Daughter-two was born in England, and when she was a couple of months old we took her up north to meet her relatives.
My grandmother had never before had a chance to hold a baby great-grandchild, since the others were all born in New Zealand.
Daughter-Two was doing an impression of an angel baby complete with favourite rosebud dress. Daughter-One had nothing but hand-me-downs and thrift shop attire. It's fair to say I made up for that with Daughter-two. My grandmother would have approved as she loved to be beautifully dressed, as she is here in her crisp white blouse and cameo broach.
I love this photo of my Dad found amongst a pile of old family photos:
He's the dashingly handsome one on the far left, standing out amongst a rather pasty bunch of post-war Englishmen.
His wrist is in a cast because he broke it in a motorcycle accident - which turned out to be a blessing in disguise because the fracture was discovered when he was undergoing the National Service medical and it got him out of 18 months in the army. For some reason Daughters One and Two always get a kick out of that story.