That is the question. Considering the added complications of the need to be cycle-friendly and the fact that I was going straight to work afterwards, I tried to decide on an answer. Last week I went to CH1ChesterBID's Catwalk Show, held in the Westminster Suite of the Grosvenor Hotel. It was a showcase of fashion from high-street brands and university fashion students, showing off many people's hard work. It was stylish. Slick. Sophisticated. Smooth. I on the other hand, scoffed some toast down after a day of working from home, shoved the outfit in question in my bag and raced into town on my bike. I'll be forever grateful to the M&S toilets - perhaps not the classiest changing room, but it was there that I got catwalk ready. Well, I undid my day and a half old plaits and changed from jeans and t-shirt into something a little smarter, at least (a hand-me-down black top from a friend and a maxi skirt that my Mum found on a pound rail, to be precise!). With jeans rolled up in my bag and my battered helmet stowed away in the bike pannier (I couldn't quite bring myself to take it into the hotel), nobody had to know a thing, as I walked through the shining corridors of the Chester Grosvenor. A warm welcome greeted me and I took my seat. As the models strutted, swayed and glided up and down the catwalk, what struck me was how everything had been so carefully put together. Not a strand of hair was out of place. The tops matched the trousers, the bags matched the tops, the shoes matched the bags and any accessories were arranged more seamlessly than strawberries on a pavlova. (I think my wardrobe's more of an eaton mess!) But it wasn't only the outfits that evidenced such creative thought - the music chosen to accompany each collection complemented and oozed it's theme. The show highlighted that fashion is an art. The Chester University Fashion Design graduates and the creative brains behind the high-street brands, whose work we 'ooed' and 'ahhed' at, probably know this better than anybody. For the most of us however, perhaps fashion is a pressure, an abyss or a fast pass to a bank balance of zero! But maybe you've cracked it when you realise that, if you want it to be, fashion can be an art; it's a chance to exercise your imagination, make the most of the spectrum of colour God gave us, and to celebrate that (in my Nanna's words) 'anything goes!'
Because, although within each collection everything fitted a theme, no two collections were the same. The tops, the trousers, the bags, belts and shoes were all different. For the grand finale, the models all did a loop of the catwalk in one long line, between them sporting a range of collections; it was like a sushi bar of style! Thank you CH1ChesterBID for a fun evening and for everyone's hard work.
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Let’s play a game. I know a little something about two of these three: politics, poetry and prayer. Can you guess which is the odd one out? The one about which I am a novice? Here are some clues: I’m a Christian. God has recently humbled and amazed me with what prayer can do. I’m soon to become a university English student. I've studied poetry and (as you may have seen in previous blog posts) enjoy writing my own. Have you guessed yet? Politics. It's a tremendously topical subject, and one which I know embarrassingly little about. Before I reached the voting age, I didn't have much of an inclination to find out more, but now that I have been blessed with my very own drop in the sea of democracy, I have tried to do my homework before Thursday’s election. After all, 'with great power comes great responsibility' and 'every little helps' (to quote two renowned sources of wisdom in the political world - Spider-Man and Tesco!). I love the Psalms found in the Old Testament of the Bible. I find that what they teach us about God and how they can help us personally rest in his presence is incredible. But I also love the Psalms simply as a writer; I marvel at the power of the words, the richness of their meanings, the thoughtfulness of the imagery and metaphors they use and the ferocity of the feelings they convey. It's poetry. Beautiful poetry with cosmic meaning. I would love to be able to write like that. This poem started off as a prayer just written down like a letter, but as I was praying, I went with the flow and ended up with what's below. It is the prayer of a political novice, observing the turmoil and unsettlement that is shaking our world at the moment... Turmoil and unsettlement that have augmented all the more after the devastating news of late, since I originally wrote the poem back in April. It is a prayer of hope, for individuals to use their power to show universal wisdom and compassion in their decisions. I thank you and praise you for you created me. You formed me, breathed being into me, you set me off on this journey of life. You maintain me, sustain me, listen to my fears, my worries and strife. You rejoice in my joy