Simply glowing

Yesterday I was tricked into thinking winter had arrived when it was still dark at half six and the kids asked for Ready Brek for their breakfast. This morning however, buy cialis it appears there is no trickery at play, it is dark, I’ve had to put the heating on and I have a hankering after a hot bowl of porridge and a morning under the duvet watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Does this mean summer has bowed out for another year? I fear so. But then of course, between the fair summer months where the air is warmer and the breeze is balmy and the drab winter ones where the snow is constant and the wind is icy, comes the most delicious season of all, autumn.

With autumn, you know what you’re going to get. There’s no tease of a spell of six weeks of blistering hot sunshine leading to much planning of picnics, beach trips, short floaty dresses and paddling in the sea. You know it’s going to be crisp and a little nippy around the nose. There is nothing quite like the autumn sunshine. It has a different kind of vibrancy than that in the summer, and it’s usually accompanied by glorious blue skies and a freshness that makes you tingle in a pleasant way.

It’s a great wardrobe season for me too – no need for fake tanning or de-fuzzing of the legs – they ain’t going to be on show.  It’s skinny jeans and comfy flats all the way. Fine knitwear in soft caramels, mink and coffee, pumps in hues of gold, copper and bronze and cosy, knee high boots in soft buttery brown leather topped off with puffy jackets that feel like a squishy hug when you put them on.

Walking in the fallen leaves in one of my simplest pleasures. The crunching underfoot is music to my ears, and the vivid contrast of red, gold and brown leaves which have not yet taken their tumble from the trees overhead fills me to the brim with happiness.

Every time I think of autumn, I remember this particular family photo, before Little Monster Blue came along, and that’s the only thing missing from this picture.  The rest of it, is just perfect.

Super Tan

So, and a Government agency is warning people not to use a new tanning spray that is on sale within the UK.  It’s not one that you apply directly onto your skin after exfoliating, body brushing and moisturising.  No.

You spray it up your nose.

I mean, come on. Would it really have taken a government agency warning to make you go, ‘Erm, no, thanks, I’d rather not’?

I am indeed a fan of a tan, and the faker the better. I remain firmly in the ‘girls against sunbeds camp’.  I do prefer to have a little bit of a glow, and as previous Super Mummy blog articles recount, a wee bit of fake sunshine on your cheeks works wonders for pepping up the glamour rankings of tired mummies.  But spraying something up my nose, in the hope that I’d slowly develop some bronzed godess-like appeal?  I remain unconvinced. Yet, many women in the UK are using this product, and more worryingly, without knowing what it contains.

What happened to a good old slap of a biscuity-smelling lurid coloured potion applied just before bed, making you dream about Weetabix all night but wake up in the morning positively glowing (and with a big white streak up the back of your left calf)? Or better still, as my Granny and her Granny before would have done, taking used teabags and wiping them up and down your legs to create that two weeks in Marbella (or Margate as it more likely was) look?

I’m being a little unfair as the range and quality of tanning creams, sprays (including booths!) and wipes available today has improved beyond measure. I expect my glamourous granny would approve. Which begs the question even more, ‘Spray something up my nose in order to get a tan?’ I’d rather attempt to drink a gallon of carrot juice and see if the orange colour permeated my skin that way. And if it didn’t, well, at least I might be able to see better in the dark on those midnight return trips with Little Monster Blue back to his own bed and avoid trodding on  a minature Roary the racing car on the way.

 

 

The Verdict

It’s done. The weird experiment that was the cabbage soup diet is complete.  Firstly, doctor I think I deserve a pat on the back in mammoth proportions for having the willpower to stick to it.  Trumpet duly blown, pills I thank you.  That said, it was just a week, so I won’t get too carried away with myself.

