Concocted.

{My Mum and me.}

So accustomed to fabricating stories or small scenarios in my head, I am quite forgetting what is actually fact and real. This is sometimes a handy skill and comfort, but confusing when you try to recall events some years past. I’ve tied truth in with imagined happening and bound them tight with a seemingly endless in length ball of twine. To entangle them would prove too hard and too needless a task. I prefer to leave them a riddle growing.
 
Here I am in a series of photos with my Mum in the backgarden. The note by the photos tell me that the year is 1979. We are one year shy of the 80s and the month is February. My Dad would have taken the photos, and I appear to be playing an invisible trumpet in one, so animated my tale, theatrics were needed. If it were not for this note, written in my Mum’s hand, who knows what I would have told you?






{A little has changed. A lot has changed.}