I have been exhausted and exhilarated by the month of March. I’ve had busy months before, but I can’t remember a time where I have had so many new things thrown at me, in such a short space of time. February was pretty crazy too.

The other night I shared a new half hour version of ‘Testy Manifesto’ for Moving Voices on zoom. I’ve performed versions of that show three times, but those were to live audiences, this was the first time I’ve done a TM online performance. Lots to work on, lots to consider, what an honour that was. Afterwards a lady in the audience asked to meet properly my puppet Wanda the Wandering Womb. I was very proud to show Wanda’s little tiara, her big eyelashes. The lady said; “That’s what I imagine my womb to look like.”

In February I did two live streamed performances of ‘Frontal Lobotomy.’ I had forgotten what adrenaline felt like. It was so weird to perform that show in my living room, knowing that people were there but I couldn’t see them. And somehow even more pertinent; because we were all in the middle of covid-winter lockdown, so isolated, swimming in the mess of our own thoughts, wondering if we would ever see light again. I know it brought comfort to a few people, and that was a beautiful thing. I had a A BALL, I made A MESS, and every second was GORGEOUSNESS.

And, guess what...I’m going to make a proper film of the show with the help of my my friend Dan, and a bit of Arts Council cash. I’m taking Bobby Cool and The Band up to Leeds at the end of April to dick around in front of a camera for a few days. I’m so excited to see what is possible for this strange little show, and quite nervous that it will be forever fixed. 

Many artists produce an actual finished product, but my ‘product’ constantly shifts, as I AM the product. To fix something seems to go against what I stand for. The immediacy with an audience, the freedom to change something in the moment...that disappears when you publish a book or make a film. I have been forced to learn new ways both of making art and merely existing over the past year. The Winter was hard, that would normally be the time when I book to see lots of theatre shows. The shows I had tickets for got postponed, but anticipation is exquisite.

I’ve had a joyous time developing and running online puppetry workshops for people with learning and physical disabilities, and the company I’m working for upgraded my computer. No more making do with a seven year old iPad. I’m pretty chuffed about that, I’m not used to having nice new toys.

Another tremendous thing that happened this month took the form of a two weekend retreat for Winchester based writers. There were ten of us, I was very grateful to be part of it. And off the back of that I got offered a commission to write a play for the the youth theatre. I’ve never been hired as a writer before - a director, yes - but A WRITER...I guess they must’ve liked my silly limericks...

And I wrote and delivered two funerals this month. It is the strangest thing to ‘perform’ something you have written, to an ‘audience’ who are all wearing masks, who are utterly heartbroken, who don’t want to be there at all...to have them shake my hand, to ask for the transcript, to write me emails of thanks afterwards. Humbling and wonderful. I know I have found my true vocation in celebrating life.

Here are the RIDICULOUS limericks I wrote for the Writer’s Retreat. We were asked to give ‘found’ words and phrases from Winchester, and then given 40 minutes to write something using the words the group had provided, and imagine a place and a character speaking them. I imagined a homeless woman outside the toilets by the cathedral speaking these words, not caring who is listening, and having a lovely time....


There once was a badger named Brian
Who walked around sobbing and crying 
He stopped at the clump
A bunny said ‘Jump’
And now his new hobby is flying

There once was a young man called Albert
Who owned three thousand tight t-shirts
But numbers don’t count
When cyclists dismount
And you think ‘well one more can’t hurt’ 

There once was a woman named Clare
Who thought that her name was most rare
To Piecamba she went
All her money got spent
And now she’s obese, which is fair

There once was a young boy named Matt
Who got followed one day by a black rat
He got rather cross
Thought ‘I’ll show him who’s boss’
And gave him polite notice to splat.


Love and primroses,
JJlF xx

PS: If you are reading this on Patreon then THANK YOU! Stick around, lots more video content to be uploaded, that I won’t be sharing anywhere else.

I have an old bureau that I use as a desk. It’s been in my family for decades and has followed me through several house moves. I don’t treat it very well; I cellotape things to it, never use a coaster, the little drawers are full of random trinkets. It’s become the place where I spend most of my time these days, and I’ve really started to love and appreciate just how cool the old thing is. 


