The Fourth Stooge...

Sitting in my mismatched PJs watching Kevin McCloud over dialogue a shack in the Cotswolds which has been rendered in chicken feathers and lit by fireflies, I am slowly attempting to file 2000+ photos of my children. Presently their cherubic faces and cheeky grins are commonplace and a mere handful capture a glimpse of the chaos life has become since these tiny bulldozers of poop, puke and pee have arrived. At this age wonky teeth, cow lick fringes and quirky attire are all 'cute'. However fast-forward 8 years to a child stood sulkily posing for a picture which has been organised via text message and is long overdue and features a parents final attempts at dressing a mini adult, hell-bent on refusing to smile or give anyone a rare peek at a personality that is slowly making way for teen angst and hormonal terrorism.
Recently I hit an age milestone known as old, my 'darling' little brother thought that he would attempt to get one back at me for the years of psychological abuse he had endured from me as a child by posting photos of me from the 80s (the shittest decade ever). As a child my mother choose to be frugal with most things, she grew fruit and veg, made clothes from scratch and unfortunately chose to practice her hairdressing skills on my brother and I.
I vaguely remember a special haircutting tool, also known as a mixing bowl, being used in an attempt to create a smooth edge to my cow licky mop, resulting in a spherical haircut reminiscent of Moe from the Three Stooges. Sadley our family photos survived storage, damp conditions and my parents divorce only to reemerge at boyfriend and parent introductions and family events after the Sherry had been merrily consumed by vindictive relatives. As a teen I vowed to rid the albums of any photo of me in a C&A classic with a bowl cut and a Camilla sized overbite, but negatives appear to be untraceable, and the photographic diary of a geek child still remains.