Tuesday, 14 October 2014

What First Attracts You to A Book?

Never judge a book by its cover, says the old cliche, but how many people do? The cover and the title are the first things the reader sees so they are arguably the most important aspects of the book. Getting them right is another matter.
I have been very fortunate in having an artist friend who paints watercolours to create the images for my covers and I have had many positive comments about them on twitter. As well as reflecting the content of my books they also reflect my dreamlike  personality - but are they 'punchy' enough? Do they grab prospective readers?
I recently read Paddy Cummins @paddycummins memoir The Long Road, in which someone suggested he change the cover of one of his books, which he did and it boosted sales. It set me thinking. Maybe I should try with one of mine. I decided on Angel Breaths.
My good friend Maureen Turner @Booksbymaureen had a lovely cover for her book Do Androids Dream? It was very in keeping with the content and I asked her who had designed it. She very kindly put me in touch with a friend of hers, Yvonne Thompson, and I duly contacted her.
The image she created for me is perfect for my story. The angel she has painted IS Angelique!
Do readers choose a book for its cover? I have, many times, and for its title. Some I've enjoyed, some I haven't but that's just the way it goes.
With her new cover we will see if Angelique will fly.

Saturday, 12 July 2014

Young Carers 1960s style

In 1967 when I was just 12 years old my mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. Throughout that year she underwent treatment following a mastectomy. Although she did as much as she could for herself, my dad and aunties were her carers and when they were at work my sister Emily, then aged 7, and I in our turn did our share. Below is an excerpt from my memoir Shadow Across the Sun, now an Amazon #1 bestseller, depicting a particularly difficult task. In the 60s there was no such thing as counselling for family trauma, you just had to get on with it, which we did.

The neighbours have been in but they’ve gone now and Mum’s gone to lie down for an hour before she gets the tea ready.
“Ooh no!” It’s a sort of shocked whimper coming from her room.
“Are you OK Mum?”
“Come here a min will you duck, and bring a bowl of warm water and some cotton wool, oh and a towel.”
Emily comes with me and we’re wondering what Mum wants all of these things for. As we walk into her bedroom she’s sitting on the edge of the bed with her blouse undone checking the dressing. She’s been going for radiotherapy for a while now so I think that’s why she has to have the gauze dressing over the patch that gets treated.
“The dressing’s got stuck,” she says looking up at us. Her eyes are wide and she looks scared. “Bring me the water please and the cotton wool.”
I pass them to her and put the towel across her knees. She tears a piece of cotton wool and dips it into the bowl, squeezing most of the water out. Then she drips a few drops behind the pad.
“I can’t do it. I can’t get at it properly. You’ll have to do it.”
“I can’t do it! I might hurt you.”
“It will hurt me but it’s got to come off.”
I look at the pad and it is stained red and orange with yellow stuff oozing out between its mesh, and it’s stuck fast to her chest, the yellow stuff acting like glue. I daren’t touch it. I know it will hurt her to pull it off and I don’t know how we’re going to do it.
“Come on duck,” coaxes Mum, “just get the corner of the pad and ease it gently while I squeeze drops of water behind it.”
“I can’t! I can’t do it.” It makes me shudder to think of pulling it away and bringing all of that stuff with it.
“I’ll do it,” says Emily moving past me, and I admire her bravery and feel useless myself as she sets about her gruesome task.
It reminds me of the time that Mum was refilling a stapler. She’d got her finger over the end and a staple shot into it.
Ow!” she’d shouted. “Sherrie just pull it out for me will you.”
I couldn’t. There were two blobs of blood where the staple was sticking in and I just couldn’t touch it. I don’t know what it is about blood but it makes me go all unnecessary. Anyway, Emily came along, calm as you like, and pulled it out – and she was only about five at the time. She is so much braver than me.
She sits there now, perched on the edge of the bed facing Mum, easing the pad, gently, gently, a fraction of an inch at a time, concentration etched on her seven year old features. Mum is gritting her teeth and making tiny ‘hoo, hoo,’ sounds between her lips, so quiet that we can hardly hear them but they show how painful this whole business is for her. Her eyes are screwed tight while she squeezes water and Emily keeps pulling gently.
After what seems like hours, the pad comes free and Mum lets out a long sigh and falls back onto her pillows. “You’re a good girl Emily,” she breathes.
The patch on her chest looks red and sore with a big oozing scab. We can see the line of the scar where the stitches were but it’s embedded in the seeping mass. It looks a terrible mess.
“It’s infected,” says Mum. “The nurse will have to have a look at it.”
She bathes it carefully, hardly daring to touch it, and says she’ll leave it open for a while to dry out. She doesn’t put another dressing on it yet in case it gets stuck.
“Can you start the tea ducky,” she says to me. “Just peel some potatoes and carrots so your father can switch it on when he gets in will you, and get rid of this stuff for me please.”
I take the bowl and the messy dressing and bits of cotton wool all wrapped in tissues.
“Don’t forget to give your hands a good wash.”
“I won’t.”
I don’t feel quite so useless now because I can peel the veg. I could cook the tea for when Dad gets in if she’d tell me what to do, but she says no wait, Dad’ll do it, I might get scalded with the boiling water. Emily sits on the bed to keep her company while she has a rest. All of that has worn her out.