Day four, “banana day” was fairly uneventful (except for the freak hailstones and random thunder and lightning, which clearly had nothing to do with my diet and everything to do with bloody typical Scottish summer weather.) My breakfast was as planned, a bowl of mashed banana and lots of skimmed milk.  Little Monster Blue declared that it looked like porridge.  “I just have mine Cheerios ‘stead.” he said screwing up his nose as he peered into my bowl.  Little Princess Pink disagreed. “It looks nothing like porridge.” She announced, “It looks like gunk!”  She was right of course, especially when I left it sitting in the bowl longer than I should have and it started to turn slightly beige.
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Going Bananas

The holiday is over, doctor and the tan is slowly fading (slowly only thanks to the help of L’Oreal Sublime Dry Mist Self Tan Express Spray – without it, decease it would have gone already) however the waistline appears to have continued to expand following excessive all-inclusive holiday indulgences.  Only at an all-inclusive restaurant buffet could you end up with a green olives, dried banana chips, squid goujons, pork in peppercorn sauce and egg mayonnaise all on the same plate.  Surprisingly, it was an unbelievably yum combination.   I’m quite certain there is a paragraph in the lengthy terms and conditions of holiday bookings that says one item of food from every counter must be loaded onto your plate at the same time, and second helpings are mandatory.  I wasn’t the only one taking full advantage of the option of having all three courses on one plate. It was rife, an unspoken rule.  Petite and portly ladies alike walked gingerly back to their table from the serving counters with plates piled high with pasta, paella, chips, a selection of cold cuts and a chocolate covered strawberry balancing precariously on top.
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A Mooo-ving Tale.

Little Monster Blue LOVES animals. Particularly farm animals. Especially cows.  Whilst most children have a passing obsession with something in their early years, information pills generic cialis usually Ben 10 or Barbie, cialis sale LMB’s love of the humble dairy maker has been something of a consistent obsession for well over a year now.  This fact dawned on me whilst we were preparing for our summer holiday this year and I looked back on the photos we’d taken whilst away at the same time last summer.  The first photo I’m confronted with in the pack is LMB standing with his arms outstretched towards a large and very lifelike statue of a cow dressed in a Portugal football strip. It was the time of the World Cup, and the cow was standing directly outside the official Portugal FC shop (otherwise a cow dressed in a football strip would just be plain weird).  I recall that day, and particularly recall LMB’s reaction towards the cow- you could almost see mini cartoon love hearts popping out of his eyes as he looked at it.  The fact that he seemed to really be drawn to cows didn’t come as a surprise that day as we had spent many a day down at our local farm prior to this holiday, and he’d always happily gravitated towards the barn and the cow fields.  We of course had lots of farm books and animal books, but one in particular, which was only full of pictures of cows was a firm favourite.  We’d also spend many an hour watching the baby Einstein version of ‘Old MacDonald’ on repeat, LMB laughing his head off at the cow (a puppet of course) driving a tractor. A rendition or six of ‘What noise does the cow make?’ was also a hit from an early age. ‘Mmm’ being his answer initially before progressing to full blown ‘Moooooooo’ as he got that little bit older.  As he learned to speak, and express himself as his own person, his fascination has moved to a whole new level, with him clearly being able to articulate just how much he loves cows.

Granny- “ Do you love the cows darling? Are you going to be a farmer when you grow up?’

LMB –  ‘No be farmer. Mine be cow.’

Although given when my little sister was three she said she wanted to grow up to be a nurse, a mouse or a caravan, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that LMB wants to become an animal too.

We’re now beyond just making mere mooing noises when talking about cows, a new game has developed in our house, whereby we have to ask LMB what the cow gives us so he can tell us beef and milk. It’s funny (and not in the ha ha sense) that a two year old can never tire of playing the same game over and over and over. We’ve had tantrums in the supermarket because we don’t buy milk with pictures of cows on the carton, we even had to leave Clarks rather embarrassedly as LMB kicked up merry hell that they only had canvas shoes with fish on them and none with cows.  We went through a very brief spell where he took a liking to Donkeys, or Gonkeys as he liked to call them, but he quickly reverted back to cows when Jenny the Donkey at the local farm went to Gonkey Heaven.   Ask him to tell you what he’s drawing as he scribbles frantically across a page with a red wax crayon and he’ll tell you a cow.  Ask him which t-shirt he wants to wear on any particular day, be it the yellow one or the blue one, and he’ll tell you neither, he wants one with a cow on it.  When given the choice of which bedding he wanted to get for his new big boy bed, he of course opted for a set with cows on it. He loves Big Barn Farm on CBeebies, though has recently taking umbrage to Madame the Cow, frowning and shaking his head furiously when she speaks to the other animals with her French accent.   He has taken it upon himself to call the new calf at the farm ‘Beau’, and he asked today if he could take the bouncy cow from the farm home to his garden (it’s a rather cool cow instead of a castle but  I find its giant dangly pink udders a little disconcerting, though that’s clearly not the only reason I had to explain that no, we couldn’t bring the bouncy cow home).

