Oh dear! I really wish I wasn't having to write this but ... my beautiful, feisty Monica has left the 'estate'. For those of you who are not familiar with the Menagerie that shares my home, Monica is a battery hen who was unceremoniously stuffed in to an air conditioning unit along with some of her 'sisters' by a Year 11 student anxious to leave his mark on the last day of term in May 2010.
When I first met her and two others, Martina and Merkle, I was not hopeful of her survival. Everything about her from the half plucked feathers showing bald patches, to her limp, almost white comb, the botched debeaking, to the strange ring around her irises told me she would not last 48 hours. It took a month for me to help the Three Ms regain their condition and beautiful buff and blond feathers returned to cover their skins. I brushed their feathers gently to release ; they scratted in the garden, in the daylight - soaking up vitamin D, for the first time in their lives. They feasted on the best mixed grain I could get which I dressed with olive oil and I made them vegetable mash from peelings and leftovers.
Monica did survive beyond my predicted two days: She was the first one to discover she could fly; she taught the others how to escape from Peckingham Palace - she really did! I watched her do it!!!! When she did return to condition she was fearless. The dog snapped at her when she tried to steal her food: Monica's reaction was a simple shake of her feathers - beak held high as she walked away and I swear she would have said 'what-ev-va' if she could have spoken. Martina and Merkle were less ballsy and made way, not only for the dog, but also for the cats.
Time came when Martina and Merkle made like truculent teenagers. You know the ones: those who get everything they need (and more!), wear designer clothes cos otherwise the wail of 'But Muuuuummmmm ! Every one's wearing Addynickeysports stuff' would echo through your head, your house, the shopping mall...... but moan to their peer group that their parent is a) sooooooooooooo like not cool; b) doesn't understand what it is like to be (insert age) c) NEVER gets me what I want. As soon as Martina and Merkle were returned to condition and all three had started to lay eggs, they packed their spotted handkerchiefs and toddled off across the fields. I searched everywhere for them and, heart in my mouth, came across a large buffy browney thing... I used my walking stick to push the grass aside and was stunned to find THE biggest fungus I had ever seen. There was no evidence of any attack by Mr Fox so I am pretty sure they ended up on someone else's plot. A few days later, driving towards the next village, I spotted a pair of Hampshire type hens on the roadside just in front of a farmhouse...
And that left Monica: Oh! Monica what WILL I miss about you? I will miss your 'hen with attitude coming by - step aside' attitude: I will miss those special occasions such as when you allowed my Pixie Princess to kiss you on your beak; when you permitted My Bestest Boy Ben to brush you and you fed from his hand - he was almost overcome with emotion. I have some wonderful pictures of you in my head: you sitting on my lap and the girl cat backing away as you insisted this WAS your rightful place and she could go hang; The first time you flew up onto the kitchen table followed by several episodes with me pretending to unwitting guests, as they fought to protect their cakes and cups of tea from your thieving beak, that 'Oh! My Goodness: that's the FIRST time she's done that!' ; my hunk of a son backing away barefooted to escape your attentions to his feet; the look on the faces of the two Jehovah's Witnesses as they came to the gate to convert me but spotted you in the doorway and changed their minds; you tolerating Coco's persistent examination of your back end; you attracting the attentions of the gorgeous church bell mender meaning he spent 15 minutes talking with this mad old bat. You laid an egg in the clothing waiting to be washed; my daughter-in-law is convinced you were saving me the effort of going out into the cold to collect your gift.
Oh! there are so many occasions when you made me laugh out loud, made me smile and drove me mad too! My friends accepted that you were my pet chicken and made allowances for any little messages you left behind (I was so pleased I had hard floor coverings!), you stole food from the dog, the cats and from me. You knocked on the door to be let in. You peered at me eye to eye through the Hive window when I tarried too long letting you in. Once you had inspected the entire ground floor, stolen what food there was, cleared up any leftovers I had not disposed of you would settle under my desk, hide your head in your lovely feathers and go to sleep and yes Monica, you did snore. You also purred and talked and you listened too. You drove my friends and relatives mad when they were on the telephone to me because you would insist on telling us all about your day, very, very loudly. Some nights you refused point blank to leave the house so I let you roost in my office not having the heart to put you out - one night you actually snuck up the stairs and roosted in my bedroom and by the time I realised you were there it was too late!