Buy New

Friday, 9 May 2014

M.E. A Day in My Life

I got the idea to write a day in my life with M.E. after watching a young man in his 20s called Barry John Evans on youtube, a video in which he'd filmed a typical day for himself with this illness. Like most people with an invisible illness he looked well, but looks are very deceiving. Here goes, this is my day.

7.30 a.m. Wake to the phone alarm. I don't feel refreshed. My sleep is poor. I wake every two hours but I need to wake up at 7.30 because it takes me three hours to function. If I sleep any later I can kiss goodbye to the day. Dark winter mornings are a nightmare.

Once I've got enough energy I wash and dry my hair. I had a short style two years ago so that I could wash it in the morning. Previously when it was a layered bob I washed it in the evening in the bath but it was too exhausting. After washing my hair I need to get back into bed and just sit for an hour until enough energy comes back to get up and dressed. I watch people going to school and work through the bedroom window and how I envy them.

9 a.m. Downstairs for breakfast, porridge done in the microwave. I'd never have the energy to do anything like cook bacon. If I've got any washing I put it in to be doing whilst I sit. It takes an hour before there is enough energy to go back upstairs and clean my teeth. I mostly go upstairs on all fours, it seems to spread the energy out.

10.30 a.m. Downstairs with the laptop in a recliner armchair to do my tweets and retweet others who do the same for me, to promote my books. Check emails etc. Do any computer work. Put latest part of my book onto word if I'm happy with it. If I've got any washing I'll put it out before I start.

Midday. Tea and toast plus banana, well they're supposed to give you energy aren't they but I can't say that I've noticed that they do. 12 noon is the magic hour. If I'm going to have a reasonable day, e.g. if I'm going to be able to visit a friend for a couple of hours I'll usually have an idea if I'll be able to by then. If I can I will be wiped out the following day and all I do is sit on their settee and chat.

If I'm not having a reasonable day but a chair day as I call them I'll maybe do some writing, that's as long as I've got the energy to think and to pick up a pen. Stupid as it seems I often haven't got the energy to do either. As I've said in my author profile writing has saved my sanity through the long hours I spend alone. I can escape into a fictional world where there is health, energy, normal life, and live in the shapes of my characters.

4.30-5 p.m. Tea time. Usually something that comes from Sainsbury's/Bird's Eye straight out of the freezer into the microwave, or a sandwich. I don't have the energy to cook a meal - or shop! Online shopping is a Godsend!

5.30-6 p.m. Bath, to be in comfy pjs to watch TV in the evening.

6.30-7 p.m. Downstairs after bath. Completely wiped out. I don't know if it's the heat of the water having a relaxing effect on the blood vessels or the effect of gravity on the body after the water has supported it but I am exhausted after a bath yet feel better for being clean.

10 p.m. Time for bed. I can be falling asleep watching TV or drinking my cup of tea in bed but as soon as I lie down my brain goes into overdrive and it can take  me ages to get to sleep, tired but wired I've heard it described as. I then wake every two hours, sometimes able to go off again, sometimes not. Wake the next day feeling groggy and unrefreshed.

