for M, or any man don’t you think?

The shirt and skirt.

(Not shown well, you can hardly make out the cotton gingham and it has come out far too pink, it is more on the reddish side in reality. Apart from that though it's fine...... :-)


You might think that I am forever buying clothes, especially with the recent acquisition of THE Purple Coat, but it could not be further from the truth. I usually have to be egged on, by my daughter usually or a friend. But Hay has such wonderful shops - it is best to go at sale time though as they are not cheap.

We stopped off at a favourite garden centre on the way home and topped up with compost (three bags for a tenner) and I bought winter pansies (purple of course) and some winter heathers to plant in my old Belfast sink which is now in the garden. I will post a photo when it is planted.

And we bought four more solar lights, tallish ones. My artistic brother’s idea was to put one each side of the river - why didn’t I think of that? These lights are so fantastic, I love their gentle blue-white glow.

So we were Happy In Hay and it was a Happy Day altogether as it ended with an impromptu invitation to go round next door for a drink. We sat outside (now that was a first this summer) and we enjoyed a barbecue round a makeshift fire in a bucket, a quickly made brazier. We enjoyed our much-loved neighbours’ company and a couple of friends came too. There were stars in the sky, for once there were no clouds and it was a very enjoyable end to Another Day in Paradise.

Yes - they tell me that in Welsh, Powys really does mean paradise.


Blessings?

Role models
Poetry (of course)
New clothes, gingham.
Solar lighting.
Our lovely neighbours, conversation, the outdoors, firelight.
A day without rain.

Happiness?

Grab it while you can.





Bye for now,
Cait.

A piece of Dylan Thomas

The Boathouse

On Monday we had a trip to Laugharne in Carmarthenshire to visit The Boathouse, the one-time home of the famous Welsh poet Dylan Thomas. M and I had been before but we took my brother and sister in law to see it. Here are a few pics and also my favourite poem by Thomas which is of course one of his most well-known ones.

The front of the boathouse

The interior of the shed where he did most of his writing. It is situated in the lane leading to the boat house.

A view from the house across the estuary.

Laugharne Castle

Do not go gentle into that good night



Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Dylan Thomas

Photo of a rose taken through my cottage window.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Purple Coat

This is for Frances who requested a photo of the coat mentioned in my previous post but I must say that the pic has come out a bit on the bright side and in real life the coat is not quite as garishly purple as it appears here! It is much darker.

Purple Prose

Header picture, Connemara Farm is an oil painting by Elizabeth Ryan

Dear Diary,

I never saw a Purple Cow; I never hope to See One; But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I'd rather See than Be One”

Frank Gelett Burgess

I'll start with a poem today, you all know this one.




Warning - When I am an old woman I Shall Wear Purple



When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin slippers, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph




Here I am again after a week or so of mulling - I love that word, it’s a great excuse for not-writing, a sort of pre-writing, pondering stage.

This morning I came into the waking state slowly, ever-reluctant to return to the land of the living that’s me. But lines were running through my head, blog-post lines and they were all truly purple prose. For yesterday I found a bargain in the sales, a long woollen coat, quite plain but classic and guess what colour it was? Purple. There was only the one coat in the sale, it was a size 14 and it was reduced to £30! I know a bargain when I see one and I had been coveting this particular coat all through last winter but felt I couldn’t afford it. And here it was just waiting for me. I tried it on and it fitted me just perfectly.

I had better come clean and admit that the shop was the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. There I’ve said it and I know what you are thinking. This is an old ladies shop? Indeed it is but there are little gems to be found there if you look hard enough and even Jeff Banks was singing its praises the other day. He was praising the cut and the quality, you know the stuff. The trouble is you see, where I live in mid-Wales there is a dearth of shops and even more of a dearth of clothes shops. This is a blessing in disguise really as it is very hard to be tempted into spending money round here. I am often to be found in charity shops as we have one or two of those and real treasures can be discovered there sometimes: household stuff, books etc as well as clothes. I get a real kick out of finding a bargain.

Anyway back to the coat and all things purple.

Why am I posting this? Most people who visit me here will probably know that I spend a lot of time over at Purplecoo, it’s become like a second home to me now and is filled with special purple folk who I count as my friends. Recently we had ‘homework’ and were asked to post pics of a purple hue. I was on holiday at the time and sent a note in asking to be excused (Purplecoo is a boarding school you understand, its name is Cowarts……don’t ask, you’d have to be there).

I digress again.