Those are the pictures of you I want to keep in my head and my heart: the feathers scattered around suggest that you put up a good fight with whatever it was that took you: I cannot bear to consider what actually happened to you but I am grateful I do not have your corpse to dispose of - darling Monica I am so sorry you have gone, we are all going to miss you. Farewell my Feathered Fiend and thanks for all the eggs!
Love and Peace
THE sad Purple Fairy xxx
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Monday 31 January 2011
Monday 3 January 2011
on the Passing of Pete Postlethwaite
I don't quite understand how the unhappy news of Pete Postlethwaite untimely death has triggered thoughts of numbers and OCD. On mourning his passing today my thoughts wandered from me at the age of 15, The Who, Sesame Street and my need to count everything.
Those readers familiar with Pete's work will understand why he is considered by Stephen Spielberg to be 'probably the best actor in the world'. It is said that Pete's response to the accolade was to dismiss it with a typical self effacing comment that it sounded for all the world like a lager advert. No 'luvvie' this chap. He did not present himself with airs and graces and I would be very surprised if the termites came out of the woodwork to insist that he was a diva who made unreasonable demands. I want to believe that he was what you saw. A strong, passionate, committed Northerner with a heightened sense of justice. For those of you who have not seen it do please watch the film 'Brassed Off'. I defy you not to be moved by the speeches Pete makes despite your politics. For my American readers, think Charles Bronson and/or David Carradine in his youth for a flavour of what Pete was able to project on screen.
As I trundled through my chores with Pete's death on my mind I remembered standing in St Mary's Churchyard, alone except for the birds and the dead. I was 15, fearless and feisty and singing The Who's 'My Generation' and in particular the line: 'I hope I die before I get old', at the top of my voice. I had tried to see what a 30 year old me would look like and found it impossible to envisage. I considered it so very ancient and part of me thought I would die by the very old age of 32 in any event because my mother had. The logic applied to that thought process was along the same lines as the opening statement of my autobiography commissioned by the English teacher as a class exercise: 'I was born at an early age and was a girl because my mother was'. But it was something I truly believed until I passed the key date.
I found it impossible to consider being anything other than 15 and frankly my dears, if I'd known what was to come, I might well have pleaded with the Gods to let me remain in a Peter Pan state of fearlessness. As it was I had no choice but to continue on the route mapped out for me. Oh I was so very brave in those days; afraid of nothing and no-one. Well with the exception of a couple of people who should have protected me. I was safer in the outside world than in the so called family world. I was perfectly capable of hitch hiking to where ever I wanted to go; sleeping rough in derelict houses when it was too late for me to make it 'home' and reliant on the kindness of strangers to look out for me. Once it had become too late to go home, 8.00 pm since you ask, I would be locked out of the house in any event and forced to 'sleep' in the barn. Five minutes late was enough to see the door barred to me. One particular night exactly five minutes late, I approached the door to see her smile as she locked it against me forbidding my father to let me in. I developed a 'well I'm going to get into trouble anyway so I might as well go the whole hog' attitude.
One decade later Beloved Son and Heir had come into my world and everything I had been through started to make some sort of sense. I had a fierce, tigerish love for this wonderful thing that I had helped to create and was determined he would not receive the kind of raising I had received. I never, ever said, 'because I say so!', I never, ever hit him with a weapon, I never ever deprived him of sustenance physical, mental or emotional and I never, ever, ever broke a promise to him. I fell instantly in love with him the second I saw him and indeed as time proved, there came the opportunity for me to discover my inner tiger and protect him from assault. One of our shared pleasures as he grew was Sesame Street. I seem to think that his favourite character was Big Bird whilst mine was Count Dracula. It was many decades later that I realised Count Dracula tapped into that part of my brain that needed to count everything. I did not weigh food for recipes, I counted the spoons or handfuls of ingredients. I counted the stairs I climbed to my flat. If we bought sweets I had to count them to make sure there was an even number. Anything that amounted to 13 had to be swiftly culled to reduce it to 12 before being handed over to Beloved Son and Heir. I counted how long it took to fill the bath before the water cooled. I still count the number of birthday or Christmas cards I receive not, I hasten to add, to wallow in the number which could either confirm how much or how little I am remembered. That's not the point! The point is in the counting.
