Home from home.

Over the weekend I got some much needed time back in Somerset as it was the birthday of my mother's partner - Steve.  They live in a beautiful, tiny cottage with high walls all around that hides it from the world outside.  At the back of the garden my mother keeps three chickens - Babs, Mrs Tweedy and Jefouli (my little brother named the last one, he has no sense of theme) who squawk and gossip all day long, teasing the dogs, whilst eating the pasta left from the markets.  

We didn't get to stay long but we were back in time for flowing Prosecco and a dinner time conversation that lasted until all but James and Steve had fallen asleep in small piles round the sitting room.  

Steve is the source of such well planned activities as moonlight shrimping and is the only person I know who can convince my mother to go camping in the winter months.  He is also one of those wonderfully irritating people that has a story for every occasion - admittedly the stories often involve some kind of irresponsible activity; using dynamite to help his fishing as a small child or letting fireworks off in the kitchen.  But sometimes they are about the years he spent keeping pigs and chickens and striving for self-sufficiency in France.  He is basically one of the Famous Five all grown up.  

I guess, all I mean is - Happy Birthday Steve :)

As my family are notoriously difficult to photograph (they delight in gurning and grimacing at the camera) I can only share the chickens, the grumpy-looking air-headed beauties.