There must be an angel

...or something similar, trying to connect my siblings and I with a possible half-brother from Mexico! For a fuller explanation, see my sister TML's post: the Last Son of Michael. I'm very excited,. I've known forever that I have half-siblings in various continents, our father being quite the ladies' man and a wanderer, but none have ever made contact with us.

The sad thing is that as the Last Son is only 24 years old, we may not be able to tell him any more about his father, other than tales of things that happened long before he was born. I've only seen my father once since 1974, and it's the same for all of us, though he did keep popping up in different places.

The last son has a Facebook page. IF we've got the right person's page, there is a definite family resemblance, but with a Mexican influence. He also appears to like posing in theatrical or flamboyant costumes. That's another trait. It's not long ago that I was looking at the Facebook page of another of my sisters, who was holding a very large piece of cheese and wearing what appeared to be a striped tea cosy on her head!

So, guess what, I'm all of a dither and my story is not progressing. At least it is, but it's morphing into another...

CleanSteve and I went up to the pub for the traditional New Year's fireworks. They were spectacular! We'd arranged to meet friends there, and they'd brought friends, who are near-neighbours of ours, so we all came back to our place and drank sparkly stuff till 2am. Went to bed at 3, up at 8.40, wishing there had been more sparkling water in the mix!

Another party followed, this time a spectacular brunch for C and S, who are going off to India for two months. The food, and company, were excellent, and I found myself discussing the possibility of creating a true-life story telling session here in Stroud (like the Moth radio hour). Stroud is full of creative people, so why not?

On the way home, we nipped up the Slad Valley to Swift's Hill nature reserve, where I shot this view over the village of Slad. (The writer Laurie Lee is buried in the churchyard there, and a Laurie Lee walking trail entices visitors to the area). We caught the right moment: a few minutes later, the clouds rolled in and rain spattered the fve valleys.

We are going to spend the rest of the day rather quietly, because tomorrow I return to work and Steve has to drive to Surrey. Harsh reality returns.