Three is my number of choice: displays have to be in threes; a mixed bunch of flowers picked from my garden has to offer a minimum of three of each species otherwise, no matter how much I love a particular flower, it cannot be picked unless it has two matching companions. I do sometimes wonder if it comes from the root of my abandoned Roman Catholicism forcing me to acknowledge, if only obliquely, the Trinity.
So when I heard that Pete Postletwaite was only 64 when he died I counted the number of years between us: 5 since you ask. Well nearer 4.5. There is something infinitely sad about your peer group dying. The people you see on the silver screen, or the theatre seem almost invincible, larger than life and immune to the petty trials of us mere mortals. Pete was one of those people I would have liked to see on stage before he went: Jimmy Stewart was another in the West End with his play 'Harvey'; Joyce Grenfill, in anything at all, another. Some stars I have been fortunate enough to see: Leo McKern holding the stage for two whole hours on his own - absolute magic. Griff Rhys-Jones as Mr Toad. Even Leslie Phillips and Brian Rix entertained me.
So Pete, I hope the Gods appreciate you because they have taken you way too early, rest in peace.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Those readers familiar with Pete's work will understand why he is considered by Stephen Spielberg to be 'probably the best actor in the world'. It is said that Pete's response to the accolade was to dismiss it with a typical self effacing comment that it sounded for all the world like a lager advert. No 'luvvie' this chap. He did not present himself with airs and graces and I would be very surprised if the termites came out of the woodwork to insist that he was a diva who made unreasonable demands. I want to believe that he was what you saw. A strong, passionate, committed Northerner with a heightened sense of justice. For those of you who have not seen it do please watch the film 'Brassed Off'. I defy you not to be moved by the speeches Pete makes despite your politics. For my American readers, think Charles Bronson and/or David Carradine in his youth for a flavour of what Pete was able to project on screen.
As I trundled through my chores with Pete's death on my mind I remembered standing in St Mary's Churchyard, alone except for the birds and the dead. I was 15, fearless and feisty and singing The Who's 'My Generation' and in particular the line: 'I hope I die before I get old', at the top of my voice. I had tried to see what a 30 year old me would look like and found it impossible to envisage. I considered it so very ancient and part of me thought I would die by the very old age of 32 in any event because my mother had. The logic applied to that thought process was along the same lines as the opening statement of my autobiography commissioned by the English teacher as a class exercise: 'I was born at an early age and was a girl because my mother was'. But it was something I truly believed until I passed the key date.
I found it impossible to consider being anything other than 15 and frankly my dears, if I'd known what was to come, I might well have pleaded with the Gods to let me remain in a Peter Pan state of fearlessness. As it was I had no choice but to continue on the route mapped out for me. Oh I was so very brave in those days; afraid of nothing and no-one. Well with the exception of a couple of people who should have protected me. I was safer in the outside world than in the so called family world. I was perfectly capable of hitch hiking to where ever I wanted to go; sleeping rough in derelict houses when it was too late for me to make it 'home' and reliant on the kindness of strangers to look out for me. Once it had become too late to go home, 8.00 pm since you ask, I would be locked out of the house in any event and forced to 'sleep' in the barn. Five minutes late was enough to see the door barred to me. One particular night exactly five minutes late, I approached the door to see her smile as she locked it against me forbidding my father to let me in. I developed a 'well I'm going to get into trouble anyway so I might as well go the whole hog' attitude.
One decade later Beloved Son and Heir had come into my world and everything I had been through started to make some sort of sense. I had a fierce, tigerish love for this wonderful thing that I had helped to create and was determined he would not receive the kind of raising I had received. I never, ever said, 'because I say so!', I never, ever hit him with a weapon, I never ever deprived him of sustenance physical, mental or emotional and I never, ever, ever broke a promise to him. I fell instantly in love with him the second I saw him and indeed as time proved, there came the opportunity for me to discover my inner tiger and protect him from assault. One of our shared pleasures as he grew was Sesame Street. I seem to think that his favourite character was Big Bird whilst mine was Count Dracula. It was many decades later that I realised Count Dracula tapped into that part of my brain that needed to count everything. I did not weigh food for recipes, I counted the spoons or handfuls of ingredients. I counted the stairs I climbed to my flat. If we bought sweets I had to count them to make sure there was an even number. Anything that amounted to 13 had to be swiftly culled to reduce it to 12 before being handed over to Beloved Son and Heir. I counted how long it took to fill the bath before the water cooled. I still count the number of birthday or Christmas cards I receive not, I hasten to add, to wallow in the number which could either confirm how much or how little I am remembered. That's not the point! The point is in the counting.
