Wednesday, 30 January 2013


We were awoken long before dawn by the demon of the heavens.
Jolted out of sleep, I lay quaking, with a a vision of some vast, dark being swarming through the skies directly above me, roaring - racing, chasing, in furious pursuit of I knew not what.
I understood why small creatures quiver under stones and hide in undergrowth.
It is suddenly essential to be invisible in the face of such uncontainable rage.

Is that what it's like on a battlefield?
The barely controllable instinct to turn tail, to burrow in, to be anywhere except in the line of such cataclysmically terrifying sound. Heavy guns, coming out of nowhere.
They say we are born with a fear of loud noises.

Today it was just thunder. The worst I remember.
And the speed with which it rolled away only augmented the unbidden picture in my head, as if the beast had merely trodden on my lair as it sped through the halls of heaven in pursuit of other prey.

Not so for everyone.

As the crossfire took over from the big guns - the breath-stopping staccato of wind-driven hail exploding against the roof - I turned over in my warm, dark nest and snuggled down again - my heart beating faster, but my body and lair unscathed.
I closed my eyes, but other unbidden visions came to mind.
Of ordinary people, just like me, around whom demons roar, but who are not unscathed.
In Syria.
The list goes on...

Since posting this I have heard of two houses nearby - one belonging to friends - that were struck by lightning even as I lay shivering in bed. In one, skirting boards, floors and pipes exploded, in the other wiring, electrical equipment and computers were trashed.
Mercifully, no people or animals were harmed.

Saturday, 26 January 2013

The Silver Robin Restaurant

All is not well at the Silver Robin. The chefs have obviously not been doing their job properly, and if things don't change soon, the clientele will probably start to drop away.

My son built the restaurant some years ago, to a design I dreamed up.
Unlike most edifices, it was not created to be beautiful, or striking, or to make some kind of statement.
It was put together purely with the safety of its diners in mind.

I work on one side of the window, and the bird table is on the other, and every now and again there would be a visual explosion like a firework as birds took off in all directions, a sharp crack as one  flew directly into the glass, and a puff of feathers that, falling silently through the air, told their own sorry tale.
It didn't take me long to realise that a sparrow-hawk was coming up the drive like a heat-seeking missile. At about shoulder height, and camouflaged by all the shrubs on the bank, it was effortlessly plucking some hapless songbird from the board mid-lunch.
Needless to say, I felt guilty every time. I felt as if the peanuts I'd provided had lured each tiny creature to its death.

The Silver Robin's larders are bare

The design is very simple, and, now that the perspex has clouded with age, no longer very attractive, but it surely works. To take a bird, the sparrow hawk would have to swoop round to the open front end, which faces onto the window.
I think the hawks have given up, I haven't seen one in the garden for ages.

The happy bonus of the design is that in the late spring, the young rooks no longer come to hoover up all the food I have put out for the little birds, as they find negotiating the entrance awkward and hardly worth it. They are much more inclined to do their parents' bidding, and go to the orchard for lessons in digging up leather jackets and other goodies with their long, hard beaks - their natural diet in other words.

No 2 son, who built the wondrous edifice, named it the Silver Robin because at the time a hotel was being constructed in Sligo called the Silver Swan - the name of the original hotel on the site, which paid homage to the swan-filled Garavogue River at its feet.

The Glasshouse Hotel, as it came to be called

I don't think our design was quite so a la mode as theirs, but nevertheless it has proved immensely popular, and there may well be times when, pro rata, it is fuller than its edgy Sligo counterpart, but recently I have been unable to obtain the ingredients I use to make the restaurant's staple favourite, and there have been a number of complaints from clients.

You can read the disapproval a mile away

Anxious not to leave the table bare, I have bought fat balls instead, but my diners are not very impressed. They eat them, but there has been a lot of standing beside the inadequate fat-ball and staring eloquently in through the window until I have taken note. In an effort to please, I have hung a stale loaf of bread (given me for the hens) in the restaurant's al fresco extension. This is in the little beech tree on the nearby bank, close to the dead palm tree trunk which conveniently holds the nut feeders.
It is, as you can tell, a veritable gourmet's paradise.

But fortunately, stocks are in, the chef has been busy and any minute now the menu will be back up to scratch. Hopefully everyone will be happy again
What does a grinning bird look like?
Maybe I'll find out.