Purple to me means the heather-clad mountains of West Cork and it’s a colour that feels somehow near to Spirit which could be why I am drawn to it. It’s dark and mysterious but not as dull and depressing as black. It’s warm and autumnal, it speaks of juicy fruit, sweet berries, plums and aubergines. It paints the flowers in my garden and mixes so well the others. It’s separate from the primary colours so it’s ‘different’ but it’s kind of close to red, another love of mine. It sits so well with pink which I adore. (How could anyone not like pink?). It looks well with white too, a colour that I can no longer wear on its own.

Purple is probably my favourite colour but I hope I’m not taking it too far as I had new reading glasses recently and scoured the shop’s frame displays for some purple ones - I found one pair and bought them of course.

So this will be my better-late-than-never homework, some purple prose and a few other bits and bobs.

When I was a young teenager (sooo many years ago), T, my soon-to-be sister-in-law took me shopping one day in Guildford, the city that she and my brother (and me) were to set up home in after moving down from London. T was helping me buy some new clothes and she also taught me ‘how’ to shop. I’d not had a ‘proper mother’ you see but that’s another story. T unknowingly showed me how to deal with pushy shop assistants in the ‘boutiques’ (remember boutiques? remember pushy sales women?) Ah those were the days. I learned to say ‘I’m just looking thank you’ and I learned how to fly in and out of all the shops, assertively looking for the best clothes at the best price. Anyway I ended up buying a gorgeous wine coloured winter coat and some tops, but best of all my purchases was a pair of purple wool bell-bottom trousers.

I was tall (for those days) and skinny as well and as I was growing up I used to always cover my long bony arms with a cardigan and my legs with boots, if I remember rightly. But suddenly Twiggy was in vogue and my shape was the shape to have; at last I looked ‘right’ and even more so when T took me to a hairdresser and I had my longish thick, unruly wavy hair cut into a very short elfin-type crop. For years after that I kept it short, half an inch all over for a long time, very easy to handle for my lazy self that was.

I’ll never forget those bell-bottoms and also a Biba dusky pink towelling mini dress that I bought much later when I lived in a flat in Guildford. The dress was short-sleeved and so soft it was almost velvety.

T helped me, I will never forget that, it was a sort of ‘makeover’ I guess but before they became all the rage. We are both of a certain age now but I will always be grateful to her for that shopping expedition in Guildford.

I wonder if any items of clothing or shopping trips hold special memories for you?

To be around in the sixties will have to be my Blessing today. There was the music, the art, the fashion, the social revolution, the rise of feminism, the sense of positivity in the air, anything was possible and there has not been a time like it since.

I attracted attention with my new hairstyle and my trendy trousers and my life as a young woman in the sixties was just beginning…..

Anyway after all this rambling perhaps you will understand why seeing a purple coat in a sale has sent me into raptures and why I just HAD to buy it. The decision was made for me. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.





Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

More Bits and Bobs

Dear Diary,

These are a couple of pics taken on our walk with Finn and Kitty, we were high up in the forest close to our cottage. The Forestry workers have cut down a lot of pine trees and opened up the fantastic views.







This next pic is by Klimt of course. My brother and sister in law are coming to stay with us this weekend after they have been to the Klimt exhibition at Tate Liverpool.

This poem is another of my favourites.

Villanelle For Our Time


From bitter searching of the heart,
Quickened with passion and with pain
We rise to play a greater part.
This is the faith from which we start:
Men shall know commonwealth again
From bitter searching of the heart.
We loved the easy and the smart,
But now, with keener hand and brain,
We rise to play a greater part.
The lesser loyalties depart,
And neither race nor creed remain
From bitter searching of the heart.
Not steering by the venal chart
That tricked the mass for private gain,
We rise to play a greater part.
Reshaping narrow law and art
Whose symbols are the millions slain,
From bitter searching of the heart
We rise to play a greater part.


Leonard Cohen

The man is a genius.


I haven't felt inspired to write from my own heart these last few days. I have been in a mulling mood rather than an expressive one, so to stay in touch I have just picked a few more bits and bobs that I hoped you may like looking at and listening to. Talking of which, listen to this, it is Sara Maclachlan singing Angel (live) accompanied on the guitar by Carlos Santana. Angel is one of my favourite songs, one that I just have to listen to from time to time. Sara sings like an angel too.






I hope you have a weekend full of wonder,

I hope the sun shines on you.