I sent off the revised book manuscript for ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ this week, and I changed a lot this time around. I discovered that when ‘art’ changes medium, from live performance to the written word, much needs to adapt. And that was quite a reckoning for me. I realised I had taken a lot for granted as performer; many words and phrases I was able to gloss over before now stood out in glaring disobedience. The way something is written down matters, because it’s fixed in place, and not gone the moment it’s spoken out loud. Every punctuation mark was agonised over - like I said, I’ve spent a lot of time at my desk this Winter.


And from tomorrow I’m tearing myself away from this cosy nook, and getting down to some rehearsing. For the next two weeks I’ll need to concentrate on ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ as I have an online gig, and want to film and edit some sections for the Patreon account I started just after Christmas. Working on that show feels so easy and comfortable to me now, though I still don’t like filming myself all that much. Online poetry gigs don’t feel as awkward as they used to - I guess all new things are uncomfortable at first.


When I performed an extract of ‘Testy Manifesto’ for the first time back in November 2019, the host of Cabaret Playroom and I spoke about my very first burlesque act, we have known each other for years, and that’s how she remembered me. It was a Mary Poppins act (I called it ‘Lolly Poppins’) and when I told her that my latest work was based around domestic abuse she said; “Well, we’re a long way from Cherry Tree Lane now.” Indeed we are. Weirdly enough, another friend who was in the audience that night brought up Mary Poppins too: “Is there a way to reference Poppins in this new work?” I think there is - I used a Suffragettes ‘Votes For Women’ sash in the Poppins act, it has hung as decoration in my living room for the past two years, and it’s going to feature in the new show. Why not? The Suffragettes were radical activists, and that fits with my message. They weren’t perfect, some of their policies were racist, and thankfully feminism has progressed since then. I think I will bring back the hatstand too, at least I’ll have somewhere to hang my coat rather than chucking it on the floor.


This month I also completed a mammoth arts council project grant application. The one I submitted in October was declined, but looking back I wasn’t ready then. Now the project has ballooned, and I’ve partnered with several domestic abuse charities / agencies. It’s been great to talk about my work with people who share my values, and great to think about this show having some sort of practical benefit for staff and survivors, just really great. I’ve come away from those phone conversations beaming from head to toe, and with copious amounts of renewed mojo. I hope it’s successful, high functioning domestic abuse survivors need support too, y’know. And I am so ready now. 


I’m still writing new poems, sometimes they just want to come out, and I let them, no point fighting. I’ve started compiling a separate anthology of Orphan Poems. I wish now I’d made a record of the ones I wrote for FL which I later cut from the show, I’ve learned to value all of my work now, not just what I think is good enough. All of it has some use, somewhere. 


Looking forward to Springtime,
JJlF xx




There’s a bolt on my door now
I lock it behind me
There’s a line of salt where carpet meets metal
Just to make sure
A tourmaline top
Electromagnetic
There’s a lock on my door now

There’s a crack in my heart now
You sanded it smooth
Where the younger, paler wood met yew
The rain started
The shape swelled
Hot air applied
Theres’ a gap in my heart now

There’s the smell of lavender now
It lingers like judgement
I think of tea ceremonies, words as weapons
Things you’ll never know
Bunches in the window
Sorceress perfume
There’s the scent of lavender now

My strings are much tighter now
I could snap at any moment
I’ve sat in our places, gazed at what we saw
When we were just wasting time
The weather turned
Fungi appeared
My strings are still stinging me

There’s a burn in my stomach now
Something I’m still purging
I’m thinking in cycles, in spirals, trines, oppositions, conjunctions, transits
I’m looking at Mars, full frontal
I’m seeing decay
I’m rotting from the inside out
Hipbones jutting
There’s a hole in my stomach now, dear Liza, dear Liza

There’s a twinge somewhere I just can’t place
There’s a debt to be paid 
To whom or where or why or how, I don’t know
I’m suspended in secrets
Tied up in a bow
I’m turning to face it
For when Pluto squares Pluto, there’ll be hell to pay
And I’ll be covered in debris

There’s a pattern here, distant yet familiar to me
Something I’m still learning
I’m thinking in new age newsletters, transcriptions, proofing, so much writing
Excavating, discovering an ancient city covered in volcanic dust
Deep rooting, learning about survival
So much staring, drifting, recording, reaching, wondering, wandering
Calming nervous system, needing something to do with my hands
Swimming up and down
Dreaming of otters
Dreaming of you often