Lord, see through to inside - I know full well that, from you, nothing can I hide. And really why would I wish to, when you are refuge, you’re peace? You’re strength in the good times, and still when good times cease. The birds in the sky, the birds on the ground, You blessed them with a beautiful song, their own sound. They want not for anything, yet see the world at its best; They have perspective and freedom, yet the warmth of a nest. How much more Father God, does your love for us pour? Perspective and freedom, for us you want so much more. The perspective to see the world from sky view, To see the waves and the tides of life’s vast void of blue. Perspective to see the freedom each person should own, To be safe, individual, yet with you, not alone. To see where this freedom’s no more – it’s all gone or it’s fake. Stripped, smashed and stolen, leaving pain in its wake. Where life’s waves have eroded the rocks into spears, Sharp edges and corners, closing space, casting fears. And as the waters keep rolling, often unaware they flow, They are caught, cut and crumbled, by the sharp rocks below. But Lord how much more is our freedom, when we dodge the rocks, look at you, To restore the perspective, bring it back into view. When the world feels sharp, feels closed and unknown, When the tides have gone out, but forgotten how to get home, Help us restore that perspective to each drop pool and sea. With your power, your strength, the sharp rocks, they will flee. Not just flee – they will break, as they’re washed over by what’s true. A wave’s wall of water is hard as diamonds with you. It’s the daggers’ turn to crumble, the guarded pools’ to be free. Let their broken dust build into shells, which sing songs of the sea. Help us to see clearly Lord, let your ocean feel the sun shine on its face. May the waves glisten in unity, ebb in love, flow in grace. If you want to know more about what any bits of this poem mean, please ask me! I can't guarantee that I will quite know myself, but I'll do my best.
If you want to have a read of the Psalms for yourself, take a look at Psalms 23, 100 and 139. They are some of my favourites and are good'uns to start with! Psalm 23 Psalm 100 Psalm 139 The BBC news website is a great place to find out more about the UK general election taking place this Thursday (8th June). This article was written for local webzine We Are Chester. Take a look by clicking the link, or if you'd prefer, you can read the article below. https://wearechester.co.uk/2017/05/23/the-wow-factor-meg-chester-gives-her-verdict-on-wow-festival-chester/ The WOW Factor Wow! It’s a word that has slipped from many mouths over the past couple of weeks, as people have stepped over the threshold and wandered inside to explore Storyhouse. A red carpet, bright-light entrance into an elegantly retro lobby; shelves upon shelves of books that spread across the walls, encasing and entwining like ivy on a manor house; a vast open space, showing off high ceilings, multiple floors and a cinema lit up like a rainbow; the genuine buzz of anticipation, intrigue and of a city’s expectations being exceeded. Wow indeed! This weekend, the simple expression of amazement took on a whole new meaning. It was used not only as a reaction, but as action in itself. Chester welcomed the Women of the World festival, which is a movement that started in London’s Southbank Centre back in 2011. The WOW festival aims to draw everyone in – both male and female – to inclusively celebrate women and girls. Action is inspired and encouraged, as people from all walks of life gain easy access to join the conversation about gender equality, and explore together the joys, the trials and the meaning of being female in our world today. Chester and New York The festival’s great success has led to its growth; WOW now stretches up and down the UK and across the globe, with our little Chester being listed up there with New York and Beijing on the Southbank website! Body Positivity I was a WOWser. WOWsers are volunteers between the ages of 14 and 26, who join together to campaign as part of the wider festival. This year the Chester WOWsers decided to make a campaign about body positivity, using the slogan ‘no wrong way to have a body’. Check us out on Twitter @WowserChester #NoWrongBody #WOWPledge. The WOWsers pooled their skills (roping in the much appreciated skills of their boyfriends too!) to create and share a video to promote our message. We tried to encourage everyone and anyone who would listen to write a pledge, and maybe even get a photo in our rather snazzy, bespoke WOWser frame! A little pledge from yourself, to yourself, saying that you will do something that will make you feel good… properly good. Ride your bike to work. Smile more. Speak about your feelings so you don’t suffer in silence. Eat more cake. Drink less wine. Lose a few pounds. Never diet again. Read more. Scroll less. Not believe yourself when you say that you’re ugly. Believe others when they