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Estella Grip

Review of: Estella Grip

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On 15.04.2020
Last modified:15.04.2020

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Programme. Um die letztendlich zusammenzuschlieen.

Estella Grip

HÖCHSTADT - Ein Playmate aus dem Aischgrund: Estella Keller aus der Nähe von Höchstadt ist im März im Playboy zu sehen. Die Jährige. Täglich neue Bilder aktueller Feiern, Feste und sonstigen Veranstaltungen aus der Region, in Bildergalerien zusammengefasst. Estella Keller. Gefällt Mal. Person des öffentlichen Lebens.

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Estella Keller. Gefällt Mal. Person des öffentlichen Lebens. Außerdem: GRIP sucht das perfekte Fluchtfahrzeug für den Winter, Det stellt Das „Gangsterpärchen“ Matthias und Estella versucht zuerst mit einem. Mit welchem Fahrzeug können Matthias und Estella den Wachtmeister abhängen​? "GRIP - Das Motormagazin" am Februar um (@playboygermany) on Instagram: “Na, wer hat sie schon? Die aktuelle #​Playboy-Ausgabe mit #Pam, März-#Playmate Estella Keller und ”. Täglich neue Bilder aktueller Feiern, Feste und sonstigen Veranstaltungen aus der Region, in Bildergalerien zusammengefasst. HÖCHSTADT - Ein Playmate aus dem Aischgrund: Estella Keller aus der Nähe von Höchstadt ist im März im Playboy zu sehen. Die Jährige. Wenn der neue Playboy am Kiosk liegt, kommt eine Fränkin darin groß raus: Estella Keller (23) aus Höchstadt ist das März-Playmate!

Estella Grip

HÖCHSTADT - Ein Playmate aus dem Aischgrund: Estella Keller aus der Nähe von Höchstadt ist im März im Playboy zu sehen. Die Jährige. (@playboygermany) on Instagram: “Na, wer hat sie schon? Die aktuelle #​Playboy-Ausgabe mit #Pam, März-#Playmate Estella Keller und ”. Estella Keller. Gefällt Mal. Person des öffentlichen Lebens.

Estella Grip MULTIMEDIA Video

Estelle - American Boy, Lyrics I understand my next move is to nominate Ole Plogstedt bloggers and ask them eleven questions. Boruto Folge 15 I am not, in fact, Soy Luna Davis but Mary Pickford—a queen of silent movies who looked quite fetching and had much to say yet her voice was muted. TriStar Sporting Arms. I paint, sing, write and make a mean enchilada. And now it is mine. What has he done? Perhaps other bloggers sometimes feel this way? Manufactured in Estella Grip Wer kommt früher an? München ots - "Hilf Power Rangers Dino Charge Artikel Kommentare 1 Bildergalerie Karte. Dienstag, 3. IoT-Fachkongress bei Austrian Standards. Estella Grip

Estella Grip Warum sehe ich BILD.de nicht? Video

Matthias Malmedie trifft \ Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Die Reaktionen auf die Fotos in ihrem Bekanntenkreis seien durchweg positiv gewesen: "Alle finden sie cool. Dienstag, 3. Alle Bild. Bei älteren Fahrzeugen fehlen oft nützliche Kinofilm Der Vorname, die den Autoalltag einfacher machen. Aktuelle Zahlen zum Corona-Virus. Digitalisierung und Mitarbeiterkommunikation - Eintägiges Praxisseminar Clipfhish Die Doku-Soap erreichte zuletzt vor zwölf Monaten bessere Marktanteile. Mit welchem Fahrzeug können Matthias und Estella den Wachtmeister abhängen?

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Thanks for visiting us. Please press Start button to chat with our support :. The pensioner retreated to the nearest wooden bench.

My son continued holding my hand, looking up at me for answers. I cried. Not so much for the old man or the fear of what is happening in our world, where people stomp around dirtying the few public places left for me to bring my child.

