Chez Spud

Inspired by Janet of Are We There Yet? [random fact...I share a birthday with her] I’ve hitched a ride on the Postcrossing bandwagon…because who doesn’t like getting lovely things in the post? Chuck in the frisson of excitement of lovely things in the post from total strangers and you can see why the bandwagon is looking a little crowded these days.

I’m pretending to do it for my boys, using each card as a learning opportunity about new places, new people, different cultures and the like. A globe has been purchased and a system for displaying and then filing the postcards has been established. As things progress I will likely create an appropriate taxonomy for the cards but I’m way ahead of myself as…um…I haven’t actually received any yet.

But I will do, and any day now. I’ve briefed Postman Andy not to be afraid of me pouncing on him again each day, eager to inspect his wares. He’s not yet recovered from the 30 Secrets project and wild accusations of wig stealing…but I digress.

Not content with just picking up a few postcards of our local town for the project, I have had some of my photos made in to postcards by the wonderful people at Moo.  Chuck in some Moo Stickers to decorate said cards with and I’m good to go. These aren’t just postcards…they’re works of art. Preens preens..ra ra ra…

So I dragged my boys in to town today to send postcards to Finland and the USA. Whilst there I remembered that, outside the library, is a funny little French postbox which seems completely out of place given that we live in, er, Britain. So we investigated as I thought it would be a fitting departure lounge for my  finely crafted and exquisite works of art postcards. Well, I investigated…the boys did this until they got dizzy and fell over…

I hadn’t misremembered…right next to the ‘real’ postbox is this French one, a gift to the town from its ‘twin town’ in France in 1991. A little odd…couldn’t they have sent a lifetime’s supply of some cheeky little red for everyone or something? It’s on the shabbier side of shabby chic, don’t you think? Look at the fine, British post box…brave, tall and RED…long live the Queen etc etc….then compare and contrast with the French number…1-0 to les rosbifs I think…

Let’s look a bit closer shall we? Well, it’s kind of pretty and ornate…and rather quaint actually. ‘Saturday’s collection has been done’ it says…good to know. But, no, wait! It’s Friday today…that’s a bit worrying. What the hell has Postman Andy been doing since last Saturday? Wearing my bloody wig I bet. Suddenly, the French option is looking less appealing. Worse, look at this sign next to it…

Now this is a real worry…so there’s one collection a day, not ideal but this is the country afterall…they only collect for a couple of months of the year, hmmm now that’s quite slack…but even more worrying…collections are only made Monday to Friday. WHAT? Scroll up…the box says it was last emptied on Saturday. BUT THEY DON’T COLLECT ON A SATURDAY! WTF… is this  some kind of joke and, if so, who is the joke on? And who’s going to have the last laugh? I bet that box is stuffed full of postcards from 1991 and it’s never once been emptied…Postman Andy, I’m on to you…be afraid.

But, seriously, who thought this was a good idea? Apart from mentalists like me, who would choose to post their labouriously scribbled postcards in a dodgy looking ‘pretend’ mailbox when one of Her Royal Maj’s real deal boxes is standing right next to it? I’ll bet it was one of ‘those’ local council meetings when that phoney ‘postbox’ arrived…they must have all sat round puzzling at it, going “Merde! Zut alors! What are we going to do with ‘that’…it’s embarrassing”. Then someone piped up, “I know, I know…shove it on the wall round the back of the library where no one really goes anyway but put it next to a real postbox…then add some confusing information about ‘collections’…and tell Postman Andy not to bother collecting from it anyway. Actually, scratch that…let’s just chuck the key away and be done with it. No one will ever know. Now, shall we have a nice cup of tea and some biscuits?”

For myself? I voted with my feet…I chose British…Rule Britannia! And all who sail in her…

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I’ve been a-pondering…and this is my ‘ponder’….that this is the first year in my whole life that I’ve been acutely aware of the passing of the seasons which, I suppose, is due to living in the country. Previously the seasons have been measured and defined by Spring/Summer and Autumn/Winter collections and, when I lived with my parents, the dates when the central heating was ceremoniously turned on and off (1 October and 1 April…regardless of the weather). But this year nature has unfolded its seasons for me RIGHT THERE in my garden, in the fields, in the hedgerows…a veritable gala performance, just for me. Fancy that!