tell you you’re not. What a pleasure it was to read through some of the pledges we collected. The people of Chester and beyond had the chance to reflect and decide to love themselves and their bodies more, in whatever big or little might work for them. Thinking big It wasn’t just the WOWsers who started work on the festival long ago; for many it began with planning, preparing, programming and thinking big. A series of sessions were held to hoover up everyone’s ideas about what would make Chester’s WOW festival work wonders! It was at one of these think-in sessions that I first met We Are Chester editor, Angela. The hard work of Storyhouse staff and all who got involved made the whole thing possible, but not only possible – it made it powerful. Moved to tears In Sunday’s round-up event, when festival-goers, staff members and volunteers came together to share their highlights and feedback, I saw how people really had been deeply touched and affected by the weekend. Some were moved to tears, some had reconnected with friends, some finally felt belonging, whilst others were fired up and spurred on to go away and live their lives with more zeal and… well, more life! I could go on and on, as there’s much more to tell. I got to experience Pram Talks – an interactive audio experience which lets you listen in on the unhindered, brutally yet beautifully honest thoughts and feelings of parents, as they talk about the early stages of parenthood. The Liverpool-based project raises awareness of postnatal depression and reminds parents that they are not alone. Meanwhile, it reminds me (as a 19-year-old who doesn’t yet have children of my own) that raising children is no easy task, and that I owe my mum and dad a rather big thank you! I got to take part in Friday’s schools day and interview the wonderful Lucy Russell from Plan International, finding out about the charity’s brilliant work helping girls worldwide to change their stories. It was so exciting to see the links between the schoolchildren sat in front of me, and those thousands of miles away. Speak your mind I watched the Bishops’ High School’s drama company Assemble perform their specially made piece called Voices with such thoughtfulness and cohesion as a group of young actors. They showed the vulnerability and insecurity of speaking your mind about big world issues as children and young people. But through their drama and leading by example, Assemble spoke up and allowed their voices to be heard, thus encouraging their audiences to be brave and do the same. I got to hear from comedic poets and characters, musicians, and saw the nostalgic two-person play Over the Garden Fence. And that was just the tiny tip of the whole weekend – the weekend when Chester saw WOW become not only a reaction, but action in itself. Chester will be home to the Women of the World festival in the North West for the next two years, so be sure not to miss it when it comes around again. Thank you to Angela Ferguson for editing this article, and to the Chester WOWser and Nicola Haigh for the photos. I’m so sorry we’ve not spoken in a while. It’s not you – it’s me. I’ve kept my distance and let other things take your place... A tad melodramatic? Put simply and brutally, I’ve not blogged for a few weeks because I haven’t had enough determination, desire or discipline to sit down and just write. I wouldn’t class myself as a professional procrastinator in all areas of life. When I hear the words ‘tea’s ready’ or ‘Ant and Dec’s started’, for instance, I do a rather sterling job of getting up and getting going! But when it comes to taking time to park my derriere and have a good, solid session of reading or writing, I manage to find subtle excuses and allow myself to be overcome with distraction and apathy. (A slightly worrying confession to be made by a prospective English student, I know! University, if you’re reading, I do love books...Honest!) It’s perhaps slightly ironic, therefore, that today I break this blogger’s silence with a poem made up of reasons one may find, as to why they should not to write. Perhaps some of you will sympathise with a statement or two. Now, please excuse me; I would go on and write a bit more, but, you see, I just... Just Write! Too tired. Need sleep. No ideas. Too many. Phone’s ringing. There’s a beep. No thoughts for a penny. Emotionless. Just numb. Too angry. Overflowing. Ill at ease. Feeling glum. Just coming. Now going. Don’t want to. Not now. Doubting love. Doubting skill. Mind’s blank. Don’t know how. Perhaps one day I will. Someone else. Schedule’s full. Waiting for the Divine. No inspiration. Life’s dull. Just can’t make it rhyme. It’s been a while. Too long. Don’t remember. Forgotten. Can’t be bothered. All wrong. Feeling ill. Feeling rotten. What’s the point? What’s the reason? Shelves are full without me. Too hot, cold. Not the season. Oh look, time for tea. Is it a verb or a noun? Early morning. Late night. No excuses. Sit down. Find a pen and JUST WRITE!