In a way, I’m pleased he has such a love of animals, and there are worse things he could be obsessed with (you may recall previous mention of a friend who has a son who is fixated with hoovers). It is a little unfortunate that the only animal Old MacDonald has on his farm when you sing with LMB is a cow, and it is unfair on LPP that the only joke of hers that LMB belly laughs at is the one about the cow who went to the moooooo-vies , but it is cute and it does make us chuckle.

With a moo moo here and a moo moo there…….

Have children, will travel. Have smartphone, will blog.

I’m currently 30000 ft in the air. Destination, viagra sales Edinburgh.

Unfortunately this is the return leg of our very successful family holiday and not the outward bound leg, viagra canada and here I am with three hours stretching ahead of me and not a stitch to read. Now, as some who can devour a book or six on holiday as readily as a lion presented with six lithe gazelles on a plate, this is an unusual situation for me. I feel a little naked.  However, the situation is one by design, as I genuinely did not expect there to be any opportunity for a holiday bonk buster fix.

I do have four items of hand baggage and they are packed to bursting, but not a beach read or trashy gossip mag in sight. I could indulge in ‘Beautiful Bananas’ which is a lovely story about an African girl who picks a bunch of bananas to take with her on a visit to her granddad but she meets a variety of jungle animals and of course mishaps on the way. It is however aimed at preschoolers and has been bedtime story fodder for Little Monster Blue for nearly the last three months. Similarly, ‘Superduck’ is a riveting read….when you’re under five. Ditto for ‘Here comes the crocodile’ and ‘Let’s get a pup’.

We have wax crayons a plenty, a mermaid colouring book, a farmyard colouring book, an animal magazine with odd pictures of cats wearing tiaras, magic picture books that reveal animals when you scratch them with a coin (we went through 14 pages of one before we got to a cow on the outbound flight, much to LMB’s annoyance.) We have a Hello Kitty dress up sticker book and a further four animal sticker books, unsurprisingly the farmyard one being a firm favourite with LMB given his obsession with cows persists (I could devote a whole blog article to that
alone!)

Not only do we have bags full of these traditional means of entertainment for small children on a flight, but as we have Superdaddy, so follows we have gadgetry. Cue, tablet PC, loaded with LPP and LMBs movies of the moment, and somewhere in the region of 342 episodes of Peppa Pig (I know, I didn’t think there were as many as that either given the only episode that ever seems to be on in our house is ‘Pirate Island’.) Even Superdaddy managed to grab a tabloid at the hotel shop and sneak it into my perfectly arranged (and on-trend aztec designed) oversize beach bag. So whilst the nippers are entertained and Superdaddy reads the newspaper back to front, here I am literature-less.

I’ve already engaged in pleasant chit-chat with the lovely older lady sitting to my right about the merits of seat allocation (i.e. sitting Superdaddy beside LMB and LPP and sitting in the aisle opposite them myself).  I’ve read the free in-flight magazine from cover to cover, dawdling over the interview with Olly Murs and wondering when pop stars started giving interviews for airline magazines as opposed to Smash Hits! I’ve chosen which perfume and bronzing set I’d like to buy with my left over holiday Euros when the in flight tax free shopping service commences and I’ve educated myself geographically by studying all of the destinations that the airline flies to. (Gerona is in Spain don’t you know, I always thought it was in Switzerland and when I expressed my surprise to Superdaddy he reminded me just how blonde I am by helpfully pointing out that Geneva and Gerona are not the same place.) I’ve perused the in-flight menu and decided that the fantabulous, super special deal of a Twix for the great price of 80p with a £2.20 cup of tea is not really the amazing bargain you are led to believe when you can buy them separately and independently of one another for, yes, you’ve guessed it, 80p and £2.20 respectively. I’ve partaken in a little spot of people watching. Quickly sussing out those people who would be the most likely to clap when the plane touches down in Edinburgh and those who are going to ‘bing’ the ‘bing-bong’ button to call over an air-stewardesses every five minutes. I’ve worked out which couples had lots of holiday sex (row 14, seats C and D, well, just D actually) and which couples can’t wait to get home to decree their relationship officially over.