The phrase “One swallow does not make a spring” meant nothing to me until this year, when the first swallows arrived and we watched them swoop and dive, then nest in stables and outbuildings and have babies. Then the swifts rocked up and, having ensconced themselves in our roof, the fun really began. Last year we had barn owls nesting in our neighbour’s barn…alas, no such luck this year although we’ve spotted a couple out hunting at dusk. Since when did I dig birds?! Look at me…I’m a twitcher (faints dead away).

Enough of the birds, let’s talk road safety…who knew that the passing of the seasons could have such a dramatic effect on road safety and, more specifically, the drive from our home to the boys’ nursery. It’s not a long journey, but it’s challenging and is thus not-so-affectionately known as the ‘Drive of Doom’ Chez Spud. In the winter, we slipped and slid up the lanes on black ice and mud on the roads…now the summer is here we zip round corners completely blind, unable to see approaching traffic because of the luscious hedgerows. It took me a week to realise why I could not longer ‘get the view’ for a particularly heart stopping ‘corner plus blind summit’ combo…ah, bless my little city girl cotton socks.

But the main stage for the seasonal drama is, of course, right outside my window. We are very fortunate to have inherited a mature garden, well stocked with all kinds of plants, shrubs, trees and, especially, flowers. There has been a delicious sense of expectation, of ‘ooh what next?!’ all through the year. I tell you, it’s better than telly..from the first snowdrops of the year,

…to carpets of violets, first sweet smelling purple ones then white …

..and hyacinths; pink, white and blue plus banks of these lovely grape hyacinths…

..and, of course, daffodils…dominating the garden for a few weeks, so many different types I lost count…

…and blossom, blossom everywhere…

…plus, my favourite, helibores…

..then up popped the foxgloves…

…soon replaced by vast hollyhocks in pink, purple and white…

…and all of a sudden it was summer, and there were daisies and buttercups in the meadows and poppies..poppies..poppies everywhere…

…roses all over the place of course, and this huge bank of lovely blue flowers (what are they?) which were out for a couple of weeks and then disappeared, literally overnight  (bye! see you next year) …

…and red hot pokers, ornamental daisies and irises (again, they didn’t last long – it’s surprising how fleeting some visitors are)…

…and then a whole field of huge thistles in front of our office, beloved by butterflies, bees and goldfinches…

I could go on, but you get the picture.  Sadly, it already it feels like we’re all done with summer; the nights are drawing in and the garden is gearing up for Autumn . The blossom on the blackberries is nearly gone and the fruit is starting to form – perhaps this year we’ll manage not to eat the ones we pick as we walk back to the house? Perhaps I will finally get to make a blackberry crumble? The tomatoes are yet to ripen, and yet I’m already planning chutney with the leftovers. The blossom on the apple trees has done its stuff…

… and perhaps this year we will get to eat them before the deer do. Oooh blackberry and apple crumble? And, squeeks excitedly, a vast pumpkin patch is lurking at the bottom of the garden, all ready for Halloween…

To everything there is a season…here is Bertie in the field in January…

…same spot, in March…

…and, finally, Diggy in the same spot in June…

I must remember to get a snap in the same place in the Autumn…ideally troughing our way through a vast blackberry and apple crumble. To everything there is a season…

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News just in…stop press…stop all the clocks…hold the front page…those well-meaning people who say ‘time heals’ to those who are grieving, probably uttered in that slightly whiney, knowitall voice, head cocked to one side, perhaps nodding a bit for emphasis (“Believe me! I’m right, I’m nodding my head and using my special whiney voice, thus I know everything…”time heals”). Well, ya suckers, time does NOT heal grief. It ‘might’ heal preteen broken hearts and the devastating disappointment of not being made headgirl…but time does NOT heal grief. Can I just repeat that for those at the back of the class, not really paying attention, just doodling on their desks or taking photos of the back of their hair with their mobiles to see if it looks OK (as a feisty girl taught by my cousin does..eeek)….TIME DOES NOT HEAL GRIEF.

