Putting my joy over our photos into words is quite difficult. I had exactly 4 photos with me and one child or another. That was it. I don’t think I had any of us all together.

Now I have a whole disc of them.

Around 100 photos of me and the kids, all laughing, cuddling and having fun.

I finally have something to look back on in my old age. Or for them to look back on should anything happen to me. To remember that I did exist. I wasn’t just a shadow in the background holding the camera as all other ‘family photos’ would suggest. I was someone involved in their lives. Someone they loved, that loved them.

These photos will be a glimpse into their childhood, a reminder of the fun we had and the way we were together. And I can’t thank Jo Belfield enough for that.

Jo specialises in people who don’t like having their picture taken, which is just as well considering how terrified I was. She really made us feel relaxed at the shoot which shows in the photos. Instead of the horrible staged and posed photos I was worried we would get, she caught moments of joy and silliness.

I tried to choose just a few of the 100 she showed us, but my final list came out at 31. So I decided on one framed print (the third one down) and to buy the disc with all the shots on as well. This way we can keep them all forever and maybe even get some Christmas presents made for family.

Special offer from Jo Belfield Photography

I feel in Jo’s debt but it is her that keeps on giving: Jo is offering a great deal for all readers of Note From Lapland for their own family photoshoot. Photoshoots require a £25 deposit, kept in event of cancellation, which can be returned at the photoshoot or redeemed against all products.

Get 20% off all purchases made at your viewing with Jo Belfield Photography when mentioning my blog – offer valid until end of July.

Jubilee CD offer (which is what I got). Get all your images on one disc for £100. To qualify you need to have paid your £25 deposit for a photoshoot by Wednesday 6th June.

About Jo

Jo Belfield is an award winning photographer and a mum herself. She specialises in people that don’t like having their picture taken and is based near Macclesfield, Cheshire (just south of Manchester). She’s also really lovely.

As well as family photoshoots Jo does makeovers, boudoir and commercial portraiture.

Contact:

Jo Belfield Photography, Fernbank House, Tytherington Business Park, Macclesfield, Cheshire, SK10 2XA.
Tel: 01625 420 621
Email:jo@jobelfield.com
Website: www.jobelfield.com

“And that is me! And this one. Here is me!” Joins in the 3 year old, flicking quickly past all the unimportant people, aka people that aren’t him.

Eventually, ¾ of the way down a stack of photos that stands higher than the 3 year old, I get the shout “there’s you mummy!” And then again we start with the rote of that’s me, that’s grandma, grandpa, friends, other family members etc.

And I start to feel a bit left out. Sulky even. Why am I always the one taking the photos? Why am I in so few? Okay, so actually I know the answer to that. It’s two fold:

1. I’m a control freak, plain and simple. I don’t like other people being in charge of the camera.

2. I don’t like having my photo taken. I look gormless and dull 90% of the time when other people take my photo.

Why did I not remember these things when I agreed to a family photoshoot with Jo Belfield? Why?

I’m sure that Jo is a wonderful photographer. I’m sure she is, just look at her photos. They look lovely.

She say gulping worriedly.

But, but, but…, I’ve never been to a family photo shoot before and now all I can envisage are hideous family portraits like these from Awkward Family Photos.

Dear God, help me! Have you had a family portrait before? What was it like? Do you have any tips and tricks to stop us looking like idiots? Apart from remembering to blink, not wearing head to toe denim or dressing up as Barbie for the day, that is?

Sod that.

Being quite newly single and feeling rather sorry for myself in February I decided to cheer myself up the way any modern, sexually liberated woman might: by buying myself a new vibrator.

I browsed various brands and designs. I even employed one of my girl friends to browse and discuss the merits of said sex toys with me over t’internet and we came across the Oh My Bod Club Vibe. In the non-smutty way, of course. We’re not THAT close.

It looked like a winner: fun, different and a little bit naughty. It seemed to fit the bill so I cracked open my wallet and bought it, looking forward to its arrival. Which never happened.

Life, however, did. The move to the UK. The move into my mum’s house. The move in to out new house. The sorting and organising and stressing and worrying. Beaucracy, confusion and paperwork. Schools, nursery, dentists, doctors. All the shit that goes with moving happened frequently, fast and in an all consuming manner.

As the dust began to settle I realised my little freedom gift to myself never arrived. And so on the 22nd March, almost 4 weeks after ordering it, I emailed the sales team.

And heard nothing.

For four whole weeks.

But shit happens, right? Emails go missing. People forget things. Not a big deal.

So on the 18th April, I emailed them again.

A couple more weeks went by and still not a peep from Naughty Nights UK. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Not even an automated ‘we’ve received your email’ email.

Surely they weren’t trying to rip me off here? They weren’t taking the piss, were they? Did they really think I would just keep quiet if they took my £39.50 and didn’t deliver anything because they were sex toys? Was I supposed to keep quiet, all shy and embarrassed?