So here’s where I have to give some credit to gadget-tastic Superdaddy for convincing me I needed to invest in a new smartphone. In the absence of anything else to read, I say thanks for the dinky notepad functionality that allows me commence much blog activity following our week away. Three days ago (I’m not sure what day that actually was as I’ve been on holiday time for a week and think every day is Sunday) I lay ona sun lounger whilst Superdaddy splashed with the littlies in the pool and again made use of said smartphone to list all of the things I’d plan to blog about post-sunshine.

So here I go…oh wait a minute…..is that the in flight tax free shopping service commencing?  I’ll be back in a jiffy…..might just buzz to see if I can grab a cuppa too, ooh and a twix.

Keep on running. Part One.

Keep on running – Part 1.
Never one to be strongly influenced by television ads, drugs cialis sale I was somewhat taken by surprise myself when on Thursday night Gloria Huniford stepped into my livingroom (well, tv screen) and told me there just weren’t enough women registering to run the race for life this year. In that moment I decided that I was in. I’d run 5k. Why not? It seemed like a fabulous idea. One issue however is that my relationship with my trainers has never properly gotten off the ground. We had a few dalliances about three years ago when they first arrived home one evening with Superdaddy who was clearly trying hard to help me in my bid to shift baby weight from Little Princess Pink having been born the year previous. Splendid as they were, all white and leathery with turquoise blue streaks across the side, I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to do with them. I mean, they looked so snug and cosy, nestled amongst the white tissue, safely cocooned against muddy puddles, smelly feet and weeping blisters, it was almost unfair to take them out of the box and give them false hope that they would be regulars on the circuit.
Our first outing together, a simple walk on our own on a summers evening, was fine and fairly uneventful. Once I’d gotten over the fact that I felt like I was walking in moon boots (my usual walking companions being my silver toe-post flip flops) and got past the part where every time I looked down at my feet I thought I was wearing clown shoes, we found our stride nicely. That pairing was short-lived however, and fairly soon my trainers found their way to the bottom of the shoe cupboard. Superdaddy on occasion would ask where my trainers were, commenting, that he thought they were pretty cool. My retort (under my breath obviously, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth as one night he might just come home with a box of Manolo Blahnik’s or Jimmy Choo’s ) was “well you wear them then.”
Since our first coupling hadn’t been all that bad, we attempted another more up tempo get together. Zumba. I shook my toosh and wiggled my hips with all my might, and had a grand old time. I think my trainers enjoyed it too as I bounded home with a big spring in my step, flushing with happiness having felt like we’d had a wonderful night in a club rather than a sweaty hour in an exercise class. Full of the best of intentions to ‘do it again some time’ and going to bed that night with a little flutter in my heart and images of me all toned and slinky shimmying my way here and there, I awoke the next morning with THAT FEELING. Oh dear. What had I done? Had I made a total fool of myself? My head was banging, the room was spinning. I was indeed feeling like I just spent a night clubbing, my body ached, and I had a nice bout of vertigo to boot. Superdaddy told me the vertigo was completely coincidental and nothing to do with the Zumba at all, but that was it. My relationship with my trainers soured and again, they were relegated to the back of the shoe cupboard where leopard print ballet pumps and gladiator sandals mocked them from the front.
Yet, here I am, proudly declaring that our relationship is back on and we’re giving it another go. We’ve got a good 6 weeks before the big event to crystalise our relationship and get back onto an even footing. In fact, tonight, we’re having a cosy night in on the sofa eating Chinese food and drinking Morgans and ginger ale. Well, you can’t rush these things.

Balls!

It seems these days that footballers just can’t seem to keep their tackle in their shorts.

You can’t go a week without picking up a newspaper or catching a story on the lunchtime news which regales the indiscretions of one of the men that we see week in week out on our televisions, discount viagra playing the beautiful game and representing their clubs, no rx and often countries. These are the men that every little boy who harbours dreams of making it big as a footballer looks up to. It’s been debated and discussed in the press on countless occasions, that these men with their six-figure weekly salaries act as if they are untouchable when it comes to how they conduct their personal affairs.

What I struggle to get my head around is how with all their fame, media attention, sponsorship deals and press coverage they actually undertake these sordid affairs thinking it will go unnoticed. Or is the point that they just actually don’t care? Remove the ‘footballer’ job description from the equation and these men are simply just that – men – with wives / partners and in some cases young families. The sad thing is that the WAGs are often persecuted by the media for almost allowing their husbands to act as they please on the basis that without them, they are nothing.

