five years old, hairy, and flipping awesome

Yesterday Lola was five. If I could put into words how much joy and love that little hairy angel has bought into my life over the past 1,828 days I would let you know right here and now, but as- 

1. It would make me look mental

and

2. There are no words

I'll just go so far as to say I BLOODY LOVE THAT DOG.

I know, I know. But really. I bloody do.

Read more about our deep and enduring forever-type love here .
(Is there an emoticon to express 'I'm saying the gospel truth but in a slightly ironic, over-the-top way? Well, that, there.)

I just don't read that stuff anymore

Oh Comely- one of the good guys

I'm a magazine fiend. I love the promise of their glossy covers. I love the smell.

But there are magazines that I don't and won't buy. Those icky, depressing, gleefully nasty mags that put pictures of women with their cellulite surrounded by a big red circle on their covers. The ones that are full of rubbish and nonsense and bitchiness. I'm not saying I've never bought them, because I have, but not for a long time, and now I have a little girl? Hopefully never again.

Those magazines celebrate nothing that is wonderful about womenkind. They glorify the vacuous, the insecure and the image-obsessed scrutinising that holds us all back.  

I really couldn't give a flying fuck about whose armpits have sweated this week, or who has wrinkly knees. Too fat one week, too thin the next; god knows what this kind of crap is doing to today's young girls' self-perception and body image. 

I think reading these magazines is like eating a bowl full of sugar with a desert spoon. It might give you an initial buzz but keep doing it and it can really mess you up on the inside.

Oh Comely issue seven- words Beth Davis, pattern Alyssa Nassner

But there are some wonderful mags out there right now. I'm sure most of you British blogging ladies have read Oh Comely, an inspirational magazine that features people just like you and me, and for all the right reasons, not the wrong ones. This magazine does not stuck you dry of your self-esteem and life force, it reinforces them. It sparks off ideas and rouses your curiosity and encourages you to make plans for things you'd like to do and places you'd like to see. 

Oh Comely issue eleven- Courtney Welch, co-founder of London Rollergirls
words Carleen Peters,  portrait Trent McMinn

This, and a few others, are the magazines that I feel happy to have lying around my home whilst my girl is growing up. Maybe you think differently and see the tacky mags as being just a bit of harmless fun, but as I get older the less I want and need their influence in my life.

Oh Comely issue eleven- imaginary map by illustrator Marisa Seguin

Any thoughts? 

on the weekend- six chickens, a girl and a dog

Edie's getting braver with the chickens now. Although she did wake up twice last night screaming 

'THE CHICKENS!!! THE CHICKENS!!!" 

so maybe there is still some work to be done. They do flap about a lot and they're definitely getting bossier, crowding around and clambering for food. No eggs as of yet. They have a little more growing up to do first. Now that will be an exciting day, when Edie finds her first egg! And the promise is for pancakes. Banana pancakes.

drowning in happy tears

Some people are able to control their emotions. How do they do that? Maybe they just don't feel it like us roller-coaster riders or maybe inside they're a mass of swirling feeling. 


These last few days I've erupted into (joyful) tears on numerous occasions. It's the Olympics you see, they're making me an emotional wreck. 


And most of us are the same aren't we? Whether it's the theatre, music, sport or a reality TV show involving a troupe of dancing transvestites we're all sometimes caught out surreptitiously dabbing at the corners of our eyes. Even the biggest and hairiest hard-knocks out there are vulnerable to a little sniff sometimes. 


And they're a luxury, these tears. A sign that we're living a life where we're lucky enough to see awesome things- an opera, a rock concert, a beautiful landscape, a dream-come-true for some athlete who has sacrificed so much to achieve their goal.


There are enough reasons to cry sad tears in this world. I'm going to indulge myself in as many of the happy kind as I can for the next week or so. 


*Sob*.

the easiest strawberry milk make ever

We've been indoors for 4 straight days now due to a someone in our household suffering with chicken pox. This little someone has a very mild case but is getting a bit fed up, understandably. But if there's one thing that can lift my girl out of the doldrums it's filling her tummy with yummy things. 


And so I set out to make some Pink Milk. Edie loves pink milk, just like Lola from Charlie and Lola does but with a verosity bordering on that of a crazed addict. We can't risk keeping a carton in the house in fear of hours of 'Can I have some pink milk?' (yes), 'Can I have some more pink milk' (no), and then 'But I LOVE pink milk SO MUCH' (cue tears and violent acts of toddlerdom).


Making it yourself is so easy and means no E numbers or off putting ingredients that you will probably read about in the Guardian next week under the scary headline of 'Are we poisoning our kids?'.


All you need is-
A cup full of strawberries
A cup full of water
A quarter to a half of a cup of sugar (depending on your sweet tooth)


Chop up the strawberries and into the saucepan they go along with the water and the sugar. 
Simmer for 10 minutes. 

Sieve the strawberries and catch the syrupy juice in a jug or bowl. 

Spoon the syrup into a glass of ice cold milk until the milk reaches the desired level of 'pinkness'. Pop in a straw... and drink.  

This post has been linked up to Faith, Hope and Charity Shopping's Ta-Dah! Tuesday - go take a look.