Who knew an egg box could occupy children just as much as its modern day nemesis the Xbox this half term! Thanks to Storyhouse's children's literature festival - affectionately known as WayWord - this week has been like one great big imagination, get-off-your-screens, holiday reading, recycling, culture for kids campaign...all wrapped up with a whole lot of sellotape! Kaleidoscopes. Lighthouses. Secret spy cameras. An impromptu giraffe and a whole herd of rhinestone-studded elephants. Allow me to explain. I am one of the cut-and-stickers doing free arts and crafts mornings in libraries across Chester as part of the festival. The library stereotype of hushed whispers and sitting still has been rocked and rattled with the invasion of the Junk-Modelling Box. At work, at home - everyone's been busy collecting. My family's fervent fetish for dairy has been exposed, as we amassed a multitude of milk bottles and enough yoghurt pots to create the leaning tower of Müller Light over the past couple of weeks. But the Chester Family's calcium intake has its uses: not only do we now have healthy, happy bones, the children of Blacon also have some pretty, darn wonderful yoghurt pot shakers! (Admittedly, a side effect of which is that the library carpet now has a sprinkling of escaped and stray lentils.) Recently, people have presented me with the greatest gifts I could've asked for: bin bags of juice boxes and bottles, tubes and tubs. Little did they know, that in doing so, they gave me the building blocks for MI5 toolkits, the inhabitants of the African Savanna, complex feats of engineering and musical instruments which would turn heads in a symphony hall! The characters, themes and imagination of the books surrounding our, ahem, rather chaotic, nay 'abstractly creative' craft table seeped out of their pages and crept into the Junk-Modelling Box too. Kings and queens, detectives and spies walked out of the library this week, their newly borrowed books in tow. X-boxes may be the ones that make the shop windows, but this half term has shown me that children haven't lost their love of egg boxes just yet. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Tinder makes Jane Austen cry, right? Valentine's Day: a shallow farce, a profound expression of love, a commercial ploy or a day of Disney-come-true. Think of it what you will. Some wallow in their singleness, others don't even give it a second thought, whilst the owners of Clintons, rose farmers and florists everywhere spend the day rejoicing! Like it or lump it, the season is upon us and love is in the air...or at least oversized teddy bears and chocolates are in the aisles.
When it comes to Valentine's Day, however, I have two questions. Number one - for people who are colourblind, does it appear that card shops up and down the country are plugging some Green Party campaign? And number two - what would Jane Austen make of all this modern-day romance? Online dating, 1813 Name: Liz Bennett Seeking: I am perfectly alright on my own thank you very much...but if someone was to come along, tall dark and handsome would be preferential. Likes: Walking through fields in long and very impractical dresses. Dislikes: Pride, prejudice and over-talkative vicars. Name: Will Darcy Seeking: A wife, I suppose. Likes: Pride, prejudice...that's about it really. Dislikes: Dancing, irritating in-laws and almost everything else. Romance and the art of courtship really have changed. Surely Tinder would just make Austen cry! Such a grating contrast is posed. Regency balls or swiping on screens. Emoji filled messages pinging through on your phone, or long, eloquent letters hand-delivered by a trembling, love-struck, sweaty palm. The location of a first meeting being some ornate stately home, or ending in .co.uk. However, let's be fair. It must be said that (though the literature lover and hopeless romantic within me begs to differ) change is not always a bad thing. Who knows, one day we may look back and think of match.com as vintage, classic and twee! For now, however, let's celebrate the fact that there is love in the world, romance in the atmosphere and a whole load of shelves full of chocolate that will be half-price in the morning! Society today, hey. Advertising, the media, airbrushing and diets. Maybe all our gripes and grimes boil down to this: we live in a world of superlatives and modal verbs. This is perhaps the most grammar-geekish thing I’ve ever written (let’s just not mention the apostrophe song, okay?) and if you are averse to a spot of language nerdiness you should probably look away now. But if you’re up for it, I’d love you to hear me out. Firstly, we need to hit the dictionary. I’m sorry to say that ‘superlatives’ are not heroes who fly around in too-tight-lycra, with a tendency to be late. Likewise, modal verbs aren’t the trendy cover girls of the thesaurus, who always know how to accessorise themselves with punctuation marks. (Semi colons are in, whilst commas and speech marks are sooo last chapter, or so I’ve heard!) No, now let’s get some things straight... Modal Verbs: Can, could, shall, should, may, might, must. They are small, unassuming words, but are crafty and persuasive little things if you ask me! They