My dad taught me a song - I'm plucking pheasants, I'm a pheasant pluckers son, I'll pluck pheasants until the pheasant plucking's done. I think it's his way of determining whether I've had too much rose.You have to be careful how you sing it.I don't like pheasant. (a) you spend the whole meal trying not to bite the bullet and (b) it's too strong a taste.Gorge wedding.Happy Birthday. Will there be cake?
Though I'm sure I'm not the only bee in your bonnet, I'm happy to be buzzing around you.Let the pre birthday celebrations begin!xo Jane
Hopped on over from flwrjane's blog. No time to take an inepth look at your blog right now, but loving what I'm seeing, so will definitely be back.Hope you have a WONDERFUL birthday!
Post a Comment