In Flanders’ Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders’ Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders’ Fields.
Just found out my host mum is a client of Leo Bancroft, celeb hairdresser extraordinare. We have this competition going between myself, host mum and daughter that whoever has the longest hair by November gets treated to a full hair makeover by Mr Bancroft.