How easy is it for feelings to turn
From Summer to Autumn
Both delicious seasons in their own right
The potential of fruitfulness and full flowering
The last gift nature gives
The foraging potential
Trying to gracefully accept what is left over
When the supplies have run out

Somewhere somehow, the moon covered the sun
Too many birds were in one tree
Something bad happens and a lot of people go bad themselves
That’s how awful it is
The news isn’t always bad
Life isn’t shit
When you really look at it
Take another swig and just say fuck it
At least you’ll get a poem or two out of it
​
I think I’ve paid that debt now
You wanted me to be less guarded
You’d never believe the depths that I sunk to
And what I discarded and what I kept
The dizzying heights that I climbed to
Learning self-restraint
And all from this desk
That I’m sitting at
Right now

Do you ever catch yourself doing something, and you think ‘I know I must be happy, because I’m doing that thing I always do when I’m happy.’ For me it’s singing. I found myself singing at the top of my lungs to an album that 90’s Vicky was obsessed with, while driving to Mama Jeu’s yesterday. Three weeks ago 2020 threw one last steaming turd at me, and I lost my shit and rather a drastic amount of weight. But if there’s one thing I’m rather adept at, it’s rising from the ashes.

I finished writing a book this week, and have sent it to the publishers for the proof copy. I won’t believe it until it’s a real thing in my hands. It’s the text of ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ and a selection of edited blogs that trace the process, plus a few other bits and pieces and photos from the live performances. I have included all of the brain haiku’s, and a poem that I later cut from the live performance. So I’d already done the writing, I just needed to learn the formatting. I hope it will be the first of many.

It’s been a booky month, as I found out that I’ve been featured in a new one coming out in April. In June 2019, my poet friend Dave Hubble came to see me perform ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ and we had a brief discussion afterwards about spoken word and burlesque for a chapter he was writing. The book is called ‘Spoken Word in the UK’ and is published by Routledge, which makes me feel very scholarly, as most of my theatre textbooks at University were published by them. 

I have been allocated some funding to re-work ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ for a digital platform and will be streaming some performances from my living room in the new year. It’s been interesting to experiment with performing to a camera, and I was able to invest in a plug-in microphone. I’m so grateful that the show is still finding new audiences, I had thought it was all over when the pandemic began this year.

Work on ‘Testy Manifesto’ is ongoing, and I found a way to frame the problematic middle section of the show. I’ve even booked a venue for a performance in June, because SURELY Covid will be long gone by then????!!! It’s currently running at 45 minutes, so I’ll do two performances to allow for social distancing. I’ve brought a burlesque element in, I wasn’t going to, but it felt right for a particular section, and Jeu Jeu insisted. She is often right about these things.

I wrote a very dark poem last month, and have shared it at a few online poetry events. I took quite a lot of artistic license with the imagery, really played up the wretchedness - we all need a lockdown poem, right?

​I keep surprising myself this year. 

Stay safe and cosy,
JJlF xx

In the house of self-undoing
A gradual drip fills a bucket overnight, and with a heavy slosh empties each day
Brown sludge clings to corners
Caterwauling creatures hunt for threads
And vacant spider-webs are hammocks for dust

In the house of self-undoing
A paint blob on the wall turns into a spindly bug, it’s legs rattle
Shower steam turns to green mould
Each day the doom-scrolling diary of a madwoman
Watches as the line on the graph climbs higher

In the house of self-undoing
A door frame shakes the frozen breath, a neighbours smoke unfurls
They are locked into screens
But taking no prisoners
Constipated hours pass, and no one thinks to help 

Bags are half packed in the house of self-undoing
An endless drone makes sparks fly, there is blood in the toilet
The sweat is fresh
But I can tell it disgusts you
Deft spiders descend with alarming speed

The house of self-undoing has paper thin walls
Terrifying hallucinations that only arouse her curiosity
Her voice rasps
Her hand won’t write
She thinks of the last meal she had with her mother in Peru, the llama skin tablecloth, the clay pots, the gentle candlelight on sloped ceilings.
Loves washes through in convulsions
Just let me leave
No sound escapes
And passers by admire the flowers outside 

Venus was twinkling at me through my bedroom window when I woke up this morning and it was still dark. I know it was Venus because I have an app on my phone that told me. Technology is pretty awesome. So are planets.