The Silver Robin's al fresco extension

Cait - whose blog I like - has posted a recipe for bird cake, which sounds very good.
My small, singing friends don't get quite such 5 Star treatment.
I simply melt white fat or lard, pour it into a basin over a mixture of wild bird seed, oat flakes and raisins (if I have any to spare), wait for it to solidify and then paste it into empty coconut shells which the In-Charge has kindly drilled so they can be hung up.
As I am prone to say - easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.
And, rather like Cait's infinitely superior mixture, it vanishes like the proverbial snow.

I'll add a picture of the revamped, re-stocked, up-graded restaurant tomorrow.
Maybe there'll even be a few happy customers.

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

Teen Queen and the Frenchman

It's been a long time since I had a teenager in the house.
I'd forgotten what it was like.
But I'm remembering with a vengeance.

It's a state of never really knowing where you stand.
Of grinning and bearing whatever is thrown at you.
Of smiling even when you want to yell.
Of yelling and instantly wishing you hadn't.
Of coaxing and cajoling - sometimes with amazing results, sometimes with no results at all.

You know what they're like.
It's kisses and cuddles and flavour of the week one minute - which leaves you feeling absurdly privileged.
Then rudely ignoring you the next - so you wonder if your voice is accidentally on 'mute'.
Looking straight through you when you're speaking, 'Whatever' writ large upon bored faces.
It's rarely doing what they're told, and never coming when you call.
Treating your friends with disrespect, just when you want them to be their charming best.
Foul language and gutter manners amongst their peer group.
Going off without leave and coming back if and when they feel like, invariably losing some item you will have to replace in the process.
It's raiding the larder the moment your back is turned, devouring all the good bits and leaving everything in a mess.
It's a trashed bed like a a fleapit you can only be thankful you never have to sleep in.
Filthy feet traipsed through the house.
Any liquid refreshment sloshed everywhere.
Your accessories 'borrowed' and never returned...

Recognise any of these symptoms?

Fortunately, it's only a phase.

And fortunately we love them, so we just repeat ourselves when ignored, coax even harder, are simply relieved when they finally turn up, write off the borrowed items, and - in between - mop, hoover and clean up as necessary.

Fortunately I've been there, done that and - as they say - bought the t-shirt.

I must say, I wasn't expecting to have to do it all over again, but there you go.
I keep telling myself she can't help it. It's just her age and stage.
Look how affectionate she can be.
Look how beautiful she is.
Look how sweet she can be when she feels like.
One day it will all be worth it.
And in the meantime, I'll just keep loving her and hoping for the best.
After all, she is very special.
She's a SuperModel.

Teen Queen

And in the meantime, joy of joys, one of my gorgeous French boys has returned for a visit!
Hurray, hurray!

Thursday, 17 January 2013

Best Mates

Oh the joys of the modern world!
We have made a new friend.
Well - actually a virtual friend.

If only we lived in Suffolk, he would be a real friend, and Model Dog, SuperModel and I would want to see him every day because he is right up our street (so to speak. Alas not in actual fact).

After consultation with my girls we all feel that, quite apart from wanting you to meet this new and colourful character in our lives, we all would like to share his educational message and picture for the benefit of the less-informed.
I daresay there are many dog owners out there who live in blissful ignorance of a hound's very real needs at this time of year. Indeed, I confess with shame that I am one of them.
But worry not, after a severe lambasting for my total disregard for their welfare, I have promised Model Dog and SuperModel that I will mend my ways forthwith.

Here is our new best mate in all his glory.

And here is his educational message. Please read, learn and inwardly digest!
(I have tried to pick a colour of which he would approve.)

'Wen it be's sooper chillies, like wot it be's in Lowstuff ats the moment, it be's sooper himportant to keeps warm. So I did finks to meself to makes a heducayshonal foto fors all hoomans wot is new to ownings hounds this winter. Fings you will needs: sooper luffly warm coat wivs tummy warmings fing, leg warming fings, feets warming fings, hat ands scarf (probly best ifs thems matchings), ear warmings fings (wot can be dedded ferst like wot mine woz) ands a hot waterbottle. Then you's reddy for winter walkies bys the marshes!'

I am appalled at my own inadequacy. But before making this delicious boy's acquaintance, I hadn't realised just how important it is to keep those brindles warm, nor how many garments are required to do the job properly.

