So it begins. Flat hunting in London. Give me strength she prays.



So it begins.  I know that I am allergic to morphine, but of late find myself allergic to Estate Agents as well. Who knew?  Not so much of late, have had to deal with them for some time, but lately, and especially since one cretin chose to play the underhanded game, I am not a fan. Yet, like morphine, there are times I need them and in the next two weeks I am going to have to rely on them even more.  Cue in the ‘Phantom of the Opera’ music.

As a result of the one who underhandedly led to the demise of my current home, I find myself having to enlist the help of others to find my new abode.  Today was the day.  It requires, as you know, endless, wasted time on the internet, looking at properties to rent within the said budget. I could be planning a trip to Barbados but no, I am looking a photos of properties to rent. In the winter, in grey light, in the mood of caved bear who wants to sleep and eat rather than engage.

There is something so wrong with this picture.  Rather than have to ask for a new address from college leavers, I should be smiling at the last mortgage payment on my home bought a few decades ago.  Not this gal, she is the ‘all over again’ kind of gal. And they think Dry January is a good thing.

Anyway, to the front I went today. To be fair, some were lovely, patronising and sweet. Others smelt of too much aftershave. My first visit resulted in the Estate agent, not pitching up. Ok, gave up a work day for this and rather than the coronary imminent, chose to Zen and move on.

Let’s talk about some of the properties seen shall we? First one. Could not see out of the windows.  The windows that were filmed with years of London pollution came twofold. Original windows of sash (pretty) did not keep out the cold and noise, so landlord put in other windows that resemble those of bus drivers, or the ones you find in the cockpit of planes – shift and small. No air here, but at least it cuts out the noise.  Dark blue walls, lovely for the winter months.  Depression acute guaranteed. The bedroom was that of a hamsters cage, but some may call it intimate. Bathroom – um, blinked and it was fuzzy and gone. The advantage of this place was the bus stop right outside – with the entire London traffic close behind.

Moving onto two.  Quaint, lovely outside. Quiet location and I thought, let this be the one. It was the one and only place I am sure long inhabited by mould.  Black along the window frames.  There were lovely remnants of past lives, on everything, even the picture outlines on the walls.  Imagine the rush hour on the tube and spaces between people – that was the size of the kitchen. Can I work with this I kept thinking, can I work with this as the boiler stared at me and the gas meter plonked under the sink, sneered at me. Oh my Lord … this would be punishment still.

Third.  Not even going there.

Fourth – already dark so the black bedroom doors, in the kitchen, did not appeal. Where is the taste I wondered? Where is the modicum of decent living, and at the price of a five bedroomed mansion of past living?

But in fairness, the agent was lovely. Thought I would be lovely, and I was, and when we parted, the nausea was kept at bay.

Not their fault on my budget. Perhaps if I move to the island of Orkney, I will find something suitable. But am not daunted, am resilient and have a million more viewings to do.

No more Dry January. Champagne is cheaper than these stupid options.

The search, as Alan Sugar says, continues.  Watch this space.

Image: Cartoon shock.



Colouring my world.

‘The time has come … the time has come … that lovely time has come.’

‘But oh!’ She says, ‘where to begin?

One must always begin with a story …

Upon a time, there was this lady (which would be me), worryingly naive and unceremoniously set down in a foreign land.  That would be Great Britian, or England, or more precisely, the city of London.  That same city seen only through the eyes of Harrods/Selfridges/Harrypotterfilmlocations/prideandsanderson eyes.  The afternoon tea/musicals/postmanpat/englishgardens eyes.

We digress.  Rather, said lady landed in a tiny apartment with foreign furniture and even more foreign habits, such as never expected.  A few years passed and all dreams of buying the equal to before, dissipated in the fog. A small, two bedroomed flat became available and I had the bright eyed wonder lust of decorating a little dream nest.  Not really thinking that it would be a forever thing, but a purpose and pretty pastime.

The winds of change that blew across the lake and beneath the frosty doors were profound, unceasing and destructive and the little flat, though changed, changed again – pretty morphed into prison of broken dreams and sat within it, or on my balcony as you know so well, fearing my tears would drown me.  But they didn’t, I wailed at the furies and finished the vineyards.