I feel for Mrs Rooney, at 24 she is a young mum, married barely a couple of years, already living her life in the eyes of the media and now she has to face the world knowing that they next moves in her marriage will be played out on the worlds biggest media stage. You can argue that she knew what she signed up too when she married the England and Manchester United player, but does that make it any easier on the young mum? Successful in her own right, as she builds her own brand, I hope she makes the right decision for her and her baby son- whether that’s kicking her husband to the kerb and doing a ‘Cheryl’ by showing the world that there is life after a cheating footballer, or whether it’s standing by her man and doing all she can to retain her family unit.

As much as I grump and groan about the amount of time Superdaddy devotes to the coaching of a boys football team, and scouting for a pro-youth club, I’m glad he chooses to stand on the sidelines, and I’m glad he chose University and staying in Edinburgh over pursuing some kind of footballing career with Berwick Rangers…it might not be as glam, and it certainly doesn’t command a six-figure salary, but it’s honest and it’s genuine and it doesn’t offer the temptations that so clearly trap many a footballer….and I’m quite sure Ethel who runs the teams tea stand on a Saturday morning wouldn’t have it in her even if my hubby was so tempted!

The Concept of Time

It struck me the other day that in our house we operate to a different concept of time than other folks.  It’s not that we have no concept of time, viagra quite the opposite; our routine is very regimental, military-like almost. And it’s not that we have a lack of gadgetry that displays the time in various shades of luminous lighting (digital clock radio, microwave, oven clock, iPhones, central heating timer, iPod docking station) And Superdaddy does have a watch that he was given as a 30th birthday gift, which is still in its box by the side of his bed yet to be worn (apparently it catches and pulls the hairs out of his arms.)

It’s more than we don’t use the standard format of time telling, you know, that globally recognised form that uses numbers and the principles of am and pm? In our house, we don’t get up at 7.30am like other people, we get up at wakey-wakey time (and it’s actually 6am most days courtesy of Little Monster Blue).  The dawning of wakey-wakey time sets the pace for the remainder of the day.  Between the hours of 7.00am and 12 Noon GMT  (grouchy mum time) we have breakfast time, teeth brush time, clothes on time, snack time, play time and lunch time. After lunch, it’s nap time (as pleasant as a siesta would be, unsurprisingly, this time is for Little Monster Blue only) however nap time signals to Little Princess Pink that it’s girly time.  This is our hour and a bit in the day where we spend some proper time together doing an activity of LPP’s choosing. Girly time on Friday past saw us spending an hour in the garden, practising our skipping.

After nap time and girly time, we’ll generally go out and catch up with friends, and as of yet, that’s not managed to be specifically named anything, though I suspect we’d follow the standard time-marking convention and call it catching up with friends time.  After dinner time, we have tidy-up time, which even gets it’s own song…”Tidy Up, tidy up, how many things can you put away? Pick them up, put them back, come on everybody, lets’ get tidy today!” I have to be honest and say I exploit tidy up time in order to get our living space back to some semblance of normality before bath time.  The louder I sing, the faster they tidy!

Bath time signals the start of wind down and ready for bed. Prior to jumping in the bath, we tend to have a spot of running around without our clothes on time (again, only LMB) but this carries no formal name.  After bath time, its story time, one of my favourite parts of the day. I snuggle on the rocking chair with LMB, breathing in the smell of his freshly washed hair, and read him his three chosen stories.  We say Night Night to his stuffed dog, Sam and then its sleepy time. LPP gets to stay up a little later, and gets to come downstairs for supper time, before then having her own story time and then when the last kiss is dispensed and the last ‘night night, love you to the moon and back a million times’ is exchanged, it’s sleepy time.

There’s often no ‘us time’ and there is precious little ‘me time’, it fast paced, it’s frenetic, we squeeze in wine o’clock, then I fall asleep on the sofa. It must be sleepy time.