And my own hounds have made their feelings very clear. When I showed them this picture, I perceived immediately that they had (to use our new friend's inimitable language) their most envious 'eyeborls on'.
No words were necessary.

We are still in major discussions at this end, as to style, colour, yarn texture and overall look, though inevitably - being ladies of decided but individual fashion - we are not yet in complete agreement.
But I am preparing.
The wool is out.
I am sharpening my knitting needles as I write, and just as soon as a decision has been made, I'm ready for the off...

Under starter's orders...

After all, you know what I love best! You know how itchy my fingers get!

In the meantime, you can learn more about this remarkable hound by clicking on the link below.
Read how, in true crusading spirit, he has written to the Queen with 'hinformashons on his polly-sees to ban flashbangs' and also his 'Campayn to be Prime Mincer'.
His manifesto is full of good, sound stuff, and although the 'elekshuns' are not imminent, I know who'll get my household's vote!

Maybe I should knit him a soap-box while I'm waiting for my girls to decide?
Or a campaign banner? 'VOTE FOR THIS DAVID!'

Read all about it! Read all about it! 


Monday, 14 January 2013

Picture it in your Own Words - Illuminations

I am a long-lapsed contributor to The Weekly Photo Challenge, but this week's subject has brought me back into the fold.

It is Illuminations

I took this picture at Christmas in a little gem of a church in Suffolk on the eastern side of England. It is part of a stained glass window depicting elements of the coat of arms of the family on whose estate the church was built.

This photo was the result of an experiment when I was taking a photo of the rising moon next to a streetlight.

And lastly, this is a photo I took of candles I lit for the Winter Solstice in memory of my sweet boys.

You can see other Illumination pictures here.

Saturday, 12 January 2013

Lost Season

A winter's day

I am missing winter.
There - I've said it and you can pelt me with rotten apples if you want.

Today is cloudless, the sun is warm and the snowdrops are rushing out as if they'd missed the early train.
But I see daffodil leaves and bluebell shoots poking up too.
It is the 12th of January for heaven's sake.
What happened to 'due season'?

Winter river

In place of winter we have monsoon and everything squelches beneath my feet, while new and unwelcome leaks have appeared in our house as tired old fabric gives way to the merciless onslaught of water.

For just one morning this week, we woke to the still silence of frost, a gentle shroud of thick winter mist. Our lovely, meagre trees were cocooned in soft white cloud, and a pearlescent ivory glow replaced the light of day.
But one morning is not enough.

Moody river

I want the moody river, the intransigent earth and the sleeping garden. I want the sharp, cold knife of frost, and the forgiveness of snow.
I want winter.

I have posted this poem before, but, as I haven't been writing any poetry recently, here it is again.
After all, nothing has changed.

Paper Rooks

Give me a winter's day, all knuckle-
bare, with nothing left to lose,
a day you couldn't choose in summer
when froth lies on the daydream.
But give me a winter's day: the lean
picked bones of trees gaunt on the 
purple air, a sigh of wood smoke
drifting on the breeze. These are my
thin, spare pleasures, my treasures 
rare - all fair and square my own.
Not summer's careless bounty do I
swear by, but these certain measures:
the clean, warm snuffle-breath
of cows, soft by the flung farm sheds,
the sparrows there at dawn to share
my breakfast bread. This is my wealth
when life pares to the quick: a half-
fledged, squeamish day, with sifting rain
on fields all blanched and slick, a cold
low sky uncertain when to lift,
the late grey dawn a sudden, unexpected
gift of pooling gold peeling back the east;
this heartbeat rush of wind-torn paper
rooks across bleak skies, the emptiness
that hurts the wide horizon of my eyes,
a feast of snowdrops caught beneath
the hedge - give me a winter's day.




Thursday, 10 January 2013

Month's Mind

I took SuperModel to be vaccinated and microchipped.
I cannot describe just how hard it was to go back to the vet's surgery.
It is a month ago today that Top Dog died.
All I could picture, standing on one side of her operating table was my sweet hound, lying there unconscious. All I could think of was holding his face in my hands, of having to kiss him goodbye.

We have had many pets - dogs and cats - and therefore many deaths over the years.
Whenever possible, the vet has come to the house to put an animal to sleep gently in its own bed.
Very few have come to their end in that room they all hate so much.
There was something brutal about the table - pristinely clean of course, not even one white hair caught in the seam to say he had once been there - although God knows, both our vets loved him and tried to save him.