In the midst of winter I resolved to sell it.  Be done!  Be gone, I shall walk away to God knows where and be the martyr, and beginner again. Little did the lady realise that the winds would shift, the spring, the breathtakingly long summer and golden Autumn shades would turn and  bring a new perspective. Rather than want rid of this little blessing, so close to my family, is exactly where I want to be. Winter came around, only I was no longer the winter past, but filled with summer and a decorating plan.

We are both in need of a loving make over, and the first task is the main bedroom.

A fitting whiff of burning sage to say goodbye to ghosts of past, out the window you go with good wishes, and onto the redecorating .  This is not easy – what colour, what design, what accessories to add?  The old adage, know what I don’t want, but what exactly is it that I want? Phew!

Presently the walls are painted in Laura Ashley’s Pale Biscuit.  Sort of leaning towards the palette of greys, french blues and raspberry hues, but the lovely French headboard is cream, so need to work with that.  Perhaps linen, textures of natural fabrics and duck egg blue?  French blue – botanical green?  The point is, for the first time, in a long time, the little home is changing her ballgown and it’s all rather exciting, so watch this space.

Taking stock of your life, where you live and despite the loving artefacts, it is important to keep changing the scene to invigorate, not only your home, but your attitude to life.  For too long all has been stagnant and waiting … change is good, but only when you are ready for it.

Begin with a mood board of what you love. What you believe a bedroom represents, and the making it your own.  What style suits you.  What colours soothe, comfort and how it will enhance the purpose of the room.

Nights are closing in fast this winter in London.  Lighting is important (still shying away from the must have winter lamp and vitamin D – she shall embrace the winter nights and dark mornings). Investing in good, atmospheric lighting and great pieces of art, a bespoke, bevelled mirror and carpets to retain the warmth are on the list.  Fabrics that caress, excellent linen and photographs to kiss before bed. It is especially in my bedroom that I want my family, past and present, close.  Utterly Romantic is the thought uppermost in this room.

Amongst so many things!

The story continues … 

She is living on her own, for the first time in her life (if you exclude the college and early working stages) and her home is now a haven to reflect the things she loves, the ideas that make her feel, safe and empowers her.  A home from home for the children. No matter how small her life, and abode has become, it is still a reflection of me, her dreams and her haven when the door is closed from the outside world. It is enough.

Let you know how it goes, and if you are feeling a little caught between this and that, life and all the drama, look around you, and like me, begin to colour your world. Starting with change …






Wistful, wonderful Hyde Park.

“It came to me that Hyde Park has never belonged to London – that it has always been , in spirit, a stretch of countryside; and that it links the Londons of all periods together most magically – by remaining forever unchanged at the heart of a ever-changing town.”  Dodi Smith, ‘I Capture a Castle’

My ‘Litchfield Angel’ is blooming, once again.  She is my garden. On my little balcony, in London.  To the parks and open gardens I go, to immerse myself in nature, and this morning, en route to somewhere entirely different, I changed direction to Hyde Park.  Needed nature.

There are parts of the park that are open and spacious, others planted with roses, with beds of flowers and arches of looping vines. To Kensington Palace I first went, for the proverbial ‘cuppa’ and the sunken garden. I like to think of it as Diana’s garden.  The lines were long, holiday vibe, to get into the Palace but I went to the café.  Security was tight, a ‘terrorist attack’ earlier in the morning at Westminster which the security guard was careful to inform me of. ‘Please let me know if you see anything suspicious’, he said. In unison we lamented the attack on this city, our home.  The shop is touristy, but has some beautiful items for taking home when the trip is done.  And I watched him, my security lad, and thought, this job must be tedious to say the least, but there he is, taking it ever so seriously, and I admired him.  He is one of the people of the park.  They come in so many different forms.

Though it is the park that beguiles, it is the characters that find her, the history, the stories that intrigue me.  Like the young lass who asked me to take her photograph beside the stature of Queen Victoria – she is travelling alone, young and unafraid.  Obviously I did a second rate job, for walking away, she asked another to repeat the exercise.

Established in 1536 by Henry VIII who seconded it from Westminster to use as a hunting ground, Hyde Park was first opened to the public in 1637.  My favourite story is the legend that the very young Victoria, woken from her sleep, was announced Queen at the tender age of 18.  She must have looked out of the window, overlooking the park, and wondered at the significance of it all.  The Palace is home to many royals now, including William and Harry.

