the mad ones do paris

I guess I should start this blog with an admittance: I'm should not be allowed to book any more flights, to anywhere, probably ever. Why? Well, because without checking anything, we woke up on Friday morning, pushed on through our stonking Red Hot Chilli Peppers hangover, packed our bags (which as parents to a 2 year old consists of 1 x 20kg bag, 1 x pushchair, 1x travel cot, 1 x military-sized rucksack, and 4 x additional carry on bags) and flew from Manchester to Paris-Beauvais, which as it turns out is closer to Aberdeen than it is Paris. I knew this without even knowing this when we landed in what seemed to be an old corn field and then walked into a box-room terminal with half a conveyo

733 days of saying i love you a thousand times a day.

My Darling Phoebe, It's hard knowing how to start this letter to you because I want it to be perfect. I once though being a good writer meant you could wiggle your way out of parking tickets and speeding fines, but not anymore. Now I know it is being able to speak from the very deepest part of your heart. I want to write well simply so I can tell you exactly how I feel about you, convey each of my bubbling emotions, explain how much you mean to me, how one cuddle from you is an adventure more amazing than a thousand hot air balloon trips across a thousand sunsets. But telling you exactly how I feel is like trying to do the impossible. But then again that is what being a daddy is. It is tryin

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