A past collaborator and I got together over a facebook video call the other week to record a voiceover that I need for ‘Testy Manifesto.’ It’s a piece of dialogue that I’ve written in the style of Theatre of the Absurd that happens early on in the show. I reply to the voiceover live, and I hope it sets up the idea of the abusive ‘other’ and the absurdity and crazy-making that having a conversation with an abusive person sounds like. The same collaborator is making me a bespoke sound effect too. Technology, yeah. Friends that help you for no money but you might be able to pay them in the future possibly if you get that ACE grant you applied for, yeah.

I’ve filmed myself doing six poems and posted them on my facebook page and instagram over the past month. The responses have been positive, and as my confidence grew I found myself getting a bit more creative with the way I framed each one. The videos are nothing fancy, the point was to try something I hadn’t done before. I’ve got five more poems to film, but I’ve been dragging my heels a bit, I think the doubt is setting in, and the longer I leave it....

A good friend who moved to Edinburgh this year and I have started having rehearsals over zoom. She is devising her first solo show, we have exchanged scripts, and I have resolved to be vulnerable in front of her. Then if the Fringe goes ahead next year we will tech for each other, and I’ll have somewhere to stay that doesn’t swallow my entire budget. Which is good as those tiny, damp, free fringe venues are germ factories, and I may as well not be diseased AND overdrawn.

I did manage to do an actual live gig for Poetry Platform at the Railway last month. It was streamed online, and the mic was sterilised after each performer. I’m enjoying this hygienic hybrid approach, and had missed being part of an audience. I did an old poem I knew well from ‘Frontal Lobotomy’, two new ones from ‘Testy Manifesto’ and ended with ‘The Laughing Heart’ by Charles Bukowski. It was nice to be back.

I’m training to be a Funeral Celebrant at the moment, and my tutor commented today on how I always selected such lovely pieces of poetry for the guest readings and what we call the Scene In and Scene Out. I revealed that I wrote poems, and was a poet-nerd, and he said I could write my own pieces for originality. Maybe that is my third anthology show; ‘Jeu Jeu la Foille’s Lonely Ceremony’, ‘Jeu Jeu la Foille’s Smitten Commital’, ‘Jeu Jeu la Foille’s Boredom Crematorium.’

Here is a very new, and very vulnerable poem I wrote for ‘Testy Manifesto.’ I’m done with writing for that show, I’ve said all I wanted to say, and there are other things to work on now, like the ACTING. But I’ll probably end up re-writing this one, as I’m not sure I like it yet.​

JJlF xx


It was easy enough to report 
The unspoken currency of a white woman’s tears
We’ve got something more serious here
You clearly didn’t do that to yourself
My eye betrayed me
But my skin colour saved me


It was simple enough to escape
The unspoken guarding of a white woman’s face
Buy the paint, move into this space
You’re going to be safer now
My eye healed up
But the phone didn’t stop


It was smooth enough to describe
The unspoken manner of a white woman’s pain
He’s a cunt, and you’re not to blame
You can stay with us anytime
But my eyes are still sore
And I’m thinking more and more


What if I hadn’t been white
Had trouble walking upright
My English was stale
If I had been born male


What if the two years were twenty
I had spoken too gently
If I had far less of a wage
Or if I was gay


What if that child had been born
If my bruises were worn
And instead of a new flat
I’d ended up on a slab


My story has been heard by many strangers
You are by no means the first
Professionals doing their good work
I’m past the worst, not in any danger


What I wasn’t prepared for was the loss
Weird, but I felt empty without the stress
Fear, anger, grief or drunk
That’s how that summer sunk


And I sometimes thought
Amid the haze and tears
That if my assailant had been black 
Would that have brought the justice back
Would it be swifter, harsher, fairer 
And what did that say about me
I can’t condone these atrocities 
I won’t stay silent to ease your discomfort
There are too many to of us to count
There’s someone near to you now
That’s in an unspeakable hell
And getting free is only the start
Please hold them as they open their hearts 
And say, you’ve come this far
You’ll never go back there again




