Chez Spud

Here I am, throwing my toys out of the pram yet again. I’m not grimacing with fury (for a change), but with pain…turns out I’d been wildly optimistic in terms of calculating the likelihood of being able to squeeeeeeeeze my backside in to the pushchair. Spud’s arse in to pushchair does not go.

I’m ashamed to admit it but my rather quick temper and competitive nature can mean that I’m not much of a good sport. I play to win, end of story. Fortunately I am hopeless at all competitive sport so the world is generally spared the worst of my lashing out these days.

To my eternal shame I once stomped off the rounders field in a rage during a match against another school. My cheeks are actually burning as I write this by the way. There were very few girls at my school, as it had only just gone co-ed when I started there. There were upsides to this (mainly involving an endless stream of boyfriends, hurrah) and downsides, the main one being that if you were female then you were ‘in the team’ for every single sport regardless of your talent or interest. I hated it, but the numbers were against me…there simply weren’t enough girls to choose from.

Back to the rounders match. I was the bowler which was the position I could do the least damage in as I can’t catch. Turns out I can’t throw either and after endless ‘no balls’ with the other side racking up freebie points I’d had enough. Off the field I stomped yelling “I’m not playing anymore!” over my shoulder. I was 15. FIFTEEN! Not 5, but 15 years old. Oh…the…shame.

Worse, there were no ‘reserves’ on the team of course (not enough girls) and the match came to a grinding halt while I had a tantrum. After a bit of negotiation I was persuaded to do ‘The Walk of Shame’ and return to the field, head hung low, cheeks aflame and tear stained. I proceeded to bowl a million more ‘no balls’ but the umpire relaxed the rules and ignored most of them. Poor bloke probably feared I might do for him with a rounders bat if he crossed me.

As a child I would tantrum and howl so badly if I didn’t win a party game that I was frequently sent to my room during my own birthday parties. Eventually my mother gave in and would have a prize for the real winner, and another for me to shut me up. I could go on…but I’m not sure my pride can take it. I have put myself in the Grudge Book.

Diggy having a tantrum...proof that what goes around comes around

Mind you, my mother was so competitive that she cheated at Trivial Pursuit. One year we played TP after dinner each evening on holiday. It was getting pretty feisty and Mum was getting a bit narked at her poor ‘cheese’ rate. She was caught red handed one night, after we’d all gone to bed, REVISING the cards and answers. Very, very shabby.

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Ah, it’s the only child in me you see? I like to think of myself as a big hearted, sharing kind of person..what’s mine is yours, I’ll lend you anything HELL I’ll pretty much GIVE you anything if you ask. I have no issue at all with that. But if you take my stuff without asking? Well, you’re in the Grudge Book for life.

I guess this comes from, as a child, always knowing where my ‘stuff’ was ie. exactly where I left it. As a result, I get very antsy when my stuff ISN’T where I left it or if I find people using it without asking. Naturally I am a grown up and I have learnt to paint on a relaxed, ‘No, go ahead, it’s not problem’ mask. But inside I’m screaming, ‘GET…OFF…MY…STUFF!”

I have a particular issue with stationary items in the workplace. Generally I sellotape a sticker with my name on it on to key items such as staplers, hole punches etc. Alas my current colleagues seem to think this is some kind of challenge; I am rarely in the office so they think it’s OK to use my stuff (wrong – to be clear, it is never, ever OK to use my stuff without my express consent). They have attached another sticker to my stapler which says ‘We use this all the time when you’re not here!!!’ Oh, how I laughed and jested with them when I saw it. Whilst mentally scribbling in the Grudge Book of course…

One of the real downsides of having children is that they have absolutely no respect for the concept of ‘my stuff’. Over the years I’ve had to concede my mobile, my make up, my notepads, my handbags etc to them. But two things make me rage when they even approach them are (1) my Symthson diary, so pristine and pink with blue page prettiness and (2) my MacBook. Even MrSpud gets the evils when he dares to use it. The boys stab at the screen with buttery/chocolatey fingers, then smear it all over the keyboard, and takes turns to ‘shut the door’ i.e slam the lid down with force. Entry in the Grudge Book for them too, every time.