You never, ever ‘get over’ someone dying. You don’t ‘move on’ or ‘draw a line under it’ or ‘get on with the rest of your life’. Really, you don’t. And any kind of suggestion that you can, or should, is as insulting to the person who died as it is to the person in front of you, paralysed by grief. They might ‘look’ like they are coping, they’re OK, they’re putting a brave face on it and all those other things we say to make ourselves feel better about their situation. But they’re not OK, not even a little bit…they might be going through the motions of everyday life, to the extent that everyone stands back and admires their spirit and their courage. But inside they are screaming ,’WHY ARE YOU ALL ACTING SO NORMAL? WHY ARE YOU SHOPPING/WORKING/WATCHING TV/JOKING ABOUT SHIT WHEN THE WHOLE WORLD HAS BEEN TURNED UPSIDE DOWN. CAN’T…YOU….SEE?’. But they don’t scream those things, they rarely even say them…they just carry on as best they can because, after all, what else can you do?

“Oh you’re coping SO well!”, is what I heard so often in the weeks after my mother died 10 years ago. This was puzzling…what else did they want me to do? Lie down on the floor and die? What choice do you have when unwanted, unexpected grief comes along and smacks you in the face? You have two choices: you suck it up and carry on or you keel over and let it consume you.

Time doesn’t heel, ever. All it does is give you some space to get used to the idea of a world without the person you loved…but your world is never, ever the same. I miss my mother every single day of my life; on the special days…my wedding day, the birth of my two wonderful boys, their birthdays, my birthday, her birthday, Christmas….all those markers of life. But I miss her on the ordinary days, when nothing much special happens…when I see something, read something, feel something that I need her to know. A little known fact of death is that you can have a relationship with someone even after they have died, I know how odd that sounds by the way. But if I want to tell my Mum something, I just go ahead and tell her…and I always know what she would say, or how she would laugh. Or have another fag and a coffee xxx Are they drip feeding you caffeine and nicotine up there in heaven Mum? Hope so xxx

The downside of this is that my mother is always ‘there’ wittering in my ear, always telling me what the right thing to do is, what she would expect of me. Ideally I’d like to ignore this on the occasions that it doesn’t suit me, but she’s irritatingly persistent. In the midst of life we are in nagging, and all that.

Ten years on, I’m ‘on top’ of my grief. I’m not over it, but I’m on top of it, or so I like to think. And then something happens and it hits you between the eyes…no warning… no mercy. And, believe me, it’s every bit as painful, bitter and shocking as it was right at the start.

Today I was driving home having dropped my boys at nursery, focused on the busy work day ahead….anxious to get home for a conference call. The radio was on, just buzzing in the background and the BANG…right there, with two chords…I was drowning in my grief all over again. They played one of my mother’s favourite songs…it won’t mean much to most people but it’s like a knife through the heart to me. In seconds I was dripping with tears and had to pull over…ten years, and yet a couple of chords can defeat me like that. I can’t think that it will ever change and to be honest I hope it never will. I never want there to be a day when my mother’s death means nothing to me, because her life meant absolutely everything to me.

So, just take it from me, when someone dies…you never, ever get over it.

xxx

PS for the people who need to know what the song was…it’s pasted below, ‘When you were sweet sixteen’. She met my Dad when she was 14 and adored him from that day on, she never ever stopped loving him. I think this song kind of encapsulated it for her. Sobbing again just listening to it on Youtube…I am SUCH a sap!

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‘Megaboys’…that’s what MrSpud calls our children, his megaboys or his ‘men’. I think they must actually think they are a new, higher order of boys though as they now call themselves Megaboys (“Daddy! The Megaboys are in the bath!”). Must stop this before they start school for fear of any Lord of the Flies type thoughts entering their pretty little blonde heads.

