Chez Spud

Oh I was a HORROR as a child. Feisty, angry, bossy, aggressive (scratching other children was a favoured pastime) and moody. What a delight I must have been! Add in a temper as quick thing from quick land and it was a heady mix. But way worse than any of that was my penchant for throwing monstrous tantrums, often several times a day, for up to an hour at a time. And that went on for years.

My mother, who must be nearing Sainthood by now surely, used to call it ‘having a paddy’ or, more often, ‘throwing a wobber’. “Spud is throwing a wobbler again” she would say, pointing with resignation to the seething mass of chub on the floor – screaming like a banshee, puce in the face, body rigid with fury and arms and legs flailing up and down like paddles. When I go to my Pilates class and attempt ‘full Pilates swimming’ (lying on the floor, arms and legs outstretched and moving opposite legs/arms up and down a few inches) it feels like a graceful version of ‘throwing a wobbler’ and I often take a moment to consider what it would be like if 20 grown women spontaneously moved on from ‘full Pilates swimming ‘ to ‘full on throwing a wobbler’. I think we’d all feel very cleansed, don’t you? Although the instructor might feel a little alarmed.

My favoured response to anything that didn’t please me was to ‘throw a wobbler’ but my other party trick was to take a gigantic, audible breath and then hold my breath for as long as I could, meanwhile going purple in the face while my mother begged me to breathe. Eventually I would have to breathe, of course, at which point I would launch in to high pitched wailing accompanied by running on the spot with my arms pumping the air at the same time. That was called ‘having a paddy’. Sometimes, just to mix things up, I would start the show by ‘having a paddy’ and finish up by hurling myself to the floor and ‘throwing a wobbler’.

Outtake shot...NB purple sparkly eyeshadow used as face paint

After a few years of this tension was running high Chez Spud, as you might imagine. But a quick trip to a motorway service station on the M6 put a stop to it, more or less. I went in to the shop with my father and demanded a Cadbury’s Chocolate Machine. Dad refused (what was the MATTER with him? Had he not learnt by now just to give in and let me have my own way?). I pushed a bit harder, he stood firm and refused to buy it. So I retaliated with a ‘warm up’ paddy as a kind of warning that the full monty was on its way. Naturally, the show drew quite a crowd and my Dad finally flipped…he had Had Enough. So he rolled up the newspaper he had in his hand, and walloped me round the back of my legs. I went flying. He gasped, the crowd gasped…there was silence…I considered my options. I can remember this moment in time so vividly, I was SO shocked as my parents never, ever hit me. I decided it was game over. And that was the end of the tantrums, I never did it again (well apart from one in 2005 when I was 34, but I’d shrunk my favourite T shirt in the tumble dryer so I really think that was justified?).

My Dad and I laugh about it now, but at the time he was very shaken. It wasn’t against the law to smack children in those days (hell, he WAS the law…he was a policeman!) but certainly wasn’t in his nature to do so. Still, I’m sure he must feel there is a certain karma at work right now as Diggy LOVES to tantrum. He nearly always ‘throws a wobbler’, but any day now he might broaden his repertoire and ‘have a paddy’.

Diggy doing the 'wobbler warm up' - NB bottom lip, nice touch

Today Bertie tantrumed all the way around the supermarket, most unusual for him I must say. Not to be outdone, Diggy had a couple of turns too. I noticed they both piped down momentarily when I approached the newspaper stand though, wise move my boys, wise move….;-)

Bertie having a 'warm up' tantrum in the car this morning

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