It was morning. Early morning. The time of morning usually heralded by the thick blanketing quiet of a family at rest. H was asleep. Elma was asleep.
Kitty was not.
We’d read stories, played cooking and exhausted all of the sartorial possibilities of “so beautiful dress” afforded by Kitty’s extensive wardrobe, and the remaining options were only united by their common noisiness guaranteed to wake the rest of the village if not the whole county.
So, with the camera propped up on a pile of quilts and some stray plastic bits and bobs pulled out of the toy bucket, I handed over my remote trigger.
Result: toddler bliss; can you say “cleek”.
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