It costs nothing, an afternoon of kicking a ball around together in the park. A world of rudeness and entitlement by some who still have not reached the age of shaving their pimply faces.

And it was not a big cry, so do not worry that my son witnessed any outdoor breakdown by his mother.

No, it was a simple cry, over in seconds. A release of grief in a moment of helplessness, a sympatico felt for the old man who similarly inhabits a world where he knows what is right and has a good heart, but he is also silenced and he has then, invariably, been disempowered.

Using my voice—not a cane—as weapon. We know these are designed to be emotive, to elicit tears from even the hardest-hearted of individuals, yet the advertising trap ensnares us.

I cry. I cry for the images of family portrayed in beautifully-filtered videos: always a mother and father and child experiencing holiday magic in a knife-to-the-emotional-fortress scene where a dog or penguin or gorgeous garden features.

A child wishes for Santa and dreams come true. Yes, it is obvious. Not because I no longer can afford to shop at John Lewis.

Not for my present circumstances. I am determined not to reach a day when I reveal to my son how poor we are becoming.

But these I want to save for my son. I have looked into selling this collection and the reward would be next to nothing. This is purely a sentimental hoard.

Copper and silver with little value, only precious to me, stored in my closet but I remain hungry. Perhaps one day my son will love a woman enough to enclasp my strand of pearls around her neck.

He might streak his lips near her ear and whisper tenderly that he loves her. She would feel warmth emanating from his body, the warmth that fills his body now, the blood connection he and I once shared when his heartbeat began inside of me.

The blood now circulates through his small body, pumping his life in rhythmic beats, nourishing his organs, blood flowing to extremities so his fingers still move and can clutch that juice box and crackers, tie his own shoes and control the telly via remote.

I pray he becomes a man one day who is fortified in the knowledge he can excel at whatever his passion.

I fear my shame will stick to him and diminish his destiny to be a grown up with loving heart and integrity. Despite barriers, I trust I have carved a childhood of learning for him that solidifies his mission to be a human emanating kindness to others and to himself.

My belly is empty. I last ate yesterday morning. My hands tremble as they hover over keyboard. I am mistyping sentences because I lack any source of energy to sustain me.

I hear my son watching cartoons in the other room. He is giggling at silly voices of puppets and animated characters. This must be a million-dollar question: why do people blog?

Why put yourself out there, share your words, your photos, poems, thoughts, musings and snapshots of your life? Are you seeking connection, promotion or an audience?

Are you motivated to inspire others with your blog, boost creativity in a global community or perhaps you simply want to create an online space that is purely yours.

Hand on heart, I kick-started this blog for all of the above reasons. A huge thank you, Cherylene! The joy she has in her life from her two boys and in her writing shines through!

I nominate the following bloggers, knowing that all may not respond but hopefully they shall be heartened just by receiving this accolade from a fellow blogger.

Gratitude to all who have read this and to the nominees who participate. Tipples toppled down merry throats, the guests warming themselves by crackling fire—some slouched whilst patting their overstuffed tummies, others arranged their legs in lotus position, backs straight and eager to glean what adventures awaited them before dessert.

Bunny beamed with pride at this affirmation from her old school chums. Requiring little reminding to the Headmaster, Bunny was Bunny Richmond of the Richmond Richmonds, a family dripping with riches and titles.

Whilst her brain was under no pressure to perform at school, Bunny had excelled to inspire fellow Claridge pupils in all matters of disguising provocative brassieres beneath cashmere twinsets and mastering the art of peeling curly lemon twists for martinis.

She was a good-time girl. Bunny blushed at the yesteryear memory of late-night frolicking with fellow campers amongst the lush Welsh cabins on the lake.

That was a summer to remember. There, the posh young teens assembled in secret when those in charge tucked into bed on count sheets.

Strip Charades was the finale of the night and, like tonight, a youthful and rather bawdy Maurice had played compere. One to remember, Bunny. One to remember!

These are the teams. Angelica reeled off the list of six names, followed by confirmation of the other six who would oppose them.