The Supermarket Chic Challenge

Now that Supper Daddy and I have reclaimed our bedroom back as our own, buy viagra we have decided a mini make-over of our boudoir is in order. Little Princess Pink sleeps in her own big bed all night, drugstore with the exception of the odd occasion where she wakes to say there is a dinosaur under her bed or she is afraid of Santa Claus, and Little Monster Blue just LOVES his own cot in his own room between the hours of 7pm and 5.30am.  So with no moses basket, no need for Winnie-The-Pooh nightlights and no little people  sprawled sideways across the middle of the bed whilst Super Daddy and I perch dangerously on the edges, it’s time to get our bedroom back to a place for grown-ups only.

To be perfectly honest however, I can’t be bothered with the whole rigmaroll of painting, or wallpapering and while we probably could do with a new carpet I’m happy to wait until next year to do a complete overhaul.  So, for now, I simply want to bring a bit of colour to it, make it our little haven of calm and tranquillity (okay and erm, passion) without the risk of stepping out of the bed and trodding on a toy aeroplane.

I have in my head a vision of deep plum or aubergine accents which will contrast nicely with the coffee colours we have at the moment.  I’m thinking a warm autumnal / winter theme, with soft, luxurious and sumptuous fabrics, making a space that we can retreat to when it starts getting colder and darker in the evenings (me with a good book and Super Daddy with high expectations.)  A quick squizz through the M&S Home magazine yesterday left me disappointed, I’d half expected my vision to materialise on the pages before my eyes, nip up to M&S, load up my basket with items D, G, and H from pages 55 – 56, return to my bedroom, throw it all together and voila! But not so.  Half hour scouring the internet revealed lots of fantastic plum and aubergine tones. But at prices I just wasn’t willing to pay for a 60 minute makeover.  So, I filed the idea on my ‘one to do later’ list, and set off to pick up the kids at nursery, popping into Morrisons for a few ‘essentials’ on the way, i.e. wine and nibbles for the girls coming over for a catch up.

With my basket fully loaded (one red, one white, one Rose) I took a detour via the homeware aisle.  There nestled cosily together on the bottom shelf were two coffee coloured cushions with vibrant magenta and deep plum stripes across the front, exactly what I was looking for- perfect. £10 for two -bargain.  Into my basket they went.  Two feet away in the ‘lighting section’ (they had approximately 12 lamps) was a glorious plum lamp and base which matched the plum stripe in the cushion, another bargain, so I picked that up too and stowed it under my left arm.  Behind me, stood a full display of candles in every imaginable colour and two strawberry and pomegranate scented pillar candles also found their way into my basket.  With my basket beginning to overflow, and my eye on the clock for nursery pick up time, I started to make my way to the checkout only to spy a conical shaped vase, in deep plum which at £3.99 I just had to have. Very pleased with my purchases and even more chuffed that I had managed to pick up exactly what I was looking for on a spontaneous trip to the supermarket  I decided to set myself a challenge.  Surely I could create the look I wanted by picking up all my accessories and bedding from supermarkets?

If Coleen Rooney can successfully launch a clothing range in Asda, and Betty Davidson can stock the shelves of Tesco with her make-up range, then surely creating a luxury boudoir feel on a supermarket budget is actually a cool thing to do?

So on a bit of a (quite sad, really) mission, I threw the kids in the bath later in the evening, risked the laptop being soaked and checked out Tesco, Asda and Sainsbury on-line whilst LPP pretended to scuba dive and LMB used the pink teapot that’s not really a bath toy to pour water all over himself, LPP and the floor.

Excitedly I trawled through pages and pages of bedding, decorative accessories and soft furnishings, spying little pieces along the way that would be good for other rooms in our house (slate grey towels for the downstairs loo, red and cream spotty Cath Kidston-esque tea-towels and oven gloves for the kitchen and pink storage boxes with cupcake designs for LPP’s bedroom –and  all whilst obtaining clubcard points to boot.

However with the water in the bath getting a little on the cold side, and LPP having decided to be an Olympic board diver instead of a scuba diver, I turned my attentions back to the task in hand, and purchased a great quilted throw which would tone with the cushions brilliantly from Sainsbury, a set of three plum coloured glass photo frames from Tesco and some plain coffee coloured jersey cotton bedding and a canvas print with just the right mix of browns and plum / purples that would look great above our bed from Asda. Job done.

With everything ordered and due for delivery by the end of the week, I’m looking forward to creating my ‘supermarket chic’ space, and making full use of it over the weekend.  Though come to think of it, it was probably about 4 years and 9 months ago that we last decorated our bedroom…..

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