A few weeks ago, those escaping from the heat wave, were swimming in the Serpentine.  I remember, standing there, snow all around and watching children throw snow balls on the frozen water. Today, children were feeding the swans. Another lad, in charge of the many deck chairs dotted around the park, was sitting in one himself, and I thought: he may find the job tedious, but he has a job, and he too is one of the characters that makes up the life of the park.

Walking towards the Albert Memorial, all sorts pass me by.  The tourists on Santander bikes, cyclists, horse riders, runners, lovers on benches oblivious to the world – nannies and walkers berating the cyclists for not sticking to the path.  Tennis players, Instagrammers, sketchers and some who must simply take a thousand pictures of the ducks. What brings them all here I wonder? This oasis in the heart of a pulsating city. Respite, exercise, a must do on the list? Tiny children learning to play soccer, roller skating classes, yoga on the grass.  I pass them all.

Most of the tourists still come for the Diana magic.  An unbroken spell.  Her dresses are on display at the Palace and her presence strong after all these years. Few know of the remarkable love story that is the Albert Memorial.  So deeply loved, and so deeply mourned by his Victoria: she never recovered from his death in 1861, and the Memorial, opened in 1872 at great expense, was her declaration of that love.  Albert was her everything and it is said she wore black until the day she died.

Would I have been loved so deeply.  Perhaps a bench in my honour, in a park somewhere, someday.

One can spend hours in this great park.  Restaurants, the Diana Memorial, the lake – sit silently, walked briskly, do nothing, be active. Stare at the skyscrapers and realise how much has changed around her, while she keeps her stories tucked within the borders. Many, many stories.

Such as this:

In 1982, two IRA bombs went off, one in Hyde Park and one in Regent’s Park.

Standing in front of the memorial, the flowers now dead in the Autumn sunshine, I could not help thinking of the loss, on this day when terror is still so prevalent, when life means so little. A little further is another memorial, to the victims of the 2005 bombing in London.  Close by, a little old lady was sitting on a hillock, with a suitcase and a Sainsbury packet and I wondered what her story may be?










I love this park.  I love the history, the stories and the sanctuary she offers.  And I learn a little more, as the seasons change, as nature turns the year, and I am grateful.

Still summer, yet the London Planes are beginning to lose their leaves – another change, another year.

My ‘garden’ in London.  And there for all to enjoy.

The Chelsea Flower Show 2018

I don’t much care for the Chelsea Flower show, I remember saying once upon a time.  That is not true – I love Chelsea, it’s the rivers of visitors I find hard to navigate at times.

Since it’s inception in 1811, and current venue since 1813, Chelsea remains a landmark event in the world of Gardening. It’s huge.  It’s a must visit once in your life and has become the most popular garden event in the world.

While we wait for a week in May to indulge our gardening fantasies, to witness design gardens and mountains of blooms, what is new and what remains classic, the exhibitors and nurseries around Britain have spent months in preparation to showcase their best work.  A mammoth task.  Holding back the blooms to flower at their peak during the week, moving earth and creating designer gardens that have won the right to be there – all in search of the gold. 

Perfection.  Pure perfection.

The top favourite this year is Sarah Price’s Mediterranean, Monet inspired garden to take show design of the year.  I am particularly interested in Jonathan Snow’s debut entry, the Trailblazers: South African Wine Estate design focussing on Fynbos, from burnt earth to bliss.

The beautiful setting in London, the home to the Chelsea pensioners, allows one to glimpse into the lives of these extraordinary men, dressed in their finest red uniforms, they epitomise the traditional and respected, and one can visit the Coffee shop throughout the year (which I do) and love interacting with these individuals who have given their lives in service to their country.

The Chelsea Flower Show is the feather in the cap of the Royal Horticultural Society.  Be it your love for roses, alliums, delphiniums or whatever, you will find them at their finest – get the latest gardening tools, sip champagne as the sun sets over the many magnificent displays for it will be an excursion you will never forget.  And yes, the throngs are daunting, the multitudes of visitors at times a barrier to stand back and take it all in but nevertheless, be a garden lover or nature lover or simply a lover of beautiful things, in this case, living things, Chelsea is an event of the prettiest sort.

If you cannot be present, there will be many television programmes to highlight the beauty of Chelsea.  And did you know, just for a little extra bit of random information, gnomes are banned.