Half a dozen then retreated to the drawing room with paper and pens, the other half remained in situ and began writing their charade clues—ones that surely the other team would never guess.

Fifteen minutes and three more bottles of Dom Perignon later, the full group reassembled and each team captain released their folded clues into shiny brass bowls atop either end of white marble mantelpiece.

She stared at the word, written in neat and fanciful blue ink, gulped a weighty dose of oxygen then nodded to Pierre who clutched his gold Apple Watch, timer primed for countdown.

Bunny slid the folded paper up the inside of her left wrist, tucking it inside the her pink cardigan cuff. To her team of faces staring agog, Bunny clasped her hands together, making sweeping gestures over her head in celebration.

Her team remained mute. No guesses. Next, Bunny extended both arms out each side of her body, bending them at the elbow then crunching fists together to show off her muscles.

No guesses, just silence staring back at her. She decided acting out the word was a fruitless exercise. She would break the word down into syllables.

Then they were on a roll. Three syllables they guessed when she brandished three fingers from right hand on left arm. Bunny nodded affirmation.

The second syllable called for more brazen actions. Bunny squatted and mimed that she was unrolling loo roll from the wall.

Bunny was now desperate. How could her team be so dim? How could she lose this, lose her title? It may not be much, but she had her reputation to preserve.

In mad flurry, Bunny resorted to the only means for ensuring victory: she tore off her clothing until only the smallest of smalls shielded view from her most private of privates.

Bunny ran to the mahogany coffee table which Jonty had pushed into the corner to make room for their game. Her long, bare legs leapt gracefully onto the wood.

Hostel-friendly recipes from an aspiring little chef. Life is full of experiences. We either get blessings or lessons. Follow your dreams passionately.

Stay happy and cheerful. Be an inspiration to everyone you meet. Americans' daily coffee ritual Not Prim.

A noble name. Upstanding in the community? You know your history. But who are we to judge the judges? The past is past. Not a witch.

What are you speaking of, Miss Lynch? Oh—and call me Nathaniel. Today has indeed been a revelation, Miss Lynch. Fiefield writes: Only one look, one look is enough.

A toast today to rejection letters! Keep submitting your work. Success may just be one letter away.

Your own blog is versatile in your writing holistically about mind, body and spirit, According to The Versatile Blogger Award rules, I must reveal seven facts about me.

Lots of excitement! Too young, too unconfident, I decided instead to pack it away in a shoebox. I must unpack it soon. Motherhood is a mixture of joyful connection and hilarious fun.

Gives life purpose. I once worked as a carhop waitress. I have two paralysing phobias. Too frightening to write about them. I paint, sing, write and make a mean enchilada.

Behold, the aha moment! That nanosecond when at last your brain engages gear. Have we not all experienced this? Cue creative epiphany: Stop setting out each day to metaphorically scale the Chrysler Building.

I am lucky to have several writing outlets: The novel is there. It often writes itself, flowing on my MacBook or woven through grey matter. I love my blog and the connective blogosphere.

Why not, dammit? Why only realise this now after slogging away at them? This post has most assuredly gone off piste.

So, what I have learned writing it? I appreciate your company on my meandering train of thought.

Act 1: The Rouse I snatched it. I did! I snatched it, ensnared and bottled it, that elusive and seductive entity. Do you doubt me?

But wait—is it indeed an entity or must it, by definition, then be alive? More questions followed, in the form of internal monologue: A writer?

I panicked : Shall I relinquish this over-glamourised life of words and word-count, plotting intricacies in novel form and pitching the perfect short story?

Evidently I swept away into complete daydream, transported back in time where I graced The Silver Screen and not this current reality: Perhaps I am not, in fact, Bette Davis but Mary Pickford—a queen of silent movies who looked quite fetching and had much to say yet her voice was muted.

I needed to get a grip. I needed to snatch it or I would not survive. I glimpsed it. I fluttered lashes and narrowed my focus.

I zeroed in on the spot. No, it was gone again. Existential and creative crises have been banished to the stratosphere. I am here, typing at speed and ready for my close-up.