Three is my number of choice: displays have to be in threes; a mixed bunch of flowers picked from my garden has to offer a minimum of three of each species otherwise, no matter how much I love a particular flower, it cannot be picked unless it has two matching companions. I do sometimes wonder if it comes from the root of my abandoned Roman Catholicism forcing me to acknowledge, if only obliquely, the Trinity.
So when I heard that Pete Postletwaite was only 64 when he died I counted the number of years between us: 5 since you ask. Well nearer 4.5. There is something infinitely sad about your peer group dying. The people you see on the silver screen, or the theatre seem almost invincible, larger than life and immune to the petty trials of us mere mortals. Pete was one of those people I would have liked to see on stage before he went: Jimmy Stewart was another in the West End with his play 'Harvey'; Joyce Grenfill, in anything at all, another. Some stars I have been fortunate enough to see: Leo McKern holding the stage for two whole hours on his own - absolute magic. Griff Rhys-Jones as Mr Toad. Even Leslie Phillips and Brian Rix entertained me.
So Pete, I hope the Gods appreciate you because they have taken you way too early, rest in peace.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Sunday 2 January 2011
What is the view from the Hive?
Being a literal bean I explain the view from the Hive. The largest window faces almost due South and the smallest looks Westward. Using my 'happy' eyes this is what I see late afternoon through the West facing window: A Eucalyptus tree now standing around 25 feet tall. Ten years ago it was one foot high and lived in a black bucket. It's rather odd really because this is a tree that has come home so to speak. A neighbour of my father's was a keen gardener and some 12 or so years ago gave me the sapling she had raised from seed. Potted on, it made it's way back down South with me and I could not quite decide where to plant it in my little garden in Hertfordshire so it was set into a black bucket and despite me, it survived.
When I returned to Lincolnshire 10 years ago, the second thing I did when I moved into the cottage was to plot and plan where to place the plants I had repatriated from my Hertfordshire garden. The Eucalyptus tree was beginning to look very sorry for itself and there was barely any base to the bucket left. I set the tree too close to the washing line and it's first winter in the ground saw it battered by the Northerly winds. After a tricky winter it defiantly grew at an angle and helps keep, what I call, my wooded area dry. It has several roles really: it's survival under extreme pressure is, of course, symbolic particularly bearing in mind the tree has a very shallow root system. It plays host to the wide range of birds who visit my garden and supports a white perfumed clematis set to mark the death of my father. The blossom of the tree is unremarkable when looked at singly but when I look at the tree from the upstairs window the tiny, delicate greeney white flowers cover the tree like a veil giving it a slightly unearthly air. As dusk falls it's oval leaves gradually turn black in the fading light and the tree takes on a menacing magic as night closes in.
I also see a sagging old telephone wire with what looks like a dead plant attached to it. This was a speriment that didn't quite work. If I had been a physicist I may have been able to predict the failure. On the corner of my West wall is a wooden arch; built for me by the Estranged One, to support an ice cream scented clematis and a scented rose called New Dawn. My original plot was for the two plants to clamber over the arch, climb up and over the ridge tiles and eventually cover the flat roof of my Hive. The plants had other ideas and defied me. Armed with chicken wire, grim determination and sheer bloody mindedness I insisted they would do what I wanted and eventually they have started to comply. Then I thought, how nice would a clematis curtain be across my garden and trained the Montanna along a disused telephone wire. It was too successful! It is a rampant plant, the Montanna, and is clearly very happy where it lives. The sheer weight of the plant has brought the wire down low which means I have to stoop to get at my wood store and access the rear of the house. Hmmmmmm not entirely sure what to do next....
I use plants to mark special people and events in my garden, a sort of memorial if you like. The West window looks out also on to a white lilac set 9 years ago to mark the birth of my Bestest Boy Ben. Then there is the deep red Cherry bearing the name of my Pixie Princess, Ruby, set three years ago to mark her birth. Last year I set (or rather a member of my framily set) a crab apple tree which celebrates my freedom from mental slavery (as Bob Marley would have put it) and I'm sure that a trick cyclist would have fun with the choice. My overriding thought was to provide Mrs Blackbird with plenty of fruit in the winter: blackbirds so enjoy the crab apple fruit.