Smythson Diary and favourite necklace (since broken by boys...grr)

I know, it’s only ‘stuff’. But, you know, it’s MY STUFF. So leave it alone unless you’ve asked to use/borrow/abuse it. OK?

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I’m beginning to hate one of our cats, Parker. He’s always been a delight, friendly, full of character, a bit quirky, so tolerant of the boys and very handsome to look at. He has amazingly long whiskers and, as a result, MrSpud calls him our ‘wizarding cat’. Truly they are a MAGNIFICENT set of whiskers! He’s quite stupid and can’t balance too well, thus ensuring many comedy moments as we watch him tumble off the fence/sofa/chair yet again. And likes to drink water from our glasses, the birdbath, the paddling pool etc rather than his water bowl. So far, so lovely.

Parker - with killing on his mind

We moved to the country from London at the start of the year. Until then he’d been an utter wuss, never leaving the confines of our small city garden. To be honest, I’d assumed he’d hardly leave the garden once we moved here. Wrong. He’s like a cat possessed! He’s out nearly all day, in the garden, down the fields, up the fields, across the courtyard. He has become an adventuring cat. Alas he’s become a killing cat too.

Parker - thinking about sleep

Mice, voles, birds….alive, dead, partly dead, flapping…regardless he brings them in. MrSpud has become adept at creating ‘runs’ for the live ones to make a dash for the great outdoors. Slightly stunned ones are captured in Tupperware boxes and dispatched outside – the ones which aren’t going to make it are ‘done for’ with a cricket bat. Sob. Flappy birds are horrendous. Once he brought in a newborn baby vole, so new it was translucent.  Very, very upsetting.

Parker - without killing on his mind for a change

This week Parker stepped up his campaign of horror by sneaking in with a vole without me knowing. The first thing I knew was the sound of a tambourine from the play room. Most odd as I was alone in the house. He’d dropped it in the toy box, poor thing was running around and tapping out a jig. So outside with the toybox, and out with the Dettol yet again to clean the toys.

Parker - thinking about the lack of dusting that goes on around here

How can I stop this? I know it’s his instinct but it’s awful , and it’s almost daily. Worst time is the morning so I’ve taken to blocking the cat flap. He had a collar with a bell for a while, but it didn’t make any difference. Every time I hear the cat flap ‘bang’ my heart sinks, as I’m convinced Dr Death has popped back in with his latest offering.

He’s so stupid that when he gets a live one he has NO idea what to do with it – he doesn’t kill it, he just looks at it. What can I do? Boot camp for cat killers? I’ve become so cross with him that I encourage the neighbour’s dogs in to the garden to give him a fright, just to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Rare shot of our other cat who is desperately shy. And non killing…we might not be able to get near her, but at least she doesn’t kill stuff. Also my first, ever shot taken on manual!

Little Miss Shy - Phoebe

So, any thoughts on cat killers? Help me please!

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A bit 'take a letter Miss Freak' - no?

So, I only like to watch films I’ve seen before. It’s not as daft as it sounds; watching a film takes a couple of hours of my life and I need to be confident it’s going to be worth the bother. Naturally there is a ‘bit’ of a flaw here in terms of actually watching any new films and getting them on to the Approved List. Generally I stick to the following categories:

1. Films with a near identical plot to a film on the Approved List
2. Films without Keira Knightly in them
3. Films which are sequels to those on the Approved List
4. Films of books I have read and loved (VERY dicey though, trade off between ruining my love of the book v safety net of knowing what the plot is)
5. Films with Michael Palin in them

Films that I categorically refuse to watch:

1. Anything MrSpud says is ‘an absolute classic’ (dong: hear that? that’s its death knell)
2. Anything involving war, violence, subtitles, conflict, horror, hobbits or sci-fi
3. Anything with dead horses heads in it
4. Anything with John Wayne in it
5. Anything involving historical reenactments of any kind

I’m perfectly happy with my Approved List but not so MrSpud who has tried to instigate Movie Night, each Saturday, in the desperate hope of him being allowed to watch something not directed by Mike Leigh. I’m not that keen on the idea as I think the list is just fine as it is. One or two new films have slipped through the net despite my best efforts at distraction, but for the most part the Approved List remains reassuringly static.