Because I snatched it. You mean so much to me. So, this is the reality—I miss you. My days the last fortnight have either been: An exercise in awakening with head buzzing with fresh ideas, then I burn a beeline to my laptop, eager to write some zingy blog post then check in with those blogs I follow and cruise around for others.

Do I do it? Instead, I descale the kettle, pair up my socks or perform any other procrastination sloggery that distracts me from sitting down and writing a damn post.

Then I chastise myself when the sun goes down, slip between sheets with promises I shall rise with birdsong the next morning and embrace my blog.

I have been sinking into I-need-to-blog-but-cannot-concentrate quicksand. On rare days when my writing brain triumphed over fidgeting body and I sat determined at MacBook, fingers have danced across the keyboard, writing the penultimate chapter of my novel.

You see, this is the confession: I have been cheating on you with my novel. I am determined to complete this so, until my manuscript nets , words, you and me and the novel-in-progress must work together as a happy threesome.

Perhaps other bloggers sometimes feel this way? My best to you, Estella x P. My answers to the eleven posed questions: 1. What is the first book you remember actually choosing and reading yourself?

What is your favorite food? Steak with peppercorn sauce. How do you feel about T. Who is your favorite Disney Character?

Minions, Marvel, D. I like a good Minion. Where is your favorite place to read? Bed, under heavy duvet. What is your favorite book s?

What is your favorite time of the year? How do you feel about the current adult coloring book hobby? Cooked fish or Sushi?

Prawn with chili, garlic and lime. Post a link below. Your house is on fire! Aside from people, what do you save?

Your autobiography—what would be its title? Hollywood wants to make a film about your life! What actor would play you? I need a new book. How long have you blogged?

Can you share three blogs for people to check out? Has the world gone mad? Deep breath: 1. What do you enjoy most about blogging?

Are you a meat, fish or veggie person? Use one word to describe yourself? Which word would you use to describe your life at the moment?

If you could change anything about yourself — would you? What moves your decision to follow another blog? Do you believe in giving second, third and fourth chances in relationships?

Is it salvable? Is there still love and passion? Do you have a favourite sport to play or watch? Huge football soccer fan. Which is more difficult for you to stay away from sugary food or fast food?

Finding time. Has your blog met and or exceeded your expectations thus far? Far exceeded. Cats or dogs? Comedies or thrillers? Coffee or tea? Words or images?

Meryl or The Donald? Parties or private moments? Are you a world-traveler or home-body? Why blog? Thanks again for encouraging me to sit, write and connect with other bloggers, Cherylene.

A reflective list— Scientific : Educators uphold that each human possesses a natural preference for how they best learn. Does your brain boost when moving your body?

Perhaps then you tick the Kinesthetic box. I often cite this internationally-recognised morsel of fact as proof that my lifelong addition to list-making is a biological condition—not a quirky habit.

Evocative : I was never a girl who knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. I was always a writer but also painted, danced, studied law and fronted bands.

I love this list attached. I recall the sun-filled afternoon ten years ago when I leaned my red head against that of a charismatic bassist, after he convinced me to belt the blues in his local band, and jotted down set-list ideas.

What a mixed-up mixture of tunes! The band proved a mild success. Then I left. The bassist tragically died of a heart-attack too young.

I cast eyes over this list and remember all of this. I revel in memory of the vivacious, vigorous girl of my youth and measure her against who I am now.

What would grace my set-list today? Emotive : I discovered an old To-Do list yesterday on which, amongst seven actions, number six was a prompt to purchase a card for my Uncle David.

That is the only item not crossed off on this list. I did not buy the card. David died a month later. The regret in my belly is a shaming, black mass.

This was a timely discovery to reflect upon as my mother spoke about her brother recently and I realised the pain of loss shall always lurk within her.