Images: country living, express, sporting class

Little girls being mommies …

On the bus home yesterday, two little girls were very serious about their ‘babies’ in the prams. Tut, tut they clucked, pat pat, they patted. ‘Sit still.’ they heeded the two younger, plastic, infants.

As prams go, these were the ‘ferrari’ versions of the real, expensive buggies. Handlebars that snapped up from parking positions, cup holders, even brakes – right down to the hoods with rain guards.

And I sat there smiling. How wonderful to see the care and nurturing taking place. How wonderful to see little girls playing ‘mommy’ and ‘baby’ going out for the afternoon. With all the modern day stuff going on, how refreshing to see little girls being, little girls, complete with curls and vivid imaginations.

When I was their age, I could only dream of such a beautiful pram. And I loved being ‘mommy’. Still do.

A good moment.

Image: The daily mail



Time for white.


 Time for white.

Your time now.  The ‘let’s decorate in white’ time.  Back in the day, when little ones were still running around with chocolate covered fingers and crayons, the thought of white couches were a no go.  White couches belonged in penthouses, magazines and hotel lobbies. Not in your home.

Now it’s time – in the Silver Street time, to take on the white.  You have earned it.  Even though the grandchildren may pop in, it’s your home and your rules and bringing in white will not only create an more elegant feel, a more dare I say it ‘grown up’ feel, but put in place a new era of how you want to live in your home.

Rover and kitty will have to learn to abide by the rules.

Always loved white linen, the pristine, classical appeal of fresh, white sheets.  Plump white duvets beneath white covers.  Crips white cushions – like sleeping in a cloud. White bath sheets, white linen bags, almost everything white except for what had to be practical in a family home.  But I am leaning towards the white everything now – right down to the appliances and wall colours.  Touches of colour in art and design pieces but I like the feeling of clean and crisp.

Can only admire the genius of The White Company as they do white so well.

Down to the exterior.  White cushions on the patio to sit in for that cool white wine.  I love the idea of being surrounded by white iceberg roses in the garden. Sunset makes them pop. Talking about gardens, its been years since I fell in love with the white garden at Sissinghurst.  White and Silver that gleans even on the dullest of days.

Be bold, even in the smallest way and make a statement for you present state of mind.  Add white to your home and your life, you will surrender to the elegance of it all.

Time to make a change and reclaim your life space. Go with white.



Images: novainteriors, pintrest and country living.

Lieflingskos – My family’s recipes …

In all the moving over the past nine years, so many treasures have taken a severe beating – including my heart, and I have cried hot tears over ruined family treasures; water damaged Coffee books, moulded photographs and of course my collection of Recipe books.

I am the avid reader and once collector of recipe books supreme.  Who would forget the essential Wedding present from my mother-in-law ‘Kook and Geniet?’ (Cook and Enjoy) No self respecting new bride would be without one and believe me,  I needed it badly.  For one who never eats eggs, boiling one or unable to boil one was embarrassingly disastrous for me.  The most patient husband ever.

As the little ones grew, my home and garden and little family were all.  I was happiest with Iceberg roses in a vase on the kitchen island  and Delia Smith’s ‘Piedmont Peppers” recipe open on the page whilst darling was barbecuing outside.  I could do this!  Ended up being rather a dab hand in the kitchen thanks to the best friend recipe books.

And then there was my mother’s recipe book. Mom may not have taught me to cook, but she sure could bake.  Every Friday in our home, and I continued the tradition, was baking day.  Day for stocking the shelves; bowls of sweets and flowers throughout the house day. 

Truth be told, my grandmother was a baker rather than a cook also.  The Croxley exercise book handed down to me contains recipes they both loved, primarily baking, but also many Dutch recipes.  Over the years I added my own, with entries from Prudence, Philomena and friends …

Few escaped the move.  Heartbroken to pry pages stuck together, mouldy and forgotten in the garage for a too small kitchen in the flat. It was as if my heritage, my history and a happy part of my life were as mouldy and water logged as my favourite books were.

Which is why I am starting a new one!  No time like the present to create for the future and my children.  It is time to stop sobbing over what is lost and cherish was was, add to it and plan for those seventy cupcakes required when grandchildren have their birthday parties.  

This will be my Lieflingskos – my collection of loved food and memories.