DodoWoman kindly invited me to drop in on my way home, so she could meet SuperModel.
It was a relief to do so, and break my train of thoughts, but back in the car I found some lines going through my head as  - undeterred - my mind replayed the sequence of that ghastly morning:

'...consider when I shall have lost you,
The moon's full hands, scattering waste,
The sea's hands, dark from the world's breast,
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed
In my hands, and my hands full of dust...

Lines from one of my favourite poems by Ted Hughes. It is called 'Song'.

I was lucky enough to meet Ted Hughes once, many years ago.
I told him how much I liked the poem, but he pulled a face. He had written it, he said, when he was very young. It was addressed to his muse, not - of course - a lost dog.
Perhaps he had outgrown it, as writers sometimes do.
I still love it.
And those lines summed up my feelings better than I can at the moment.

The Month's Mind, although a Catholic tradition now, is a custom that goes back to Norse times.
I understand why.
It marks the moment when you begin to realise, truly realise, that someone isn't coming back.

We went, the three of us, and put snowdrops on their graves in the quiet winter sunlight.
Model Dog sat, pressed tight against my leg, and stared at what I was doing. She knows.
SuperModel tried to run away. She doesn't want to know.
I wish I didn't have to know.


Wednesday, 9 January 2013

Scaling Mont Blanc

At the moment SuperModel is still finding the outside world a bit scary.

We have been making the most of our last few holiday days before the In-Charge is back at college, which has resulted in our introducing her to rather a lot of new places at once.
We took her to the woods the first day.
When asked if she had enjoyed the experience, she wasn't sure. She thought she might have done, but confessed she had spent a good bit of the walk worrying what the ultimate destination might prove to be.

Next, we took her to our favourite beach. She was very reluctant to enter the car in case we were moving her on again - this is her 4th location in as many weeks, after all - but she perked up considerably when we got there.
At the beach the In-Charge persuaded me to let her off the lead which I did - reluctantly. After just two days she certainly didn't know her name, but there was no one there, and the tide was right out, so the sand stretched invitingly from here to Manhattan. They raced and chased and she circled and returned, circled and returned, and then - just as I was starting to relax she took off and flew towards the distant sand dunes.

First day at the beach

Fortunately the In-Charge is much calmer than I am. He sent Model Dog after her, and when they were both standing in the distant marram grass looking from us to the high dunes behind them and back again, he blew his whistle. I think I held my breath as Model Dog streamed back across the sand towards us, but our new arrival followed after only a moment's hesitation. I put her back on the lead after that. Even if she hadn't had enough exercise, I'd had enough palpitations.

By our third outing, she was happier to get into the car. We took her to the headland and the two of them flew over the bumpy mounds in ecstasy. It was wonderful to watch.
Model Dog was over the moon to have someone to chase, someone to chase her. I was surprised to find that Model Dog, who is larger and heavier, is also faster, despite SuperModel's racing chassis. I wonder how long that will last?

Race time

On the way home we passed several groups walking the coast road in the afternoon sunshine, their pooches trotting happily along the grass verge. SuperModel barked viciously out of the back window at each and every one.
We aren't used to barking dogs. The hounds of our experience have been almost completely silent.
'What's she saying?' I asked the In-Charge.
'This is MY road, MY headland, MY car and MY family. GO AWAY! NOW!' he replied promptly.
Silly me.

This afternoon, our last day off, we decided to go back to the headland, but when we got there it was full of people, so instead we drove to the far end of the woods. It's a place we rarely go to, so it has the special feel of Christmas, or snow, or high days and holidays.

When we got to the end of the walk, I was so chilled out, I allowed the In-Charge to lead me onto the narrow path that carries on along the top of the steep, wooded bank. It is high, high above the river, very overgrown, very muddy and to my mind, akin to a goat ledge on the top of Mont Blanc.
Not for humans.
Not this human, anyway. I fall off stepladders if I go higher than the second rung.
Even worse, the other side of the track is dense with prickly hedgerow and barbed wire screening off tantalizing glimpses of blissfully flat, level, green fields. But fields containing sheep and horses and hares - all those things that an un-tried hound mustn't be let near.