From the window in front of me: the redundant church, which I jealously watch over, looms large and magnificent. Feng Shuey experts would probably despair of it's placing but it has been here so much longer than the cottage. Inside my hawthorn hedge, which houses at least one wren, robins and a huge flock of sparrows, there is a weeping beech called a Purple Fountain. This was a gift from my Beloved Son and Heir for my last birthday and is currently dressed with baubles and angel hair for the benefit of my grandchildren and the season. The hedge itself supports a very vigorous ivy. Proper gardeners would rip it all out and refer to it as a parasite. Me? I see a green cloak covering the bare twigs of the hawthorn offering shelter for the winged residents in winter. It also provides nondescript green flowers which turn into the blackest and shiniest berries providing another valuable resource for the birds.
And there is the front gate which squeaks when it is opened. It too is dressed with Seasonal trimmings and ivy. I have been training the ivy around the wrought iron as much to hide the dilapidated state of the iron works as to create a living sculpture. I have never wanted to oil the gate to stop it squeaking because it acts as an alarm signal for both me and MaddyMoo of the possibility of an intruder. The gate leads directly to the road and I tend to be paranoid about people leaving it open. After all I have a chicken with limited road sense, a dog with an over developed sense of welcome and a boy cat who defiantly stands his ground when the vehicles cross his path. The road links the village to the town 10 miles away to the West and the next village 3 miles away to the East. It was not built to accommodate either the amount of traffic or the size of the vehicles it now has to support. Farm vehicles are so wide and heavy now they straddled both the carriages and rock my cottage as they pass by. Articulated lorries also shake the foundations and I can't help but think there is a fault line stretching diagonally from my cottage to the church across the road.
People who drive or walk past just cannot help but look into my window and there are some who must think I am nailed to the chair in my Hive! I resent their interest and tend to leave the blind closed with just a little chink of the window showing which allows me to spot unexpected visitors. I only want to share my world with people I want to share it with. Strangers are no longer welcome in the flesh. I think it has something to do with my now limited ability to defend myself. There are those in the village who watch over me without me realising. I am beginning to think I have turned into the village eccentric hiding behind closed drapes and appearing to be quite batty with her herd of animals. Shortly before Christmas one of the villagers came to deliver a Christmas card. I watched as she walked through the gate and thought she would simply place it into my post box. I let her in and sort of apologised for the state of the floor and she said she needed to explain the Christmas Card. I am afraid I cried. Apparently there is a Village Fund for people in need and the Trustees decided this year that I should receive some money to assist me over the festive season. I was stunned and incredibly touched by their kindness. So, the lesson for me is that not everything or everyone who comes through the front gate brings trouble or worry. I use the imagery of angels to offer support to others and find I too am watched over by angels.
My only New Year message to everyone is that there really are diamonds in the dirt, you just need to dig a little to find them. May the angels of hope, peace and love walk with us all and sustain us through trials and tribulations.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
When I returned to Lincolnshire 10 years ago, the second thing I did when I moved into the cottage was to plot and plan where to place the plants I had repatriated from my Hertfordshire garden. The Eucalyptus tree was beginning to look very sorry for itself and there was barely any base to the bucket left. I set the tree too close to the washing line and it's first winter in the ground saw it battered by the Northerly winds. After a tricky winter it defiantly grew at an angle and helps keep, what I call, my wooded area dry. It has several roles really: it's survival under extreme pressure is, of course, symbolic particularly bearing in mind the tree has a very shallow root system. It plays host to the wide range of birds who visit my garden and supports a white perfumed clematis set to mark the death of my father. The blossom of the tree is unremarkable when looked at singly but when I look at the tree from the upstairs window the tiny, delicate greeney white flowers cover the tree like a veil giving it a slightly unearthly air. As dusk falls it's oval leaves gradually turn black in the fading light and the tree takes on a menacing magic as night closes in.