Occasionally I allow MrSpud to watch films that are not on the Approved List, as long as he doesn’t try to make me watch them or engage me in any kind of discussion about his movie du choix. The absolute exception to this rule is the Lord of the (sno)Ring trilogy which I cannot abide.

MrSpud having a turn with 'the eyes'

When I very first met MrSpud I got hoodwinked in to trip to the cinema with him and his extended family to see Lord of the Rings. I really thought that film would never, ever end and that I would be stuck forever in some kind of recurring nightmare involving Shires and people with bad ears and a terminally poor grip on reality. Three hours of misery, contemplating ripping off my own arm and eating it to alleviate the tedium, whilst trapped between a couple of Nanas who slept soundly throughout. Straight in to the Grudge Book for MrSpud for that little jaunt – he has a whole page to himself you know…

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I confess, I cheated again. MrSpud took this as I wasn’t in the mood for all the faffing with the tripod etc. So I set it up, painted my face bright green and woke him up from a sofa snooze to photograph me. It took him about 20 seconds to even notice anything was different about my face. WTF?!

On with the secret. In short, pretty much every time I go near water I vomit. I have been sick on ferries (once before it had even left PORT), yachts, sail boats, motor boats…you name it, I’ve ruined it with sick. A faint whiff of Dettol must follow me wherever i go.I’ve been sick at sea, on rivers, estuaries, reservoirs, boating lakes and, most famously, on a canal. Yes, you read that right, I have been sick on a canal boat.

Which makes it all the more puzzling that I own a boat. Neither MrSpud nor I can sail, and I have no intention of ever learning after depositing my lunch on a crowded beach (to rapturous applause) after my first, and last, sailing lesson as a teenager. We’ve never even seen the boat, I couldn’t even tell you much about her other than the fact that she’s called Frances and has red sails. I ‘think’ I’ve seen her bobbing around on the estuary from the safety of quay, but I can’t be sure as I daren’t look for too long in case I’m sick. I should just ask the blokes at the boatyard but I can’t bear the thought of those old sea dogs sneering at me like the the fancy London Land Lubber that I am…”Excuse me, my good fellow, could you tell me which one is my boat?”. Blushes.

We bought the boat with a friend last year. He can’t sail either. What were we thinking?! I suspect MrSpud and his pal got carried away on some kind of Swallows & Amazons nautical whimsey whereas I had a rare attack of the smarts and made what I am sure is a very sound investment decision i.e it passes the ‘what’s in it for me?’ test with muster.

Here’s the plan…when the boys are old enough I will pack them off to sailing school and then they can have the boat and spend weekends pootling up and down the estuary while I retire to the sofa. Joined..up..thinking,

I’ll just have to hope they haven’t inherited my wibbly wobbly sea legs. If so, no matter, they can take a bucket.

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Be afraid...be very afrad

Mwah ha ha. I don’t keep an ‘actual’ grudge book, because that would be crazy, right? But, I fess up, I do have a bit of a mental grudge book where I keep a rolling list of those unlucky souls who have slighted me in some way over the years. Because that’s not crazy, right?

First up, my mother. I know, you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and all that, especially when it’s someone you adored but..you know…she boobed. She hurt me! I was 15, she told me she was pleased I’d grown my hair from a short, elfin cut cut to a bob because, and I quote “You have such a thick neck”. WHAT?!!! Aren’t mothers supposed to be those kindly, forgiving, you can do anything and I will support you as long as you’re happy kind of people? Apparently not. Not least because I have subsequently spent most of my adult life with a short, elfin chop..and thus displaying my ‘thick neck’ apparently. So, number one grudge …. my mother. You sleeping well up there in heaven Mum? Giggle.

Number two….best friend from childhood who told me I had, ‘Evil, thin, mean lips’. WHAAAAAAAT?!!! To this day, 30 years later, I still look at my lips and assess them for evil, thin, mean qualities. ‘Possibly’ I had told her she had ‘big, fat, rubber lips’ which provoked this assault. I can’t be sure, it was a long time ago.

Number three..MrSpud, natch. In response to me being a sobbing wreck after my mother died, telling him the worst bit for me was that I couldn’t believe I was never going to see her again, he responded…”Well…you know…you’re not”. Waaaaah! Well thanks for that, way to go empathy. Giggle.