It will be simply.  My Grandmother, My mother, mother-in-law, my housekeepers and my friends recipes will be restored and written about. With a story to share in the future.  More than capture their recipes I am adding our cultural favourites, Dutch and Afrikaans.  Add all the others I love, that marked a special occasion, tried and tested by my family.  It will be my gift to my children, just as I received from those I love and continue to be part of who I am.

As a gesture of just how awful I was as a young bride about to cook, I will share Delia’s recipe for Piedmont Peppers.  Still a favourite, always my first attempt. Yay!


This recipe is quite simply stunning: hard to imagine how something so easily prepared can taste so good.

Its history is colourful too.  It was first discovered by Elizabeth David and published in her splendid book Italian Food.  Then the Italian Chef Franco Taruschio at the Walnut Tree Inn near Abergavenny cooked it there.  Simon Hopkinson, who at it at The Walnut Tree, put it on his menu at his great London restaurant Bibendum, where I ate it – which is how it comes to be here now for you to make and enjoy.


Begin by cutting the peppers in half and removing the seeds but leaving the stalks intact (they’re not edible but they do look attractive and they help the pepper halves to keep their shape).

Lay the pepper halves in the lightly oiled roasting tray. Now put the tomatoes in a bowl and pour boiling water over them. Leave them for 1 minute, then drain them and slip the skins off, using a cloth to protect your hands. Then cut the tomatoes into quarters and place three quarters in each pepper half. Watch How to Skin Tomatoes here.

After that, snip one anchovy fillet per pepper half into rough pieces and add to the tomatoes. Peel the garlic cloves, slice them thinly and divide the slices equally among the tomatoes and anchovies.

Now spoon 1 dessertspoon of olive oil into each pepper, season with freshly milled pepper (but no salt because of the anchovies) and place the tray on a high shelf in the oven for the peppers to roast for 50 minutes to 1 hour.

Then transfer the cooked peppers to a serving dish, with all the precious juices poured over, and garnish with a sprig of basil leaves.

These do need good bread to go with them as the juices are sublime – focaccia would be perfect.


Pre-heat the oven to gas mark 4, 350°F (180°C).


For this it is essential to use a good, solid, shallow roasting tray, 16 x 12 inches (40 x 30 cm). If the sides are too deep, the roasted vegetables won’t get those lovely, nutty, toasted edges.
Do you have a memory of a favourite recipe that captures your heart? 
Image:  Delia online

Classic French Interiors Passion. Parisian style.


Whenever I go to Paris, I pray my little room is high up.  Overlooking the rooftops, the petite balconies and at times, a view into the grand apartments separated by a narrow street. I have loved the Haussman buildings from my first walk through these streets.  French decor is grand and beautiful.  Sort of a Paris and Versailles dream for me. Stately elegance. There is a Romance about it. 

We sense History in French Decor

   History, tradition, the styles of long ago.  Often with a modern twist as only the French can do, but overall, it’s the sense of history that characterises the French Classic Style.  Rooms are spacious and ceilings high with walls often panelled in painted wood.  Shades of grey, putty and chantilly serve as some of the base interior shades whilst furniture is more often than not, stressed or gilded.  

Toile de Jouy

The distinctive Pattern of Toile, or Toile de Jouy, is characteristic of the Classic French Style.  The designs are usually those of pastoral landscapes or chennoise (chinese style). Images are repetitive and detailed.  Toile can be in the form of wallpaper, upholstered fabric for furniture and drapes, or for linen.  One can go bold or simply add hints of Toile to your interior, but I love the distinctive style, that again echoes history but creates warmth and yes, every picture tells a story. One could even design your own.


A tiny but essential view upon the city

Parisian balconies are positively sensuous places to relax, no matter how small.  Bygone days of wrought iron and intricate design, be it a ‘place pour deux’ or a Juliette, I believe the balconies are the trimmings on the outside of those classical interiors.  In an ideal apartment opening those tall windows to the sounds of Paris early morning would be heaven, and of course the late repose at dusk with a bottle of wine and a romantic lover would be just as nice don’t you think?

Luxury in the detail

 Textures, colours, finishes – all speak of elegance and luxury.  Think gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers.  Velvet and marble.  Satin and Granite.  Nothing in the classical French style is a chance encounter but a carefully selected piece that will enhance the overall design.  Perhaps it’s an ultra modern piece or a chaise, the overall feeling of opulence is the one that will linger, in a romantic way as is, the French way.