In his video Barry John said his limbs always felt heavy and on the day after he'd been out for an hour he felt as though an elephant was sitting on him. I can totally relate to those statements. My limbs feel like lead weights. He also mentions brain fog, which again I can relate to. That brings mental heaviness which won't be shaken off and causes lack of energy - and the headaches! They are like no headache I ever had before I was ill. I have a variety of different ones. There are the ones which feel like the side of my skull has been smashed in with a hammer, then there are the ones that knock out my central nervous system. They turn my brain and nervous system to mush and leave me so weak that I can barely raise my fingers. Reading a book or looking at the computer screen are out of the question. These headaches can last anything from a couple of days to several weeks leaving me housebound apart from an odd day's respite. On days like those I have no chance of even getting to the local shop - I can't walk there even on a reasonable day although it is only just up the road, I need to go in the car. My fifteen year old Toyota Starlet is my legs.

I don't have good days. That would imply having days where I felt well ALL DAY! I NEVER  feel well,only occasionally slightly less ill. During an exceptional week I might have two days where I can visit family and friends for a couple of hours in the afternoon or evening but the days either side and in between are either resting or recuperating, I can't go out on two consecutive days. Mornings are a complete write off EVERY day, my energy doesn't build until the magic hour and then only occasionally. I can never guarantee to be anywhere at any given time and I have so many cancelled arrangements, when before I was ill if I said I'd be there at I o'clock I'd be there at 1 o'clock. I am lucky in that I have understanding family and friends. I sink into manic depression though if I can't get to visit my son and his family. I don't see any point in being alive if I can't spend time with people I love.

This illness struck when I was 40 in 1995 so I had at least had half a life before it was totally destroyed by M.E. My heart goes out to young people with it who have been robbed of so much of their lives. I'd enjoyed my babies although they were only 14 and 11 years old when I became ill and I was then divorced, so it was a struggle to bring them up. This struggle is covered in my memoir BETTER OR DEAD.


Buy New

There is a lot of research going on worldwide and here in the UK though M.E. Research U.K. If anyone would like to leave a donation or organise a fundraising event please visit their website http://www.meresearch.org.uk/ it would be greatly appreciated by the research scientists and sufferers alike, thank you.
Their postal address is ME Research UK, The Gateway, North Methven Street, Perth PH1 5PP 
I fervently hope that in the not too distant future there will be a breakthrough where a cause will be found and subsequently a treatment to correct what is malfunctioning and preventing energy production, which I think is the root problem. If there is not enough energy for the body to function it has a negative effect on every organ as you are pulling on energy that isn't there. You can work through a degree of pain, and I have done in the past but if there is no energy you can't do anything. I can't imagine what it would be like to have my life back but I'm eternally hopeful that one day I just might!

If you would like to see Barry John's video here is the link.

Monday, 14 April 2014

The Best Christmas Present Ever

Here's a humorous excerpt from my memoir BETTER OR DEAD, sequel to Shadow Across the Sun. I bet none of you guys reading my post can beat this for a Christmas present for your wives or girlfriends!
If it gives you a giggle and you think you'd like to read the book I'd be so grateful for a review on its Amazon page.
Many thanks.

A week later, after Elliot had made his stage debut as a king in the Nativity and walked proudly down the middle of the hall carrying his gift, it was Christmas Eve. Barry and I – both sober – put the presents out, the boys’ filling the settee, ours on our respective chairs; I couldn’t resist a little glance over at the presents for me – not too closely, I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but one in particular intrigued me. It was a small parcel; I touched it, it felt like a box and I felt a tremor of excitement. He’d bought me jewellery. At last! I was always telling him I’d love a ring – or earrings even, but preferably a ring. The only rings he’d ever bought me had been my wedding and engagement rings and that had been twelve years ago. He’d splashed out on the most expensive engagement ring we’d seen giving me the mistaken impression that he was generous but had somewhat taken the sparkle off it by saying it was an investment; not the most romantic of comments to your new fiancée. Now at last he’d got me another. I wondered if it was an eternity ring. I’d always wanted one but he hadn’t been very forthcoming when I’d suggested it. Perhaps he’d wanted to surprise me. I’d really like to have chosen it myself but then I’m sure it would be in keeping with my other two rings. I didn’t finger the present too much; I wanted to wait until morning.