Photo Credit: Veronika Vee Marx

Something pretty big happened for me last week. I finally got out of my own way and finished writing ‘Testy Manifesto.’ It’s the first draft, ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ went through about 15 drafts, so I can’t call it finished. But it’s there, it’s something, and I don’t hate it. To put into context, I began writing this show in March 2019, it’s taken me 18 months of floundering and questioning why I was even doing it. I’d written a few bits and pieces before I began in earnest, but only one of those poems has made it into this version, I’ve ended up with several orphans. The tipping point happened when I stumbled upon a writer giving an interview on self-sabotage a few weeks ago, and what she said made so much sense to me, that I bought her latest book and read it in a day. There were four pieces that I still needed to write, and rather than trying to control the outcome of those, or waiting even longer until I was ‘ready’, I just opened my computer and started writing words. Three of them didn’t turn out at all the way I was expecting, and two surpassed my expectations, and were far better ideas than I’d originally had.
​ 
I said two blogs ago that I was going to start filming poems and putting them online, just as a way of practising, and I still haven’t done that....it’s on my list for tomorrow. But at least now I know why I was holding back. It was my fear of being judged, not being liked, not being polished enough. All that shit has to go now. And if I try filming thing and it’s not for me, then I know I need to try another way. I’ve already sent the first draft of the script to a trusted friend and collaborator, I’ve approached a previous collaborator to record a voiceover with me, I emailed the last producer I worked with...I don’t care if it’s not quite ready, if not now then when? I now know that all this dragging my heels didn’t happen because I was unmotivated or undisciplined. I was genuinely afraid of how the work would be received. But I think back to when I moved from burlesque into doing ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ and people saying then how much of a departure it was from my previous guises. And then after the scratch performances of ‘Testy Manifesto’ them saying “Well, it’s a bit different from your last show.” I’m glad it’s different. This is where I am now.

I don’t think a creative process gets any easier the more you do it, you just have more grace. You know it’s going to be difficult at points, and those challenges get easier to reconcile. Like when a relationship ends, it doesn’t make it any less hurtful, but you know that you managed before, and so will do again. Despite how well ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ did for me, the reviews, awards and audience numbers, I know there were some people who didn’t like it. I really have to get comfortable with not being ‘liked’ now, as what I’ve produced this time is far more confrontational. It shares many features with FL; anthology style, puppets, A LOT of words, but no burlesque this time. I had a ball with burlesque, but that side of me no longer feels appropriate. 

On a completely random side note, I’ve been training to be a funeral celebrant. Somehow my writing and performing experience, and my latent goth tendencies, not only have an outlet, but a market too. My pre-coursework was to write the funeral for someone real or imagined, and I chose Tom Waits. My course tutor was so taken aback at this rather epic funeral I’d planned that he’s urged me to continue with it, and deliver it for my assessment. There is music in there from Leadbelly and Captain Beefheart, and the eulogy begins with ‘Thomas Alan Waits was born at a very young age in Pomona, California.’ I wouldn’t have even begun thinking I was poetical without Waits, he has a lot to answer for.

Big loves,
JJlF xx

PS: A story that I wrote, that didn’t turn out how I expected...

The mouth of the cave was small, indiscriminate, indistinct, indignant. No one knew how far back the cave went, they all assumed it was bigger on the inside, but no one had ever ventured far enough. You probably wouldn’t even notice it if you walked past, and many did walk past, it being situated in an area of outstanding natural beauty. No one felt compelled to have their picnic there, and so no litter was left. It remained wild, wild and unremarkable. Inside the cave lived a group of three beings, whom one by one had spontaneously materialised, over an indeterminate period of time. You couldn’t call them friends, but occupying the same space as they did brought a level of familiarity. 

The first of the three to appear arrived in the shape of a small red tricycle, and for a long time he sat alone, not knowing how he’d got there, not daring to go outside. The second being to appear arrived as a red haze at first, and then took the shape of a white rose, her petals already a bit wilted and spoiled, but her stem thick and spiky. The tricycle and the rose sat and waited. Somehow they knew, in all their numb confusion, that a third being would soon materialise, and that they would give them the answers they needed. Why are we here? Who made us? And why can’t we leave this place? 

The silence surrounded them until a tiny blue frog with black beady eyes appeared and began croaking incessantly. It seemed luminous in the darkness, and had a kind of frantic bravery, that cut through their inertia, and ruffled them into action. Working together, they explored the cave, the rose riding on the tricycle and the frog leading and lighting the way. “What’s out there?” The frog croaked, indicating the mouth of the cave, and hopped towards it, the other two obediently following. 