basically indicate a degree of possibility. Superlatives: These are adjectives, which describe something to be of the highest degree. The most, the least, the worst, the best. You get the gist. For example, Sweet, sweeter, sweetest. Little, less, least. Mean, meaner, meanest. (See – even cheesy chick flicks are hinged upon grammar!) Superlatives are the dangling carrots of the dictionary; they are the extremes that we strive for. They’re the Monica Gellers of language, fuelled by competitiveness to be the best. Now, when modal verbs and superlatives team up, the effect on the individual can be devastating. Particularly in the recent, less-than-feel-good-month of January. I don’t know about you, but I have found those niggly thoughts of comparing myself with others creeping in more and more. Comparisons with peers, pop-stars, pictures on posters, posts on Facebook, even to my old 2016 self! It’s unhelpful, unhealthy, but I’m going to be bold and assume that we all do it. At least to some extent, right? It’s in these self-doubts that our sneaky, grammatical tag-team pounces, slipping into our thoughts. ‘I could be doing so much more. I must try harder. She is the coolest. He is the smartest. I wish I was the most beautiful, the funniest, the kindest, the best.’ Apathy hits with may and might, as we fail to fulfil our possibilities. ‘I may do this today.’ But the evening draws in and our to-do lists remain unchecked. Failure rubs in our faces the fact that the satisfaction of striking a line through our tasks now belongs to tomorrow...or the next day. Which brings us round to the word that’s perhaps the worst of the lot: should. I should be able to do this. I should be able to cope. Everyone else can. And look where we are – back at comparing ourselves and striving for superlatives. This social media society, our habits of scrolling through Instagram and Facebook, the competitive – and, in my opinion, mistaken – way we wire our brains with regards to success. They all overuse the word should. They turn it into a feeling. The truth is we shouldn’t necessarily be able to do this. Not everyone else can cope either. Even the celebrities, the peers, the posters, the papers, the smiling Facebook pictures. They struggle, they feel inadequate and their to-do lists remain unchecked as well. Superlatives and modal verbs are indiscriminative in their work. You look at people and think ‘I should do what they’re doing. I could be more like them.’ And chances are, they are looking back at you and thinking the same thing. I love the Muppets as much as the next guy, but enough was enough – Kermit and Miss Piggy can only replicate so much. This year I decided to go back to the raw text and read Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. The story of frosty Ebenezer Scrooge threw up the theme of reflecting on Christmases past, present and future. My Nanna always says how fascinating it would be if furniture could talk; it observes and hears so much, and must have an anthology of wonderful real life tales to share. On December the 25th each year, the nation gathers together in clusters of family and friends, round Christmas dinner tables. But imagine if one of these tables could talk, remember and reflect. Table Talk Carrot and turnip - check. Sprouts - of course. Meat - yes, both kinds present and correct. Roast potatoes – no, no roasties. Oh here they come. Oo, ouch they’re hot! Haven’t you people heard of mats? Blinking’eck, they’re heavy as well. How many potatoes? Are you feeding an army or something? I think we’re set then: gravy, cabbage, stuffing, pigs in blankets, no cranberry sauce - but that always gets forgotten about and is left in the kitchen until the penultimate mouthful is had. Oh and the parsnips – there they are, carefully placed by Nanna Norma right in front of her own seat at the table. That way she can eat twice her bodyweight in the crispy slithers of sweetness by slipping them onto her plate when she thinks no one is looking. Well, Nanna Norma, they might all be otherwise engaged in a tangle of arms passing the sprouts, pouring the gravy and dishing out the roasties, but I know your game. I spot you, every year. Would you stop kicking me? You’d get a shock if I used your leg as a... well you’re in luck – I’m inanimate. Blimey, you can tell which the kids’ end of the table is. That will leave a bruise. Right, yes, time to say grace. A little peace and quiet. It’s the one time of year when the whole family, believers or not, bow their heads and talk to God. Amen. Let battle commence. It’s quite a view from where I stand: it’s like scuba diving in a sea of arms and dishes, spoons and plates, with the odd splash of gravy. Oh I remember that year when Bobby knocked the jug over and gallons of gravy went pouring across the carefully dressed, white table cloth. It got the tinsel, the serviettes, and the centrepiece that gets dusted off and makes its fleeting entrance each December. It’s a poncey piece of work that centrepiece. I stand here all year round, work three times a day seven days a week, and then it pops out of its box for one afternoon and takes all the attention. No matter; it will be back in the loft by January. There was quite a fuss