I think I was more excited than the boys that Christmas in anticipation of what was waiting for me in the small, enigmatic parcel. Usually my Christmas was seeing the look of delight on Matt and Elliot’s faces, and it was of course that year, but I was dying to get round to mine. However I didn’t want to rush it, I wanted to enjoy it, to savour the moment so I watched Barry open his presents then he said, “Go on lovie, open yours.”

He wanted to see my reaction when I looked at the ring and I smiled a Mona Lisa smile as I opened all of the others and left that one until last. There it sat, the only one left in its wrapping. I felt Barry’s eyes on me as I picked it up. Part of me wanted to rip the paper off to reveal its hidden secrets but the other part wanted to hold onto the mystery and surprise for a few seconds more. I peeled off the Sellotape, pulled back the paper to expose…. a box of After Eight mints? A tiny box at that, not even full sized, it only contained five!

“Well I always said I wouldn’t buy you chocolates lovie so you don’t get fat,” said Barry totally oblivious to my look of incredulous disappointment.

“I thought… I thought… you’d got me a ring.”

“Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha!” He all but rolled on the floor in hysterics.

I could feel tears of dismay and loss for the gift I’d never have amassing in my throat but I wouldn’t give them their freedom and reveal my innermost feelings. “I really wanted a ring,” I said in a muted tone.

“Oh well never mind. Come on, let’s get the dinner on.”
Buy New

The Onset of M.E

Memoirs aren't for everyone, some people like them, some don't. I haven't led an outstanding life, more one where my well laid plans went wrong. That's not glass half empty, that's fact. I'm sure many people will relate to this. In 1995, just after my 40th birthday my plans went wrong in spectacular fashion. This excerpt from my memoir BETTER OR DEAD, sequel to Shadow Across the Sun, is how it all started.

The first part of the book may seem  little slow to fellow M.E/C.F.S sufferers who want to compare their experiences to mine but I hope you'll bear with me through my 'normal' life until this post below which as the title says was the onset of M.E. It perhaps will help indicate why we grieve for our lives as they were before the illness struck.

If you can identify with it and subsequently download the book, I'd be so grateful for a review on the book's Amazon page.
Many thanks.

It was sometime after the Easter holidays that I started to feel weird. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. I’d just feel a bit disorientated. It panicked me a little. I wondered if I’d got epilepsy coming on. What if I had? I wouldn’t be able to drive, then how would I get to work?

At the end of April Barry had come to see the boys one Sunday and I went to the local shop while they were together. It is only about a five minute walk up the bank to the top of the estate and I’d done it a million times and thought nothing of it. That day however, when I got to the top of the bank I was gasping for breath, I was exhausted and almost had to stop and rest. ‘My God,’ I thought, ‘what if I’ve got a heart problem and can’t work?’ I completed my errand but when I got back home I was so exhausted I had to sit and rest for half an hour. I’d never known anything like it.

After a few days I thought no more of it and thought I must have had an off day. Then it happened again. I’d gone to pick Elliot up from school after work – I can even remember what I was wearing, an animal print blouse – and I’d had to park at the bottom of the bank where the school was situated. I had the overwhelming feeling that I couldn’t walk up that bank, but of course I had to to fetch Elliot. When I reached the playground I was worn out and glad to stand and rest while I waited for him. We were due to walk up to the Salvation Army citadel in town that evening for St Michael’s children to sing. How on earth would I manage to do that if I’d struggled to walk from the car? I did manage; the weak attack passed.

The next two attacks came over half term. The first one was when I was doing some gardening. My back became suddenly very weak and I had to go in and sit down. The second was when I was peeling carrots for Sunday lunch. Sunday was usually a busy day. Both boys played football. Matt went with his friend and I took Elliot to lads and dads but fortunately not that day. It was the same as before, my back became suddenly weak and I went and sat on a dining chair by the table. Matt came in and saw me and asked what was wrong.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I was just peeling the veg for lunch and I went really weak.” I looked into his concerned young face. “Oh Matt what if I’m ill and can’t work? How will we manage?”

He put a reassuring arm round my shoulders. “You’ll be all right. Perhaps you just needed a sit down.”

I seemed to be needing to sit down a lot!

I went to the doctors and saw Dr Collins and told him of the weak attacks and the weakness in my back. I told him that it scared me and made me panic. He signed me off sick for a week and put anxiety state on the sick note. Naïvely I thought that after a week I’d be fine.