So yesterday we carted the Megaboys off to a local horse show because that’s just the kind of fun parents that we were. There were horses, as you might expect at a horse show…

And, rather randomly but wonderful anyway, owls…

and then all the usual paraphernalia of such events; beer tents, live music, cake stalls, raffles, tombolas…all the trappings of an English fete in fact including a couple of rides and activities for small children. Both boys were pretty keen on a vast, and improbably pink, inflatable slide which I was very unsure about for Diggy as he’s only two.  But I stood and watched my baby climb climb climb all the way to the top, slowly, carefully and with great determination. There was no WAY he was going to stand round and watch his big brother have all the fun…

…and then, as I saw his beaming smile as he reached the top, I felt them…those little tears of pride starting to prick. I couldn’t help myself, I didn’t dare look at MrSpud who blubs like a girl at the best of times. I was suddenly so aware of how grown up he is and how quickly he’s turned from a yelling newborn bundle of fury in to the brave little chap I was watching climb the mountain and hurl himself down, shrieking with sheer joy.

I haven’t had the easiest of relationships with Diggy. I found the first year of having two children very tough and I didn’t cope as well I might. Diggy was a very clingy baby and needed holding constantly, day and night. Sleep deprivation was high, and just getting through the day with the Klingon and a toddler was tough. I didn’t really ‘enjoy’ Diggy for a long time and that’s a real sadness to me; I can’t get those early weeks and months back, they are lost to me now. The memories are mostly bad ones; struggling through it and feeling so resentful that Bertie’s babyhood had been cut short by the unexpected arrival of Diggy…and how little time I had for my ‘big boy’ as I always had the baby in my arms. Or rather on my tummy or back as the Klingon basically lived in a sling for the best part of the first year of his life…

He’s still pretty high octane, a hurracaine really…but he lives life at 150% and is so up for everything that you have to forgive his maddening, willful streak. He is very affectionate and charms everyone we meet with his breezy nature and those white blonde curls. I’m hopelessly addicted to his sweet kisses and cuddles, and the feel of those soft chubby cheeks. It’s a wonderful feeling, this overwhelming, dizzy making feeling of being ‘in love’ with your child…I can’t get enough of it. It’s been a long time coming.

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Final treasure…my pink, moire silk Anya Hindmarch shoes. I doubt I will ever wear these again as they are too high for me these days thus, in theory, they could be left to burn in the imaginary house fire. But they are so elegant and are beautifully made, so I might have to brave the flames to rescue them. I’ve worn them quite a few times and thus the internationally agreed measurement of ‘price per wear’ is acceptable.  I snuck in another treasure contender in to the photo…the shoes are sitting on a beautiful Temperely lace and bead top which I have never worn. Thus the ‘price per wear’ is totally unacceptable and it should be ebayed. But it’s too pretty so I am hoarding it.

Hope you enjoyed the Ten Treasures…next project TBA but will be a whole lot less fluffy than this one. Think, spikey…

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La Tour Eiffel

I’m certain blogging would be a quicker process if I didn’t have the urge to cram every post with as many photos as possible, but since a picture speaks a thousand words and I’ve already got more than enough words for a lifetime I guess the photos are here to stay. Best buy another couple of hard drives then…

So I snuck off to French France this week sans children, sans husband…and not for work…but for PLAY! A good friend of mine moved there recently, and I took a twirl on the Eurostar to visit.

Rue du Faubourg St Honore

On which note, when did Eurostar stop announcing when you’re about to enter ‘the tunnel’? I guess it’s nothing special anymore, but it was so thrilling the very first time I went on the Eurostar back in 1995 and a bloke with a comedy French accent came over the tannoy ‘Ladies & Gentlemen…we are about to enter the Channel Tunnel’. Who can remember the day in 1990 when the French and English tunnelers finally ‘met’ in the middle – such excitement at the time. And now no one cares. Likewise, it used to be so exciting to feel the train massively pick up speed once on French soil (well tracks, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it)…such a contrast to the snail’s pace on the Brit side. But now it’s high speed all the way.