I started to get irrate. I sent them a terse email telling them so and I inwardly fumed for a while. And then I outwardly fumed on Twitter. I’ve never done thats before, called out a company on Twitter. I was nervous. I didn’t want to be ‘one of those people’. But fuck it, they’d ignored me, and I was angry at being taken for a ride.

After a couple of hours of chatting about it on Twitter somebody from Naughty Nights UK finally tweeted me asking me to use the new customer service center they’d recently set up – it wasn’t there when I originally started to complain to them, hence the reason I didn’t use it in the first place.

I went into my emails to look for the order number to find they had also finally replied to my email. My original email sent on 22nd March. Apparently it had taken them two and a half months to reply to my email because ‘we have been extremely busy with our new systems.’

Oh well that’s alright then.

I then got a rather terse email from their techincal team

Dear Heather Sunderland,

I am the technical registrar for NNUK.

The delay was caused by our servers not responding to the new system we have.

This ment that some e-mails were not being reached to our customer services center. -

Really? For two and a half months? And was only just fixed on the day I started to call your company out on Twitter? What a coincidence!

You see the thing is Naughty Nights UK, I don’t give a rats arse WHY you haven’t been in touch for two months. What I want is a the feeling that you actually give a flying fuck about messing up my order so spectacularly and ignoring me for so long until I had to call you out about it publicly, NOT a dressing down from your techincal team. And also, if this isn’t too much to ask, THE VIBRATOR THAT I ORDERED AND PAID FOR!

Which still hasn’t arrived, incidentily.

I think I future I shall stick to using Love Honey who I have had nothing but great customer service from and never grace Naughty Nights UK’s door again.

Each morning for the last weeks I’ve found a trail of slug slime on the carpet around the patio doors. A bright, fat, shiny trail of goo seeming to appear out of nowhere, circle whichever toy has been left lying in the area and then disappearing again. Leaving no clue as to where, or from whence, the offender has travelled.

I’ve checked the curtains, corners of the room and under and behind furniture, gingerly moving chairs and cupboards away from walls ready to squeal at the mere sight of a our oozing interloper. Crawling on my hands and knees and peering tentatively underneath things. I even got a torch out at one point. Whether it was to help me find or as defence against the slug I’m not really sure, but no sign of the slithering insect is to be found.

It is clearly a master of hide and seek, or disguise, or something.

And randy as hell.

Each morning the slime trails are fatter and juicier around the odd toy left lying near the doors. God only knows what horrific fate this poor hexbug had to endure throughout the night.

And the mess around my daughter’s Cinderella figurine was too disturbing to even photograph (okay, so I may have accidentally deleted that photo) but needless to say, it doesn’t look good for the slug, or Cinderella. Poor girl. I doubt she’ll ever be the same again.

What to do?

How does one dispose of a slug one can not find? How does one protect the innocent toys of the household from its clearly sexual-predator-like behaviour?

And would one of you please come and sort it out for me cause I don’t know what I hate most: the slimy, squishy slitherer sneaking around my house during the night or the horrible, high pitched squeal the threat of its presence brings out of me.

Even the picture of the hexbug above makes me shudder.

Honestly, I haven’t felt this much like a stereotype since I hung fluffy pink dice in my silver Fiesta for a week for a dare.

Not only did I never live in Lapland (I lived about 20kms from the border but Note From Nearly Lapland didn’t have quite the same ring to it), but I now no longer even live in Finland. And yet I still have the shocking audacity to use the L word in the title to my blog.

I know, right? How very dare I? It’s not like I’ve had anything else much on my mind these last few months. The very least I could have done is find myself a new blog name. Sheesh.

Upon hearing about my move to the UK*, the first thing most bloggers ask is ‘Well now what are you going to call your blog?’**

The earth shattering, terrible, hideous truth?

I have no idea. I’ll come up with something. Probably. But for the time being you shall just have to put up with the evil lie that is Note From Lapland. Suck it up and deal with it. Or piss off. Either way. 

*Shrugs*

Does this mean no more snow porn?

Sorry, yes, it kinda does. Unless we get a butt load of snow in Bury.

Does this mean no more whining about the weather?

Ha. No. Never. I am British, after all.

And finally – are we all settling into the UK okay?

Yes, yes we are. We have a nice house, the girl has started school and is loving it. The boy is starting nursery. I have cracked the secret code and managed to find us an NHS dentist and children’s swimming lessons and am loving living so close to friends and family.

And, just in case you thought everything was all rosy and irritatingly nice in the world of Heather, I came home from an after school play date and dinner out two nights ago to find my son had left a lovely little surprising for me in the bottom of his wardrobe.

And all the way up the walls of his wardrobe.

Over the carpet.

Up the sides of his toy box.

And in a little trail of footprints all the way down the stairs.