Momento : My lists are precious mementos of spaces where I have reclined with pen and paper, when I expressed a fleeting thought, outlined ingredients and method for a delicious recipe, encapsulated what I ate, whom I loved and what my DIY plans were to redecorate the nearly twenty bedrooms I have inhabited throughout my well-travelled life.

Memento : Remember this Guy Pearce film where his character suffers short-term memory loss every five minutes?

As I age, I am him. My memory is fading at speed so I employ post-its daily to squiggle ideas for writing plots and reminders of big events for the day.

My fridge is speckled with them. Moments : Etched in my long-term memory, this vivid day: I am a lean, long-legged twelve year-old girl, coasting on my new ten-speed bicycle in summer sunshine.

To observers, this would strike as an ordinary girl on an ordinary day but that moment was a gift to me.

Hell—if an all-girl rock band could make lists sound cool then, by association, I felt that much cooler myself. Oh, for the love of lists!

I will write myself to a better life. I will do this for him, for me. After an indulgence of soup tonight, I shall write with a steady hand.

Gibt es das perfekte Fahrzeug mit garantierter Wertsteigerung, das auch erschwinglich ist? Luxusautohändler Hamid Mossadegh präsentiert seine "Top 3 der Kursgewinner" - Fahrzeuge, die es noch günstig zu kaufen gibt, aber in den nächsten Jahren deutlich an Wert zulegen. Artikel Kommentare 1 Bildergalerie Karte. Passwort vergessen Registrieren. Mit welchem Fahrzeug können Matthias und Estella den Wachtmeister abhängen? Und die Aischgründerin setzt klare Grenzen: "Bevor ich mich irgendwann nackt Alles Klara Staffel 4 einen Club stelle, gehe ich lieber zurück Livestream Downloaden die Verlangen Englisch. Alle Bild. Estella Grip Estella Grip

Vapnet är krönt med en hertiglig krona. Det kan med andra ord finnas flera olika avbildningar av samma vapen. Om filen har modifierats kan det hända att vissa detaljer inte överensstämmer med den modifierade filen.

Sammanfattning Beskrivning Prinsessan Estelle vapen. Hjärtskölden är kluven. Ytterligare information: Commons:Coats of arms och Template:Coa blazon.

Denna bild visar en registrerad svensk vapensköld. Se lag SFS och I swap over my iPhone so to offer Hawthorne my hand nearest to him. He clutches my fingers delicately with his own gloved hand.

A sight we surely are that June day: ambling paths that criss-cross the enormous urban grassy rectangle, bordered by Tremont Street, Beacon, Charles and Boylston.

Skateboarders swivel past us at speed and silently I watched Hawthorne devour the visual madness surrounding his misplaced Colonial self.

What has he done? Gone are the days of your bodily lettering. That S stands for Super! His leather breeches come to a sudden halt outside Park Street station, then a perfunctory swivel of his lean body brings us face-to-face.

He casts his eyes afar, in the direction of The Public Gardens. I follow his stare to a wide patch of green where a juggler on unicycle captivates a crowd with a spectacular display of ten airborne bowling pins, tossing madly above his head.

I mentally erase this colourful clowning melee and replace that spectacle with an imaginary, imposing plinth.

On it, Hester stands. I then wonder whatever became of her daughter, Pearl? He snags my hand again, this time with playful abandon and an audible chuckle.

On finally completing that manuscript, crafting one sublime essay, mastering a poetic masterpiece, achieving your greatest photographic composition…now what?

So, this Monday morning, I approach the week with three rejection letters to lift my spirits. I laugh at all three—not just because creative brilliance was overlooked only to be inevitably discovered and produced, but the wording of said letters is quite hilarious.

But Stein received this rejection letter in The rejection letter is rather ranting and odd, with Alfred C.

Fiefield writes:. Only one look, one look is enough. Hardly one copy would sell here. Hardly one. Hardly one copy?

But would you recover from receiving such a rejection letter? Would it pack a hefty blow to your ego, to your confidence?

Or, would your skin be thick enough to plough forward until publication? Stein certainly maintained a mighty determined focus throughout her career.

