We interrupt your regular schedule of the edited highlights of our daily life with a bit of unashamed celebrating. I’m not boasting on my own part, but for H.
Because where I cover our house in yarn, fabric and more than a few stray pins, H contributes paint in every colour of the rainbow, piles of velvety paper, and an unmistakeable whiff of turps when he’s got the oils out. He’ll only ever admit it under duress but he is a talented painter, and our walls are brighter because of it.
Except that they’re not at the moment, because three of his paintings that usually hang in our house are here right now:
The exhibition opened yesterday and runs until the end of the month, and as I think your first exhibition, even a group one, should be celebrated, we dressed the girls up in their finest sparkliest party frocks, and went out to dinner before heading on to the opening party.
It was a lovely party, and it’s a stunning exhibition; H’s pictures are beautifully hung and I was just so proud wandering through with a little girl in my arms looking for “Daddy painting”, I think I could quite easily have echoed Kitty’s squeals of delight when she recognised them.