over Gravygate of 98, but that was nothing compared to the explosive trifle which went splattering across the room as the first squelching spoonful surfaced last year. Or, the broken chair of 2006 mind. That was hilarious – well, not for the chair. Bobby must have leant on it the wrong way and the leg just snapped clean in two, throwing Bobby into his father-in-law who was sat beside him. Oh, I can picture his face now. It’s always Bobby isn’t it! He spent the rest of the meal wheeling round on the office chair. Ah we’ve had some fun haven’t we? Busy as it may be, I must admit, it is nice when the whole lot come together around me. I feel purposeful, even loved. I remember back when I was new – a wedding present. It was only the five of us then: the newlyweds and the in-laws and me...(oh and that blinkin’ centrepiece. He was there from the start – a wedding present as well - but let’s not talk about him.) Then, of course, Patrick died and Norma couldn’t be left on her own, so she came too, bringing with her a drastic impact on the parsnip supply and demand. Then the children came along, and now their children have arrived, and various husbands and wives have signed the register and, in doing so, have signed their names up for a place at the table. A few of Aunty Jen’s boyfriends have come and gone, but haven’t stuck around for long. Perhaps we scared them off! It has become quite cluttered, but I can deal with Christmas clutter. I get to have a little chinwag with my old friends the emergency chairs, which get dug out and make an appearance. I’m bursting at the seams and am stiff and achy until February, but we make do. It’s worth it. And next year there’ll be even more, what with the baby on the way. And that little old lady Mrs Bramcox who has just moved in next door. She doesn’t have any family, so no doubt she’ll be welcomed into this one and be invited here for Christmas lunch. That’s how it should be though. I just hope she isn’t another parsnip fiend, or Nanna Norma might find that she meets her match! Parsnipgate of 2017 – that will be another story to add to the list. Folding corners, breaking spines, making coffee stains - the antisocial behaviour of library protocol. It's all rather untidy and not liked by some people, but it's tolerated and often accepted with little consequence. Then we get to the petty theft of fines and missed due dates. But writing in a library book - well surely that's just vandalism! (The only library crime that can trump this is dropping a book in the bath so that it puffs up to be a marshmallow, wrinkling and expanding like a broken accordion.) But I am afraid I must say, with my head hung in shame, that this is the kind of criminal the people of Chester think I am. One who spends my days graffitiing literature and scribbling all over it as though it were a sketchbook. I was killing time in town, sat in the library reading a book which I had brought from home. An old man sat in the armchair opposite me and slowly readied an envelope for posting. Once finished, he got up to leave and spoke to me briefly. He said something along the lines of 'I hope you're not vandalising books.' I assured him I wasn't and said that I was just underlining in pencil to help me remember the important bits. Warmly and graciously he replied 'Well, I'm sure they won't mind that.' I smiled. 'Are you having a good day?' he asked. I answered and he went on his way. It was only after he left that I realised he'd probably thought the book I was underlining in belonged to the library, when in fact it belonged to me. What a criminal I must've seemed! So I have an unjustified black mark against my name, but in this case I can live with that. Aside from accidental guilt, what I can take away from this encounter is a lesson in pace and positivity. As I mentioned, this man took his time to delicately execute the task of sealing an envelope: finding the end of the sellotape, peeling it back and lining it up, selecting the right tool on his pen knife (after realising that the nail file was unsuccessful) and slicing the length of piece required, laying the tape on the envelope and pressing it down, standing up to restore the pen knife to its place tucked away in a coat pocket, and settling back down in the armchair. Job well done. He happily professed 'I have nothing else to do today' when insisting someone else went first in the queue, and explained the delight of retirement being that you need no longer rush. Now I don't know exactly what I am trying to say by articulating this little observation, but there is something very simply inspiring about it. 'Are you having a good day?' What does the answer depend upon? Which external or internal factors determine whether I decide I am or I am not? How about you - are you having a good day? The tense of this question manages to gently take me by surprise. It's not asking how was your day last week. It's not asking for a review of what's been, but rather a little stock-check of the here and now. Taking each little thing, each little task, each little piece of sellotape, as one of life's joys and pleasantries. |
AuthorMegan Kate Chester Archives
June 2017
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