Friends, Farm and Casket Maker

On the one year anniversary of departing the UK for the states, I traded some money for a ticket to return to the land I call home. Leo meets me at Heathrow with a latte, does he know me or what and we work our way back to the "Stow", Walthamstow that is.

Nothing has changed in London, except Leo and Claire's address, which is now a lovely flat they have spruced up with refinished flooring, warm colors, sprinkle of art, no tat and a palatial guest room for me. OK, you can probably stay there as well, but remember it's MINE. With twenty mattresses over a pea and me not princely, I didn'’t care to leave for days, so I didn'’t. With weeks of work behind me, without days off, I was dead tired. The new digs were thoughtfully placed across the street from a dealer with HobNobs, ginger snaps, cheese and milk, but who really cares about the last staple. Oh yes, tea, they're all lifelines.

With energy back, Leo and I spent the next three days at the Walthamstow Dog Track betting on the ugliest dog and lost our retirement money. Sorry that was both a dream and a partial dream. We'’ll go someday, but why have all of life'’s pleasures in one trip, besides unbeknownst to me; there was a casket maker in my future, more on that later.

In fact, much more later, I am running out of time to rush words, to adequately describe the vast amount of memories and warm thoughts.


How Leo spends all his free time.










Hidden in this shot is Claire's childhood home, a 400 year old farm house, surrounded by farming kit and holding her kind parents Peter and Josie. More later!


Photographer: Jack


Photographer: Jack


Jack


Photographer: Jack


Jack and Jake.



Peter taught me everything about farming in two days. Recycle everything, schedule, build muscles, fresh air and shit, shit, shit. The last two are true, but not concurrently.


Christine and her dad Ralph, 92, two lovlies in Yeovil. Go ahead, try and say it.

Well I must go to work, so much to write...