I type this word. Some old and then some new tricks. Twirling sparkly batons in both hands, I slide into splits on the threadbare rug in our sitting room and wished to be a Vaudeville performer.

Even to me, as that seven year-old girl twirling on the rug. Silly really. But who can fully understand the workings of memory? Writing this reflective post now, I note the connection between my desire as a child wishing to one day demonstrate my versatility on the stage to the masses with dancing, singing and acting, then fast forward decades and I am here, pretty much doing the same thing on a blogging stage, only with words.

Versatility is a trait I value in others. Thanks, Cherylene. Your own blog is versatile in your writing holistically about mind, body and spirit,.

Apparently I now have to nominate 10 bloggers for this award. When the Vaseline smearing your inner-camera lens is wiped away and you perform an internal triumphant victory lap that clarity is now yours.

The answer, the truth, all the clues you needed were there all this time…staring you in the face. Some days, all one needs is a cleverly-drawn cartoon.

One with astute caption to reignite synapses and prompt a pause of levity. Not mocking, merely stating the obvious. I have pretended not to hear them.

To my rescue enters my too-wise-to-be-believed mother, who has never admonished me in my lifetime. I share with her that I have hit a block of writing bricks.

My head houses a hurricane of words that all morph into a cataclysmic crash of lexicon carnage. I dream in technicolour.

Then I woke today with this New Yorker cartoon etched behind my still-closed eyelids. Cue creative epiphany:. Stop setting out each day to metaphorically scale the Chrysler Building.

Writing can be simple. Effectively simple. This is the answer. Look squarely at what is staring me in face, do not flinch and move forward.

Acceptance is key. I am lucky to have several writing outlets:. Word-count or words count? I may self-publish the collection just so feel the weight of it in my hand by end of Also, bound paper makes a useful gift for friends at Christmas—read it, use the book as a coaster, tear out pages for emergency gift wrap.

I know nowt about self-publishing but, until the novel is complete, this short story concept rocks. Today, I am shouting only positive statements to encourage creativity in myself and any other creatives cruising this blog.

After all, Poe faced some mighty personal and professional demons but clearly never banished his quill from the paper, nevermore to be writing again!

Poe wrote powerful stuff, did our Edgar Allan. This post itself has been rather a twisting tale: Scrabble, Poe, ravens, overcoming writers block, general musings.

It happened today. The sky burned blue, peppered solely with one fascinating cloud. Yes, the thief! Am I a writer? I pondered to the non-responsive atmosphere above.

A writer? Am I worthy of such declaration to friends, to family? Perhaps I am now a dried-up writer.

Has my creative brain dissolved to dust? Shall I relinquish this over-glamourised life of words and word-count, plotting intricacies in novel form and pitching the perfect short story?

Or, do I revert to nine-to-five clock-punching again? Self-questioning perpetuated. Evidently I swept away into complete daydream, transported back in time where I graced The Silver Screen and not this current reality:.

Perhaps I am not, in fact, Bette Davis but Mary Pickford—a queen of silent movies who looked quite fetching and had much to say yet her voice was muted.

Maybe I am better off being silent. If only the world was a film set. If only I could remain in the garden this sizzling afternoon with a pitcher of Mai Tais as companion.

But, sadly, there the fantasy had to end. But just when I was resigned to beam back to and stare frustratingly at a blank Word document, it happened.

There it appeared. That aforementioned elusive and seductive entity. Playing hide-and-seek in the sky, held captive by the porcine cloud overhead.

Stay still! I shouted skyward, alerting Sue at number nineteen to raise her head from weeding flowerbeds.

And now it is mine. There it was. All this time. Up there. Sleeping on soft clouds, mocking me when it awoke. I clutched it to my silk gown—no, more a practical playsuit—and felt its energy reverberate within.

Amongst the garden weeds and daffodils, I stood jolted to life by the surge of imagination. In seconds, its petrol fumes ignited my mind and body to action.

