Long, long ago

Another wet day has kept me indoors.

There have been some blips of parents' weddings such as Secret Garden's.
There were no photographs of my parents' register office marriage, indeed very few of them together at all which is why I treasure this one.
It's wartime and they are standing outside the small farmhouse in Breconshire, Wales, to which they escaped from the London blitz, taking it sight unseen at a rent of 5/- a week.
They lived on a pittance - growing vegetables, foraging, eating the rabbits the cats brought in and taking advantage of the rural black market (fallen animals not reported to the authorities).
My father was a 'stateless person' and had to report his domicile to the police at regular intervals. My mother was a Londoner who had to contend with rural isolation and the complete lack of all amenities. (Even more of a challenge when a baby eventually arrived to make three.)
It's her birthday today. She would be 105 had she not died 40 years ago, 3 years after my father who was 17 years older.

(My father has the same dagger in his belt that I wore when dressed as a Cossack. The top of the ivory handle is carved as a dog's head. I still have it although at a later date I borrowed it without permission to show off with and broke the dog's nose which is now glued.)