A nice big poo, at least 4 hours old.

Not to be outdone, my daughter opened up the same wardrobe this morning, took hold of everything hanging up and wiped her snotty nose across every single clean and ironed item of clothing my son possesses.

*sigh*

Yup, everything is pretty much the same in chez Lapland***.

*About 3 weeks ago myself and the children moved from Finland to the UK. We are now living near Bury in Manchester. Yes, it is a permanent move. Yes, their father is still in Finland. Yes, I am fine thank you, as are the children. And, whilst I appreciate your concern etc., I really don’t want to talk about the reasons behind it on here, thanks.

**seriously, I’ve been asked this question roughly 398573098457 times. People get their pants in a knot about the stupidest of things.

***Ha. There I go again. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

They come out so silently and without any fanfare that it’s not unusual to miss them completely. So thank you to Michelle for sounding the Northern Lights Klaxon for SondanKylä on Facebook last night and promting me to take a look at our Kuusamo sky and see if we were as fortunate.

Boy were we. They swirled and danced over the sky, vibrant and alive. Filling me with a sense of awe and giddy glee as I turned  around in a circles, head pointed towards the sky, mouth open in a wide, enchanted grin attempting to take them all in at once. To absorb the scale and beauty of them. Imprint the silent wonder on my mind.

For such a dull sounding thing – dust particles from the sun hitting the Earth’s atmosphere – the colour, movement and grand scale of the aurora is enough to lift any heart and bring a skip to the step of even most downtrodden of soul. A real antidote to life.

Sadly, the pictures go nowhere near to doing them justice – I really will have to buy myself a decent camera one day – but nevertheless I felt I ought to share with you what little I did manage to capture.

No, these days I live in fear of being kicked to death in the process.

Not only do I need to dress like an Arctic explorer and drag a trolley through snow to the wood shed, I have to run the crazy horse gauntlet. Passing through the horses field with the log trolley seems to be having this effect on my horse lately. God only knows why. (I couldn’t edit it for some reason, so you need to wait until about 1 min in before she really gets going. I had obviously retreated to safe distance by this point).

Thankfully, she is pretty accurate with her kicks and rearing, she’s only playing, showing off, and they are all well aimed to miss. At least, they seem to be so far.

*straps baking trays to body before venturing back outside*

It was too much to imagine I guess, to much to hope for that I would make it in safely. My foot found a wet patch of tiled floor, the world tilted and slid slowly to one side, a movie-esque slow-mo fall to the ground ensued. Elbow and thigh connected hard with white ceramic flooring, shopping rolled, children watched on wide eyed.

The world stoopped for a beat.

As the moment of shocked silence in which I mentally inspected my body to make sure all bits were still firmly attached passed, the pain burst in my elbow.

”Fuck,” I may have been heard to mutter through the pain as I scrambled to my feet clutching my injured limb. ”My god, that fucking hurts.”

It throbbed, it ached, it felt like an elephant had danced a jig on it. It also felt damp. I rolled up my sleeve and winced. Blood dripped.

I staggered to the bathroom and mopped up blood in the mirror, ruminating on how much elbows really bastarding hurt when you bang them. And that it’s actually really difficult to tend to a wound on your own elbow.

And fuck a duck, that hurts like hell.

A small noise came from the doorway. A sniff. My daughter stood there, still dressed in her snow suit, mouth hanging open, eyes filling with tears at the sight of the blood.

”It’s okay, darling,” I said in my most reassuring voice. I even managed a smile, the warm feeling of being loved washing through me. ”Mummy’s just got a little cut.”

”It’s not that mummy,” she sniffed, tears starting to drip from the pools in her eyes. ”I don’t know if you’ll be able to make us a hotdog now.”

Ginnel and vac are just two words that have had my southern friend staring at me with that ‘what the fuck did you just say’ look on her face lately.

But, much more importantly, it seems down south they don’t quite get how we say things. For up north, where we are frugal with our adjectives, it’s all in the inflection and not the choice of words.

Southern sentence – northern sentence.

That was the most magnificent meal I’ve ever eaten – It was all right.

I really enjoyed that meal – It was all right.

The food was good – It was all right.

That was quite a mediocre meal – It was all right.

I’ve had better – It was all right.

That was awful, by far the worst meal I’ve ever eaten – That was fucking shit.

Funny how the English language separates us even county to county, isn’t it? Or perhaps I just need to get over my natural northern aversion to adjectives…

What weird English language barriers have you come up against between native English speakers?

And everywhere that Heather went,

that snow was sure to find her.

We woke this morning to a good sprinkling of it on the ground here in Lancashire with the Pennines completely white in the distance.

And so, with you lot of snow freaks in mind, I braved the gorgeous sunny weather and incredibly stunning views (the lengths I go to for you guys) and set off up Watergrove armed with my camera.

Enjoy.