View from the goat path

It was - if not exactly fine and dandy - at least survivable, until we came to the end of the chamois trail.
Then, happily, I spotted our escape route back to the real world. 'Oh look, there are steps down to the river.' I said brightly.
Ho ho.
There were some rough steps. All three of them.
However, going on seemed better than turning back, so we continued down the fisherman's path, clambering through brambles, holly bushes and fallen wood until we reached the water.
Safe at last, I thought, visions of tea and Christmas cake flitting temptingly through my head, but about a hundred yards further on, the In-Charge, nobly leading the way, announced that we had come to the end of anything that could remotely be called passable.
'Is the river very deep here?' I asked hopefully. Paddling had never seemed so appealing. Even in walking boots and January-cold water.
'Yes,' he said, peering in. He sounded uncompromising.

We ended up scaling the North Face.
My gorgeous son in New Zealand likes mountain climbing. Totally mad, but what can you do?

I, on the other hand, prefer my mountains on post cards.

The North Face

I am deeply un-athletic.
My sister gyms and runs, my brother cycles to Paris and back, Wonder-brother rushes about renovating houses.
I eat too much and waddle forth for leisurely walks with the dogs.

There was nothing leisurely about that particular walk. Model Dog set off, unfazed, heroically coming back to my side whenever she thought I'd been stationary for too long. 'It's all right for you,' I told her, somewhat resentfully. 'You can just leap and scrabble and dig in your claws and propel yourself vertically into the air over vast tracts of impassable undergrowth.'
I, on the other hand, ascended somewhat less elegantly, scrambling upwards on knees, toes, hands and chin, tummy moulded to the dripping incline, using my elbows, teeth and fingernails to hang on to anything more deeply rooted than moss. Bracken, which I've never given much thought to, has risen in my estimation, and after frantically chanting 'Don't look down, don't look down!' the whole way up, I see how mantras have become so popular.

All in all, it was not a pretty sight.

The In-Charge hauled me up the worst bits in true movie-hero style (my arm has nearly settled back into its socket, thank you). He kindly pointed out various hand and footholds, but they were mostly out of my reach, and all nestled in the slippery, oily mud slyly concealed beneath the fragile plants clinging to the vertical slope.
Not having either a goat or a monkey as a grandparent, I can't say it was one of my happier sorties into the woods.
Our new baby didn't seem full of the joys either. She hovered uncertainly behind me, deftly following my lumbering ascent, her stilettos doing a better job than my sturdy walking boots and scrabbling fingers.

What are we DOING here?

Three times I thought the ledge above my head was the longed-for chamois trail, only to find it was just another ledge. And then, as with fading resolve I launched myself at the final ascent, SuperModel surged upwards, leapt onto the path, and disappeared through an infinitesimal gap in the hedge to the forbidden pastures beyond.
Oh woe. Oh calamity. Oh impetus like no other.
I levitated the last five yards.
We called. I shouted. Finally I hollered and ran - yes, ran - along the goat path trying to find a break in the brambles so that I could even see her. She was having a fine time, chasing perceived or imaginary scents to and fro across the field and paying no attention to us whatsoever. Mercifully there was no livestock in sight, and being a man of movie-hero propensities, the In-Charge had already managed to lever himself through the brambles and over the wire. I gave Model Dog a hearty shove in the same direction and did the only thing I could do. Call our errant SuperModel and watch.

The In Charge strolled in a leisurely way to mid-field and then squatted down, called Model Dog in and started making an extravagant fuss of her. In less than a minute SuperModel had paused, circled and then taken the bait, sidling in to be cuddled as well. A moment later he'd slipped her lead on, picked her up and lifted her over the fence.

When we finally got home, I'd largely recovered from my urgent need for a medicinal brandy, but we were all so wet and dirty it seemed as good a time as any to give SuperModel a bath.
She endured it with good grace and was very pleased with herself as we towelled her dry in the warm kitchen afterwards. She bounced around looking like a coy coat hanger covered in blonde fluff, but after shaking several times and licking herself all over, she curled up in her bed and went out like a light, an old T shirt for a duvet.

Tired but oh so happy. Or is it, happy but oh so tired?

Four days into her new adventure, I think she has definitely clicked 'Like'.
We certainly have.

Tomorrow she is booked in for her first visit to the dreaded Needle-Lady to be vaccinated and chipped.
Let's hope that doesn't make her change her mind!