At first I was once I returned to work but I’d get strange feelings like a sudden urge to lie down on the settee, a feeling of what a long way it was to Kerry’s room when previously I’d skipped up the stairs. One evening I had the most excruciating headache and had to lie on the settee. Rob and Leah had come round to play games but I couldn’t join in, they played upstairs; Emily and Cassie had also come round.

“Play quietly,” she told the boys as Cassie rushed up the stairs to join them, “your mum’s got a headache.”

The most frightening thing happened in Asda. Our Thursday evening routine was, I’d come home from work, pick the boys up and we’d go to Asda in Wolstanton to do the shopping, where we’d have our tea and I’d buy the boys a magazine. We collected the trolley, got inside and the boys shot off to look at the magazines. As I entered the greengrocery section my back went weak and instead of enjoying selecting what I’d buy I just threw the items in the trolley. When I got to the shampoo aisle I picked a bottle up, turned it over to read the back and suddenly all the words blurred into one. I squinted, I blinked but all of the letters became jumbled up and didn’t make words. I panicked, big time! I’d got to drive home, for some way down the A500, a dual carriageway and a fast road and I couldn’t see straight. I rushed round the store throwing everything on my list into the trolley then rounded up the boys.

“Come on we’ll have to be quick, I don’t feel very well,” I told them.

They looked at me with puzzled expressions but put their magazines into the trolley and we headed off to the checkouts and the café. As they chose what they wanted to eat I just wanted to get out. I’ve learned since that that was my fight or flight reflex kicking in and at that moment it was telling me that I had to get us home, but I couldn’t disappoint the boys, they liked their Thursday tea in Asda.

I ordered a jacket potato and they had beans and turkey dinosaurs or something and we found a table. I bolted part of my potato but I couldn’t sit still to eat it, every instinct was screaming GO, GO, whilst by contrast they chatted leisurely. Luckily we were sitting near a fan in the ceiling and I had to go and stand under it to cool off. They seemed to be eating in slow motion, as though they had all the time in the world, which normally they would have but not that evening.

“Don’t talk, eat,” I commanded, wafting my hands as if shovelling food into their mouths from my position under the cool air fan.

They looked at me as though I’d lost the plot but I just repeated, “Eat!”

After what seemed like an eternity they finished their meal and I rushed them at breakneck speed to the car. I unlocked it, they got in, settling down to read their magazines, Matt in the front, Elliot in the back and I threw the shopping into the boot and raced to return the trolley, then raced back to the car as though I was in an Olympic track event and everything depended on my speed. My hands were shaking as I put the key in the ignition and pulled off the car park. I had to go for petrol then my next challenge arose, the other traffic on the road.

“Don’t read that magazine,” I ordered Matt, “you’ll have to look for traffic with me.”

He looked a bit bewildered – I think they both thought I’d taken leave of my senses – but he did as I asked and I felt better for his back up. By the time we reached home I was shaking from head to toe and once we’d unloaded the shopping both boys could enjoy their magazines. When it was all put away I could at last relax myself – but what ever was wrong with me?

I went back to the doctors and saw a different doctor, a young female doctor, new to the practice. I told her of the episode in Asda, of my back going weak then my eyes going weak and the words on the shampoo bottle running into one.

She almost sneered at me. “Well there’s nothing to connect your back and your eyes,” she said with contempt and I came away with still no explanation as to what was wrong with me.

If you wish to make a donation to M.E. research or to organise a fundraising event please visit 
Postal address: ME Research UK, The Gateway, North Methven Street, Perth PH1 5PP 

Buy New

Monday, 31 March 2014

Tartan Skirts and Triangles

The following is an excerpt from my memoir, #1 bestseller Shadow Across the Sun, set in the Staffordshire Moorlands area of Stoke-on-Trent UK, at the time soon after I'd started school aged five. If you enjoy it and subsequently download the book my sincere thanks and I hope you enjoy that too. I'd be so grateful for a review on my amazon page if you do.

Out now, the sequel
Better or Dead

Now it’s Friday, the end of the week and the pouring rain has washed away the ice and snow. The skies are grey, the wind is howling all around the buildings and the rain is battering on the windows so we can’t go out to play this dinnertime, that’s why we’re sitting in the classroom where they have hot dinners now that all the tables have been cleared away. I think it’s a pity they can’t clear away the smell too; custard and cabbage all mixed together, yuk!