Enjoy each miracle,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Bits and Bobs

My dog Kitty

Back door

Garden pics taken by M

One of my favourite quotes by one of my favourite writers:

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
Maya Angelou


A favourite song, a poem:

Love Minus Zero/No Limit

My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.
In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.
The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.
The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.


Bob Dylan


A song that always lifts my spirits:
The Travelling Wilburys.

The End of The Line (with dear George Harrison, God rest him).







Header picture, Connemara Farm is an oil painting by Elizabeth Ryan

Thoughts on Poetry

Dear Diary,

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.
Jean Cocteau

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
Leonard Cohen

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
Robert Frost

Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.
Dennis Gabor

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Robert Frost

Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.
Rita Dove

I will start with two poems, one is rhymed, one not. The first by the American poet Rita Dove who writes about a lady I admire so much and feel sure I would have done the same as she if I had been travelling on that bus..


Lady Freedom Among Us


don't lower your eyes

or stare straight ahead to where

you think you ought to be going

don't mutter oh no

not another one

get a job fly a kite

go bury a bone

with her oldfashioned sandals

with her leaden skirts

with her stained cheeks and whiskers and

heaped up trinkets

she has risen among us in blunt reproach

she has fitted her hair under a hand-me-down cap

and spruced it up with feathers and stars

slung over her shoulder she bears

the rainbowed layers of charity and murmurs

all of you even the least of you

don't cross to the other side of the square

don't think another item to fit on a

tourist's agenda

consider her drenched gaze her shining brow

she who has brought mercy back into the streets

and will not retire politely to the potter's field

having assumed the thick skin of this town

its gritted exhaust its sunscorch and blear

she rests in her weathered plumage

bigboned resolute

don't think you can ever forget her

don't even try

she's not going to budge

no choice but to grant her space

crown her with sky

for she is one of the many

and she is each of us

© Rita Dove. From On the Bus With Rosa Parks


The second is by one of my favourite poets.


WHEN YOU ARE OLD


WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)



Yet another day begins with rain. It’s feeling cool again, the river level is quite high for this time of year and it is in fast flow. I’m getting a wee bit desperate now and feel the need to remove myself to warmer climes. The rise in fuel prices won’t bother me as I have my own method of transport.

You can see a picture of where I keep it, hanging on the wall by my back door.

It was writing group last night and there was a lively discussion about poetry and the comparison between poems that are rhymed and those written in free verse. Some folk felt very strongly that poems should rhyme. I think there is room for both and as long as it is good writing and it ‘moves’ me, that is all that matters.

Just out of interest I looked up the definition of the word poem in my Bible, my 1963 Concise Oxford Dictionary

A metrical composition, esp. of elevated character; elevated composition in prose or verse,

A poet is a writer of poems and a writer in verse especially one possessing high powers of imagination, expression etc

I think that as long as the writing is poetical, musical/rhythmical/ metric, metaphorical, reads and sounds ‘right’ and its content ’moves’ you as all good art must, then it is a poem. But the quotes at the top of this blog say it far better than I do.

What do you think?


Have I given up on the blessings, you may ask? Never!

Here are six for today.

A day off and nothing to do!
My dear newfound sister and her lovely family who have just spent the weekend with us.
Time spent with E my youngest granddaughter.
Deep and dreamless sleep when one’s energies are almost depleted.
A favourite TV series that is returning this evening - Who Do You Think You Are?
A pile of lovely books to read - so many that I don’t know where to start.

The sun is peeping at me, such is her habit now, that of shyly peeping out of the clouds instead of shining full on. For she has turned into a bit of a sly temptress who promises me gold, lures me outside and before I know it, it seems that the sun and the rain are in league because the heavens have opened and showered me with heavy torrents.

I am going to brave the elements though as we are just off for a little jaunt in the car, some exploring of new ground to do.

Can’t wait. Back Soon.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

PS My favourite poetry quote is by Robert Graves..

There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.

Oh and here is a puzzle for you. Does anyone know what this is? Keep looking at it; watch what happens. It was very camera shy.

Header picture, Connemara Farm is an oil painting by Elizabeth Ryan

Images of Scotland

The above are photographs of the Applecross Peninsula in the Western Highlands of Scotland. They were taken by my daughter who has just returned from a week's holiday there. They remind me of Paul Henry's paintings of Ireland.


Here is a poem that I have written in response to the MEME which was entitled I am from:



I am red from their blood and the passion spent


I am red from their blood and the passion spent

I sprung from the workhouse grey and from black London smog.
From scrubbed steps and tears,
intimidation and hardship.
Magdalen years.