I also see a sagging old telephone wire with what looks like a dead plant attached to it. This was a speriment that didn't quite work. If I had been a physicist I may have been able to predict the failure. On the corner of my West wall is a wooden arch; built for me by the Estranged One, to support an ice cream scented clematis and a scented rose called New Dawn. My original plot was for the two plants to clamber over the arch, climb up and over the ridge tiles and eventually cover the flat roof of my Hive. The plants had other ideas and defied me. Armed with chicken wire, grim determination and sheer bloody mindedness I insisted they would do what I wanted and eventually they have started to comply. Then I thought, how nice would a clematis curtain be across my garden and trained the Montanna along a disused telephone wire. It was too successful! It is a rampant plant, the Montanna, and is clearly very happy where it lives. The sheer weight of the plant has brought the wire down low which means I have to stoop to get at my wood store and access the rear of the house. Hmmmmmm not entirely sure what to do next....
I use plants to mark special people and events in my garden, a sort of memorial if you like. The West window looks out also on to a white lilac set 9 years ago to mark the birth of my Bestest Boy Ben. Then there is the deep red Cherry bearing the name of my Pixie Princess, Ruby, set three years ago to mark her birth. Last year I set (or rather a member of my framily set) a crab apple tree which celebrates my freedom from mental slavery (as Bob Marley would have put it) and I'm sure that a trick cyclist would have fun with the choice. My overriding thought was to provide Mrs Blackbird with plenty of fruit in the winter: blackbirds so enjoy the crab apple fruit.
From the window in front of me: the redundant church, which I jealously watch over, looms large and magnificent. Feng Shuey experts would probably despair of it's placing but it has been here so much longer than the cottage. Inside my hawthorn hedge, which houses at least one wren, robins and a huge flock of sparrows, there is a weeping beech called a Purple Fountain. This was a gift from my Beloved Son and Heir for my last birthday and is currently dressed with baubles and angel hair for the benefit of my grandchildren and the season. The hedge itself supports a very vigorous ivy. Proper gardeners would rip it all out and refer to it as a parasite. Me? I see a green cloak covering the bare twigs of the hawthorn offering shelter for the winged residents in winter. It also provides nondescript green flowers which turn into the blackest and shiniest berries providing another valuable resource for the birds.
And there is the front gate which squeaks when it is opened. It too is dressed with Seasonal trimmings and ivy. I have been training the ivy around the wrought iron as much to hide the dilapidated state of the iron works as to create a living sculpture. I have never wanted to oil the gate to stop it squeaking because it acts as an alarm signal for both me and MaddyMoo of the possibility of an intruder. The gate leads directly to the road and I tend to be paranoid about people leaving it open. After all I have a chicken with limited road sense, a dog with an over developed sense of welcome and a boy cat who defiantly stands his ground when the vehicles cross his path. The road links the village to the town 10 miles away to the West and the next village 3 miles away to the East. It was not built to accommodate either the amount of traffic or the size of the vehicles it now has to support. Farm vehicles are so wide and heavy now they straddled both the carriages and rock my cottage as they pass by. Articulated lorries also shake the foundations and I can't help but think there is a fault line stretching diagonally from my cottage to the church across the road.
People who drive or walk past just cannot help but look into my window and there are some who must think I am nailed to the chair in my Hive! I resent their interest and tend to leave the blind closed with just a little chink of the window showing which allows me to spot unexpected visitors. I only want to share my world with people I want to share it with. Strangers are no longer welcome in the flesh. I think it has something to do with my now limited ability to defend myself. There are those in the village who watch over me without me realising. I am beginning to think I have turned into the village eccentric hiding behind closed drapes and appearing to be quite batty with her herd of animals. Shortly before Christmas one of the villagers came to deliver a Christmas card. I watched as she walked through the gate and thought she would simply place it into my post box. I let her in and sort of apologised for the state of the floor and she said she needed to explain the Christmas Card. I am afraid I cried. Apparently there is a Village Fund for people in need and the Trustees decided this year that I should receive some money to assist me over the festive season. I was stunned and incredibly touched by their kindness. So, the lesson for me is that not everything or everyone who comes through the front gate brings trouble or worry. I use the imagery of angels to offer support to others and find I too am watched over by angels.
My only New Year message to everyone is that there really are diamonds in the dirt, you just need to dig a little to find them. May the angels of hope, peace and love walk with us all and sustain us through trials and tribulations.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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