I stay at school for my dinner now, but I have dry dinners. That means that Mum makes me sandwiches of lemon cheese, which is my favourite. She calls them pieces, but I think sandwiches sounds much better – it sounds posh and pieces doesn’t. Why on earth they call them dry dinners I don’t know, because lemon cheese isn’t dry, it’s sticky, and some people bring tomatoes and they are wet, but anyway, we are sitting in the room that is Class 3.

I’m wearing my favourite red tartan skirt and red cardy. I like red; it makes me feel happy. Some of the junior children are in with us and they are sitting at the back because they are very big. The room is full so we’ve all got to sit still.

Oh goody, one of the teachers is bringing the musical instruments in so it looks like we might get to play something. I don’t like this teacher; it isn’t Mrs Wardle, this one has a pointed nose and glasses sitting on the end of it. Her whole face is pointed and she reminds me of Jack Frost.

She’s giving the instruments to us younger children sitting at the front and oh, I’d really love to play the triangle. I love that magical instrument with its shining, three sided silver shape and the little silver stick to tap it with.
‘Ting’ it goes. It sounds like something that fairies would dance to in the woods. ‘Ting. Ting.’
I put up my hand, reaching it as high as I can until I feel I could almost touch the ceiling.
She gives it to a girl on the front row and I put my hand down, feeling like a party balloon when you’ve let all the air out. I put it up again quickly as she holds up the tambourine. It isn’t dainty like the triangle but it has a good sound. I like the jingle jangling metal circles in the side, and the slap slapping noise it makes when you hit it. Besides, girls use them in dance troupes, and I want to be in a dance troupe when I’m older. I love dancing. One teacher, Mrs Oakley, gives us ballet and tap lessons once a week, and I wish it were everyday.

I wave my hand at the Jack Frost teacher so that she’ll give me the tambourine.
“Here you are,” she says and I’m thrilled. She’s giving it to me, but no. She leans over and gives it to Brad behind me. My balloon shrinks even more.
“You can have these.” She gives me two blue sticks. “Tap them together and keep time.”

What on earth am I supposed to do with these? What kind of instrument is two sticks clacked together? They’re the most boring objects on the music stand. I don’t want these! I give her my dumb insolence look but she pays me no attention; she’s busy giving out the cymbals. I’m not happy and start to fidget. The wooden floorboards are scratchy on the bare tops of my legs.

“Ow!” I’ve squealed it before I’ve realised I’ve opened my mouth.

“What’s the matter with you?” asks Jack Frost. She wants to get to the piano so she can plonk on it and we can all bang and crash our instruments and the older children can sing.

“Nothing Miss. Ow!” It’s there again, an awful stabbing pain in my bum cheek every time I move. “I think I’ve sat on something Miss.”

“Come here and let me see.”

I don’t really want her looking at my bottom, but I know she’ll have to. As I go out to the front every eye in the room is on me.

“Bend over,” says Jack Frost unkindly.

I really don’t want to but I have to and my face must be as red as my cardy and tartan skirt. She pulls at my arm and drags me across her knee, face down, and flings my red tartan skirt up over my back, showing my white knickers to all the children. Everyone is straining to get a better look.

“Ooh you’ve got a great big splinter in your bottom!” She bellows it like the bull in the field we walk past in the lane and her voice bounces off the walls.

The big children on the back row have necks like giraffes as they stretch them so that they don’t miss anything. They haven’t enjoyed a wet dinnertime so much in a long time.

“Hold still while I pull it out.”

I’m thinking that Jack Frost is enjoying this. She tugs at the splinter making me yell and the other children get fidgety and excited and lean up even further to get a better view. They can’t wait to see the splinter. I don’t know which cheeks are redder, my bum cheeks or those on my face.

“There!” Jack gives a smile that says she’s pleased with herself and holds the splinter high for all the children to see, just as though it’s some silver cup she’s won. There are gasps of shock as Jack puts my skirt down hiding my knickers, but as everyone’s seen them now it doesn’t matter anymore. My face still feels hot as I go back to where I was sitting, and this time I look for splinters sticking up before I pull my skirt right underneath me and sit carefully. I’ll never be able to wear my tartan skirt or play the clacking sticks again without remembering a sore bottom and a red face.

Buy New