I am from Ireland.
From the strong ones;
fighting stock, survivors of famine,
hunger and want.
From Britain’s infiltration attempting
Irish subjugation.

I too am born of the Kerry clay.
I am from red haired kings,
from O’Connor castles and fields of green
and farms and butter churns.
From the peat and the bog
From a few acres dug.

I am from poets and artists
and singers of songs
and dancers of jigs to
a glass or two.

I am from West Cork
where purple mountains meet beaches and the roar of their sea.
Westernmost coasts,
Holy Ghosts.

I am from shipwrecked Spanish galleons,
black haired pirates and
blue-eyed wild beauties of the night.

From Druids and tinkers
and Celtic fortune-tellers
and Sisters of Mercy wearing
silver rings and rosaries

I am red from their blood and the passion spent.



Cait O’Connor

The Wicked Month

Dear Diary,

I'll start with another Irish blessing for you.

God bless the corners of this house,
And be the lintel blest,
And bless the hearth and bless the board,
And bless each place of rest,
And bless each door that opens wide
To stranger as to kin,
And bless each crystal window pane
That lets the starlight in,
And bless the rooftree overhead
And every sturdy wall.
The peace of man, the peace of God,
The peace of love on all.




It is August, the wicked month, according to my so-much-loved Irish writer. Edna O’Brien. I wish I could write like her.

The weather is certainly leaning towards the wicked side, so very dull and rainy again. We have just returned from visiting my stepson and his family, we had such a wonderful time in Norfolk, a county I had never visited before. The sun shone the whole time, in fact to employ a cliché it was a real scorcher. What a treat for we summer-starved folk and the new sun-hat got a lot of use. My step grandchildren, H aged 15 and O aged 12, are two very special and beautiful people and I miss them (and also their parents D and K of course). We had a lot of laughs, lots of good food and drink and very pleasant outings.

So I will tuck in my Blessings here before I go on.

My lovely step family.

Memories and laughter. Moments to treasure amongst the company of those we love, especially if they live far away.

Sunshine (of course).

Journeys to new places.

My Angel divination cards that always resonate with what is called for.

Scented candles and new shoes/clothes/hats/

Treats, rest and good food. Alcohol!

A little Good News that I cannot yet reveal.

Returning Home and seeing the animals especially dear old Finn.


But now I am back to work and back to blogging.

I have a couple of MeMes lurking in the notebook so I will inflict them on you. One comes via Lane and is called

I Write I Don’t Write.

If you are reading this then why not do your own version?


This is mine:


I write because I have to.

I write in bed.

I write at dawn.

I write in the mists of sleep

I write in the middle of the night,

in the dark

and my pencil makes squiggles that I hope to be able to read in the morning. Too often the words next day are illegible or just some kind of gobbledy-gook, ideas that in the night seemed to be some kind of inspired genius and in the morning present themselves as the ramblings of a madwoman.

I write all day in my head.

I write in a flash of inspiration.

I don’t write for you,
I write for me.

I write for you,
I don’t write for me

For whom do I write?

I do write if there is a deadline.
I don’t write to order.

I do write by hand with pen and paper.
I don’t write on the computer.

I write letters in my head.

I do write in a notebook whose cover has to be colourfully pleasing to my eye and I have a collection of these waiting to be filled, all picked up as ‘bargains’ in my travels.

I do write on little scraps of paper because I can never find said notebooks when ideas come to me while doing chores/moodling/listening to Radio 4 or music.

I don’t write often enough when I am out on walks with the dogs because I nearly always forget my wee ‘walking’ notebook.

Ditto in the car.

I don’t write In the shower because I can’t can I? Too wet. It is however the place where I get so many ideas that come in a flash. From where do they come? I think it is something to do with the running water and its elemental energies being associated with ‘feelings and inspiration’.

I don’t write when hot/cold/ tired/ angry/ headachey/ ill/ busy/hungry/in company.

I don’t write on workadays.

I do (always) write when angry and the need to communicate my feelings is intense.

I write for enjoyment, especially this blog.

I write for therapy.

I write rather than speak.

I write my life.



THE END.


This blog is To Be Continued.

A visit to the shops is called for and much as I want to write, the fridge is empty.

I guess I don’t write when the fridge is empty.

The next MeMe is

I am from,

so watch this space……



Bye for now,
Cait.