I could bore you all night. Just know that if you’ve slighted me, insulted me, put me down, ignored me or tried to get the better of me….you’re in the book. But don’t be afraid, don’t lose any sleep at night, just don’t do it again…right?

Nobody puts Spud in the corner.

MWAH HA HA!!!!

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Spuddles

Oooh, it’s a game and it’s all about me. Two of my best favourite things. Here are five questions put to me by the fragrant Extranjera.

1. How has the transition from a flicking gal to a bloggin’ babe been? How are you settling in?

I’m settled right in thanks. I’ve moved on from an initial ‘oh crap, should I have gone Blogger not WordPress’ panic and am wittering for England. It’s like a cork coming out of a bottle (mmm, let’s all take a moment to savour that thought), I can’t seem to stop blogging. Once I’m through my 30 secrets in 30 days project I will attempt to restrain the wittering to once a day. Maybe – although I do a photo 365 project so who knows? It’s been an easy flickrgal/bloggergal transition; as Julochka cleverly noticed in her shy making Blog Crush post, I’d actually been blogging on my flickr photos for a while. So it’s been a very natural and easy transition and I love it, can’t think what took me so long to join in…so shove up lovely bloggergals… is there room for another on the Chatty Sally bench?

2. The costumes…?

I know! Such a surprise to me too. I’m quite ‘proper’ and English and reserved, don’t like to make a show of myself and all that. This ‘New Spud’ that prances about in costumes in front the neighbours is quite a surprise to me. And MrSpud too. I think it’s partly to do with having recently moved out of London for ‘the country’. I’m so much happier and thus more relaxed than I’ve ever been in my life. I am waiting on two ‘props’ for a further two secrets at this point. I’m worried Andy the Postman thinks I fancy him, since I pounce on him every day and inspect his wares. [snigger]

3. What do you think Mr. Spud thinks about this whole blogging deelio?

MrSpud is cool. Well, clearly he isn’t since any last vestige of cool that he was desperately clinging on to was cast aside with the revelation of his ‘hobbit dancing’. What I mean is that MrSpud is on board, and is really enjoying spending all evening sorting out my blog. He really revels in a daily 12 hour working day, including 4 hours of commuting, and then coming home and, erm, programming some more. He loves it, he’s MAD for it. He’s a little bit crazy like that. Seriously, he’s very supportive and doesn’t bat an eyelid at my antics. I knew I married him for a reason.

4. Name 3 things you can’t live without and why? (Family and such excluded)

1. wine 2. wine and 3. wine. Oh but then what about Michael Palin? Oh no, not enough choices.

Wine booze...yum

5. What is the story behind your ‘name’?

Excellent question! It’s my family nickname, I’m generally known as Spud. The origins are lost in the mists of time somewhat. My maternal grandfather used it as a nickname for my mother. But no one knows where it comes from. Alas he died long before I was born otherwise I’d ask him! I like it, it’s very unique and very ‘me’. I’ve never met another Spudballoo. I like that, it pleases me.

Baby Spud

So come on, join in…who wants 5 questions? I’d love to interrogate learn more about you!

Love from Spud x

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Whilst pondering my 5 random favourite things today I considered ‘Small Blue Thing’ by Suzanne Vega as one of my song choices. But then I remembered how dreary it is and the fact that I hearted it as a teenager is no basis for its inclusion, since all teenagers are hard-wired to be gloomy and full of drear.

These days I like small red things. And here’s a collection of them…my brand new red Moleskin notebook (I can’t bear to take the wrapping off, because then I’ll have to start writing in it and spoil it)…a red, glass heart which child2 tries to eat if I’m not looking…my gorgeous Momiji doll( a gift from the Wife, complete with a secret shoved up her bottom…the doll not the Wife), a pin cushion in the shape of a cake and…inspired…a bottle of rose!

It’s never ‘really’ summer Chez Spud until we’ve cracked on with the rose. So i bought some in anticipation of al fresco wining and dining this weekend, since we have planned to go camping for the first time.

I checked the weather forecast. Rain. I should have known.