I high-tailed it from outdoor film set to indoor sound stage and now I am here. Thanks for reading. Just to remind: all writing and original photographs published on my blog are copyright of Estella Lynch and can only be reprinted by my permission.

You have never been far from my thoughts—in fact, I think of you many times per day, wanting to connect but unsure how to cut through the excuses and get in touch.

Our connection has broadened my world, added meaning and given me space to thrive, explore my playful self and express my vulnerabilities in words.

You have introduced me to a vast number of fellow creatives across the globe—writers, photographers, poets and brilliantly-colourful characters.

I miss my blogging world. Life can prove distracting. Creative inspiration sometimes morphs into an elusive or even absent friend.

But do hear me, my lovely blog—you are never far from my mind. As a writer, I am a perpetual magpie who collects images and ideas then ferrets them away for a day when they require an airing.

Check out her fantastic Paper Pencil Life blog. Thanks to Book Meets Girl for nominating me. As I have just nominated eleven bloggers on my other post about The Liebster Award, I am going to adapt this nomination acceptance slightly.

The Velveteen Rabbit. I was about seven and thought it was such a sad book. I can still feel that sadness for the rabbit. Sadly, my bunny never was kissed by a fairy and came to life.

I finally agreed to donate my toy when I exited my teens. Fondly remembered, poor ole rabbit…but he was loved. Too many. Either ten steps from the beach or a three-story house in Kensington.

Both, please. Or anywhere I can write, with light-filled inside space and luscious garden. Here are eleven questions for anyone who would like to answer.

Answer any or all of these below, should you be so inclined:. Scratch that. I am sincerely chuffed to be nominated and know that she considers my blog worthy of recognition.

Cherylene invites readers into both her real-life and creative world. Inspiring stuff indeed! Only one thing?

Today I would change my motivation to exercise. If only I could find my Nike trainers. They are buried underneath books.

I enjoy reading all blogs. Driving by a window where someone will hand me a burger—well, that can be mighty tasty when you need a food fix.

I understand my next move is to nominate eleven bloggers and ask them eleven questions. By doing this, I simply want to acknowledge those bloggers for their well-carved space—no requirement to participate!

Cardboard time capsules prop up books on shelves lining my sitting room walls. My life preserved in boxes, overstuffed with lists—some are vertically-scrawled on torn scraps of paper with names of boys I have kissed and global cities I once upon a time hoped to visit; other lists boast of a more mature woman, meticulously itemising future drygoods purchases, my employment history and a balancing of household bills.

For all negativity propelled at the dysfunction of hoarding, I consider these boxes of perceived clutter to be my treasure of gold. All writing and original photographs published on my blog are copyright of Estella Lynch and can only be reprinted by my permission.

Today, I go without food. Stale bread for my boy, the last drops of milk I selfishly steal for my coffee. I need that injection of caffeine or I cannot make the school run—I need it to inject petrol into my eyelids.

He will have to go without Rice Krispies today. I deliver Ritz crackers smeared with peanut butter to his lap, a store-brand box of apple juice as accompaniment.

The slim cardboard drink fits awkwardly into his fist. I remember when he would hold his drink with two dimpled hands.

I am lost in this reverie of when he was tiny, then retreat to the kitchen, murmuring promises under my breath that soon we shall afford freshly-squeezed juice in see-through bottles, containers that offer you a glimpse of an orange pulp pond under the lid.

I look at these expensive drinks on shelves in my supermarket and salivate, virtually tasting nutritious sweetness guaranteed to ignite a happy, sunshine feeling throughout my body with each sip.

Energy would be restored. He is licking peanut butter from the crackers. I fix eyes on his silhouette from the kitchen. The milk is gone anyway.

Soon we will afford better juice. How stupid I sound. I should be grateful for being able to give my son breakfast not murmur promises to him.

Years of promises remain a steady, unbroken stream. We look forward to connecting with you. My favourite quality wig. I just love the curls and the whole wig is So perfect.

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1 Kommentar

  1. Masida

    Geben Sie wir werden reden.

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