Suddenly the whole cave glowed with a ruby luminescence, the ground beneath them shifted, the walls began shuddering, and wind that came from deep within the cave lifted them and began sucking them inside. Up up they went, pulled by the wind, the ruby glow getting hotter and hotter, until all three of them had transmuted to fire. Bursting out of the earth and running down the newly formed peak as lava, they somehow knew it had to be this way, and they let go, cooling as they flowed, slowing as they hardened.​

The rain came, the grass grew, and three flowers bloomed on the mountain. One red, one white and one blue. The wild yet unremarkable mouth of the cave closed over, but people often have their picnics on top of the mountain peak now. They don’t stay for long, and they always take their litter home with them.

It does not sit well with me to be sitting down while reading poems that I have written, speaking to my own face on a screen. I have not done well in online performances, and though I am grateful that they are still happening, there haven’t been many that I’ve enjoyed watching either. I did probably what will be my only live performance of post March 2020 at the end of May. It was at my Grandmother’s funeral, and I’ve included the poem I wrote for her at the end here. Today I filmed a short poetry set as practise for an online gig, but watching it back I knew this wasn’t the day for ‘live’ performance. It sounded flat and I looked bored. I guess I could’ve had another crack at it. I was sitting down at my desk, so I moved the ipad to the top of a bookshelf so I could stand up, and there and then I decided it was time to ADAPT. I still backed out of the online gig, but I’ve committed to - and I’m putting this in words so I have accountability - making a two-minute video once a week and posting it on my facebook page and instagram. This way I have to learn and practise one or two poems a week and get them online. We aren’t going back to sharing spaces in the way that we used to anytime soon, and it’s all I can do to stop everything turning to sludge. 

I’ve been so sick of seeing my own face on a screen during nearly every human interaction I’ve had in the past four months that I made a new puppet to speak through, so a different face was on the screen. She is called Wanda, and she is a womb. I wrote a poem about reproductive rights called ‘Pro Life’, in the vein of Desiree’s 90’s hit ‘Life’, then made a short video and submitted it to Grant Sharkey’s Radical You TV. It’s THE SEXY ONE on youtube. I’m so proud of my friends who are making great online work; hosting quizzes, doing podcasts, leading dance classes, and showcasing editing and animation skills, the likes of which I can only dream of. I’ve made a new puppet. But she’s cool, and maybe we’ll do some more educational videos together, if inspiration ever strikes again.

I’ve signed up to Peta Lily’s Advanced Dark Clown workshop at the end of July. This will be the first workshop I’ve ever done via zoom, and I always come away from working with Peta brimming with ideas. This could not be more timely and needed. I’m outraged at the events  happening in the world on an hourly basis, and I hardly feel much like writing anything new. It feels more important to listen for now, and to educate myself. And to not turn to sludge in the meantime. 


JJlF xx


A hush fell over the green opposite the kitchen window
The ducks paused mid waddle, beaks agape
As dusk fell, the best fed fox in Winchester, slinked from his lair, sniffed the air
And saw his nightly banquet was late
But in another space, another plane, tails started wagging, whiskers twitched
Fur faced eyes wide in eagerness
Yes! They said, She is returned to us.

The bird lady left her body that Spring
Blossoms bloomed but her spirit shrank
From a shell that brought her no pleasure
A fragmented mind
Holding humour until the very last
Dinky Bennett in present and past
We wished her wings rest
But never forget

Our squeals as she dried between our toes 
The mock indignation at the sight of false teeth
Yellow photographs, squares, over-exposed
An entourage of rowdy geese
The red warning triangles for ducks on Worthy Road

How we rolled our eyes when she pointed that camera
‘Look natural’ she yelled, while we were eating our dinner
Archers and lemonade over ice
A cheeky cream cake
A drawer stuffed with biscuits 
A teddy bears picnic
Her voice on the phone pricks up floppy ears
The scent on borrowed clothes foretells her appearance

Now they all line her path as she greets each one by name
‘Hello Chutney and Rio, it’s lovely to see you
And Toni, and Benbow, Abbie and Willow
There’s Jason, sopping wet from the river
Jamie, Louee, Pepai and Sophie the bunny
Candy, Kelly, Lady, Blu and Honey
Toby, Friday, Dominic, Blaze and Midnight
God bless you all, you’re a sight for sore eyes!’

​
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