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Spent much of the morning pondering on the word ‘meme’…what is it….what does it mean…where did it come from…how do you pronouce it…and does it need feeding like a small pet of some sort?

Having established what it is  I pushed on and rose the not insustantial challenge of Molly’s 5 random favourite things. My list is a bit of a disappointment, a little bit…’lightweight’ shall we say? I’m now thankful that I’ve already fessed to being an intellectual lightweight, otherwise the secret would be well and truly out.

I am resisting the urge to witter on and comment on my choices as there are at least two forthcoming secrets in the 30 secrets in 30 days series contained within. So, here’s the list…

Favourite Songs:

1. True Love Ways – Buddy Holly (walked down the aisle to this)
2. Keep the customer satisfied – Simon & Garfunkel (walked back up the aisle to this)
3. Angel – Sarah McLachlan
4. Steal Away – The Furies (taking a moment to howl and sob)
5. Northern Sky – Nick Drake

Favourite Films:

1. My Big Fat Greek Wedding
2. Love Actually
3. Le Divorce
4. Hans Christian Anderson (shared love with my boys, watch bits of it daily)
5. Amelie

Favourite Books:

1. Dance to the Music of Time – Anthony Powell
2. The Music of the Spheres – Elizabeth Redfern
3. Four Letters of Love  – Niall Williams
4. Everything by Barbara Trapido (I know, I cheated)
5. The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins

Favourite Crushes:

1. Michael Palin
2. Michael Palin
3. Michael Palin
4. Michael Palin
5. Michael Palin

Favourite (Random) Things:

1. Brown paper packages (tied up with string of course)

2. The smell of a stationary shop

3. The bottom of the laundry basket

4. Time on my own

5. Belly laughs

Hmm, so I tag…any 5 people who read this and want to play. I think that’s cheating?!

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Go on...I dare you...

Care to dance? Fancy a spin round the dancefloor with me? Spin me, twirl me, jitterbug and whirl me…let’s bop, let’s jive, let’s shimmy and shake…let’s strut our stuff until our big fat ankles ache…

Oooh I’m getting all poetic. Rhyming ‘n’ everfink. So do you? Care to take a spin with me and  dance like there’s nobody watching? Well, you’d better pray nobody is watching if you’re dancing with me because, frankly, it’s embarrassing.

You know those awkward looking souls always hugging the edge of the dance floor, swaying and rocking and jigging from foot to foot whilst throwing murderous glances in the direction of the cool kids who really know how to throw some shapes? Yup, that’s me, I’m one of those.

I’m actually very peeved that the cool dancing gene passed me by as, in my head, I can really trip the light fantastic, man, I’m on fire on the dance floor.  My mother was a ballet/tap/modern dance teacher so surely I should be able to manage a bit of disco dancing? But, no, my entire repertoire consists of (a) the shuffle (b) the sway and (c) what can only be described as ‘the lurch, with pointing’.

Alcohol doesn’t improve matters, quite the opposite. All it does is unleash an inner, deep belief that I am a brilliant disco dancer. Enter a new Spud dance in to the equation which is ‘the lurch, with pointing, AND SINGING ALONG LOUDLY’ even though I never know the words. Oh no…I’m blushing now as I remember Discos of Yore and my shambolic performances.

Alas said discos were not in some village hall in my youth. Oh no, I’m talking about work functions and many, many of them. I’m surprised I’m still in employment actually. There may even have been an episode of AIR GUITAR, complete with something tied around my head, on a balcony in the ballroom of the Waldorf hotel, with an audience of all 700 partners of the law firm I worked for at the time. Shudder.

MrSpud is pretty ‘special’ on the dancing front too. He compliments my ‘lurching with pointing’ attempts with a kind of ‘hobbit’ dancing. He likes to dance alone, and can generally be found wheeling around the corners of the dance floor, slightly hunched over like someone’s just punched him in the stomach complete with low moaning (I think that’s him singing though). Kind of like a hunch-backed, dwarf sized Morrissey.

Imagine our shared joy when it dawned on us that we were going to have to perform for our wedding guests during the torturous ‘first dance’. What to do? The hobbit with wheeling? The lurch with pointing? Bit of air guitar? Ah, a story for another day.

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