Monday, 7 January 2013

Supermodels in Stilettos

There is a new member of our family.
No one could bear the perpetual emptiness in our house any longer.
She came last week - or to be more precise, we went and got her. A mere five-and-a-bit hour trip each way, but I had a gut feeling it would be worth it.
She was rescued a few weeks ago by Great Hounds in Need, and put into foster care.

A new addition to the family

I have huge, massive, unending admiration for foster mothers.
You open your heart and your home to take in a nervous, often abused, usually hungry and inevitably needy dog, who has no idea what your intentions are and who might be very unwilling to trust you. For days, possibly weeks, perhaps even months, you lavish your all - calling up heretofore unsuspected reserves of patience, putting up with accidents, countering jealousy on the part of your own dogs, and I can only begin to imagine what else - and then, just as you have fallen in love with the newcomer and shown it that not all humans are horrible, a 'forever' owner descends and takes it away.
I couldn't do it. It's probably due to my inherant bossiness, but I'd never be convinced that anyone else would look after the rescue-ee to my satisfaction.
Thank heavens there are 'better men than I am, Gungadin'.

Despite my inability to be of any real use, I am 'Friends' with half the rescue agencies in Ireland, and having seen this girl's photo on facebook, I'd been in touch with the Agency and her foster mother, Eileen. She only lives a few hours south of us, which seemed handy, but over Christmas, through no one's fault,  it apparently became necessary to move the dog to another foster home - on the far side of the country.
Last week, as we set off two hours before dawn, it felt more like the far side of the world!

Impossibly long legs

What I had seen on facebook was a bedraggled, very skinny hound who looked - as they so often do, God love them - lost and resigned. She had been found straying, obviously hungry and homeless. I'd been told she was nervous and wary around men, but she was lucky, she had no physical injuries - unlike the puppy found this week whose throat has been cut from ear to ear, or the almost hairless dog found in a ditch a few days ago, smothered in cooking oil and covered from head to toe in dog bites. Both creatures alive - just.
What some people do to animals beggars belief.

Isn't it shocking that the complete neglect our dog has suffered seems almost trivial by comparison? But I am thankful nothing worse had happened to her. When we arrived at our destination at lunchtime last Wednesday, it was to find a tall, pretty, but unbelievably thin blonde hound running happily round a stable yard with a bevy of other dogs, including a shaggy wolfhound. She was wary and very shy, but she came to say hello and seemed pleased to meet the Model Dog, 
She wasn't quite so pleased to be put in our car an hour later and driven away, but despite her tense, anxious looks she was as good as gold on the long journey home. Jo, her second foster mother had told me that she'd obviously never been socialised and had no language - she didn't recognise any words - but a couple of weeks in foster care had introduced her to the possibility of a whole new world, so even though she didn't understand, we reassured her as much as possible.

Eeeek - there's a man on the end of my lead

Since then it has been, as with all new arrivals, a slow but steady process of  getting to know each other.
She doesn't cry at night, but she barked at the In-Charge the first time they were alone together - as if to say 'Just keep your distance, buddy!'
She is clean in the house, apart from one little accident the first morning when I couldn't get my boots on fast enough, and she is perpetually hungry.
She has no concept of what a name is, although it's starting to dawn on her that we say one particular word to her an awful lot, and - four days in - she also strongly suspects that 'Sit!' or 'Good Girl', and even 'No!' might have some personal relevance.

Butter wouldn't melt - and who stole my scarf, young lady?

I'm not yet convinced of her intentions towards the cats, and, since The Incident in the kitchen the other evening, am steadfastly refusing to buy into her wide-eyed innocence where they are concerned. The cats are more nonchalant than I am, and rub against her and butt her nose with their faces, but at the moment she is still firmly on a lead when we go outside the back door, and is only allowed to run around in the garden when they are securely locked indoors and the hens are in the hen house. I have seen her dreaming up several delicious ways of serving fresh hen!
There are moments when I wish we loved Labradors.

But she's only a youngster and I'm sure she will learn very quickly, and in the meantime she is adorable, affectionate and drop-dead gorgeous She has kohl-lined eyes, impossibly long legs, ultra-fashionable black nail polish, extremely high stilettos, and a beautiful, pale honey coat.
And she is, currently, anorexia-thin.
A SuperModel, in fact.

A SuperModel who is relaxing a bit more each day.
And a SuperModel who already has a big fan club.