If you want to replicate the Classic French Style in your own home, make a mood board of images that will inspire you.  Think chic avec luxury.  Order patterns and wall furnishings.  Selected pieces of bespoke furniture.  Luxurious linen and plumb duvets. Nothing short of grand. I find many of these ideas in the foyers of the famous Parisian hotels (times I simply sit and take it all in) and of course, no Classical French style would be complete without … flowers!  

Lots and lots of Gorgeous flowers.

Images:  One King’s lane, One Fine Stay, Etsy and Pintrest







First Rose pruning in an English climate. My little English darling.

Roses. My love for them is endless.  When I used to live in South Africa, with a large garden, I must have had over a hundred rose bushes scattered throughout. Growing, pruning and watching them bloom was heaven sent.

Remember those days of my parent’s generation when a garden always had ‘a rose garden?’ A little allocated plot for cramming all the hybrids into one area, usually with a small pathway criss-crossing between them?  And of course, looming between the Papa Meillands and Double Delights were always the sturdy, dependable Queen Elizabeth roses with their pink blooms.  Remember that? My mother-in-law used to live on a farm and the local deer would love to decimate her rose garden (one stop nibbling destination) so she would spread human hair around them as a deterrent.  Some of us do love our roses!

When I started gardening in my own home, the trend was to integrate roses throughout your landscape.  Mixing hybrids with floribundas, miniatures and standards – creating swathes of complimentary, blocked colours to avoid the smarties all at the same time effect. Good old dependable, and still one of my favourites, were my icebergs.


I could go on and on about my gardens, three in total, that I poured my love into back then.  Inspired by Piet Oudolf with his roses and grasses combined, with David Austin, Ludwig’s roses – and of course, all the loving transferred to all the pruning, come winter.  It was a military operation, counting some days, tactics observed, sealing of stems, spraying of lime sulphur till you could not take it anymore – but I loved every second of it.

Now, of course, I live in a tiny flat in London and have but one rose.  David Austin’s Litchfield Angel.

And what a beauty she is.  Prolific bloomer, colours of cream and white, smells of cinnamon.  Since she is my first rose baby, I want to keep her alive and do the pruning just right.  A flashback comes to mind.  Many years ago, still pruning like an officer in my own garden,  I was visiting Queen Mary’s garden in Regent’s Park.  Unlike our individual operations on each stem, a tractor came along, and simply sheared all the bushes at a standard height – and off he went. No looking for this node, that angle, just woosh and it was done. Taught me something and I am inclined to feel more liberal this time, but not quite that flamboyant with the shears just yet. So, first things first – the seasons are back to front in my new life (like a lot of things) and pruning is now late February/March.  

There are many tips on how to prune roses on various websites and Youtube.  My appointment is going to be relatively simple to execute:

  • As it is an Old English Rose, gentle pruning is required.
  • Aim for a vase shape and as it is her first year, do not cut back too harshly.
  • Prune any old, diseased and inward growing stems to create an open and free space within.
  • Remove all foliage for less chance of disease.
  • If you choose, spray with Lime Sulpher (mixed with water) to protect the early growth.
  • Sealing of stems is not required in England (and don’t ask me why but this seems to be the general consensus on all rose pruning now.  Any comments and ideas on this one?)
  • Continue light watering and don’t allow the soil to dry out.

By spring the little angel should be budding and ready to bloom.

As I was chatting about cutting the Apron Strings, cutting my little Litchfield Angel will be fine. I intend to find more space to garden again, I need a garden in my life … so dreams in the making.

Images: David Austin, Pintrest


Find the beautiful. Inspirational makeover.

Am in love with this room.

Found this picture a while ago, and not sure about you, once in a while a picture, a moment, a quote or even a view gives a little shiver of joy to the heart. I don’t even know where it is, who took the photograph but it gives me great pleasure and spurs me into dreaming.

Spurs me into action

It has been awhile since the muse of beautiful decor has lived in my home.  The pinboard a little dated, the dust a thin layer on my life.  In our Silver Streets we have often collected and decorated and sort of remain stuck with it all, being neither inspired or willing to change.

And then a picture gets my attention

I may not have the mansion, or the country home

But I have a space that requires an update

Going shopping

Image – someone amazing took it and if you know who it is, let me know so I can give them the credit.