These little changes seem so small, but then it’s the little differences about being abroad which make the memories. The elegance of the underground station signs:

Trocadero metro station

The casual elegance of a simple breakfast presentation:

Le Petit Dejeuner

And then there was the depressingly familiar…Starbucks everywhere, complete with the regulation Starbucks furniture to be seen in every corner of the globe. I will admit I went in, in search of a clean loo. It was empty, the French clearly eschewing over-priced, under flavoured ‘coffee’ in favour of the real deal. Vive la France!

I didn’t ‘do’ a lot in my 24 hour visit, I doubt I covered more than a square mile if that. But how different life is now that I have photography as a hobby…no shopping, no tourist ‘must dos’, no galleries for me. I just went where my feet took me (slowly, I got blisters ouch) and snapped away. Looking through my 250 photos it’s so interesting to see that they easily fall in to a couple of categories; shapes, body parts and patterns!

First up ‘shapes’:

The Louvre Pyramid designed by I.M. Pei, with the Arc de Triomphe in the background

Louvre Pyramid

The Grand Louvre, reflected in the Louvre pyramid:

Grand Louvre, reflected

Hearts and triangles…I love this! I would never have noticed this had I not been hunting around for a good place for a shot; someone has stuck a sticker ON THE PYRAMID!!! Bet it was a teenager who will dine out on that story for years…

Hearts 'n' triangles

More triangles, toy sailboats ready for hire in the Jardin du Carrousel:

And circles of course…the Big Wheel in the Tuileries:

The Big Wheel - Tuileries

Rectangles too, and semi circles…

Palais de la Decouverte

And rectangles (with trumpets and hoofs hanging over)

Pont Alexandre III

Then there were bodyparts by the bucket. Let’s start with feet…

Dreamboat Gallic lovegod feet:

PINK men’s brogues..bonus self-portrait of me reflected:

Chanel bag toting label freak…wearing wellies in the rain:

Then hands

Statue - Jardin du Carrousel

…and again..

Statue - Jardin du Carousel

Ooooh CHEEKY hands here…

Statue - Jardin du Carousel

and a bit of everything here…a chap asked me to take a snap of him and his wife on this bridge. I obliged but immediately fell in love with his D700 (a very fancy camera) and wanted to toss my own in to the Seine…

Pont Alexandre III

And finally patterns…public electric bikes, stashed and used all over the city!

Ornate wall in the Jardin du Caurosel

Jardin du Carousel

Japanese tourists on the viewing platform for the Eiffel Tower – Le Palais du Chaillot:

Path through Le Jardin du Palais Royal:

Le Jardin du Palais Royal

Of course these are just a handful of the photos that I took and, as you can see, I didn’t do much while I was there…I walked, I snapped, I ate, I drank, I dehydrated, I got blisters on my feet, I spoke French so badly I was given a can of coke when I asked for a bottle of water, I walked miles to a toyshop to buy gifts for my children only to find it was shut…and then I came home. And spent hours sorting and processing photos to make this…a little postcard of my Paris trip to keep with me forever.

Pont du Alexandre III

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Ah my lovely, if rather neglected piano. My parents bought this for me when I was a teenager. We pooled our Christmas money from my grandmother, and pennies were pinched and savings made to find the money to buy this super reconditioned Mickleburgh upright.

I was a latecomer to piano playing, I didn’t start until I was 15. By then I knew I wanted to read music at university, but you have to be able to play the piano to do so. So it was a crazy mad dash to get from 0-60mph (or to Grade 8!) in 2 years.

Even at my ‘best’ I was average. These days I’m terrible, shockingly bad in fact, but I like plinky plonking and the children love messing around on it too.  Alas they don’t treat it with the respect this lovely old lady deserves. Bertie smashed the keys with a purple sparkly recorder last year and cracked the end off some of the keys, I nearly cried.  A few weeks ago I heard Diggy playing a lovely tune and was feeling all warm and fuzzy about my little maestro until Bertie shouted, ‘Mummy! Diggy is STANDING on the piano!’ I found him on tip-toe, reaching up for the paints/crayons/stamps I keep stashed out of his reach while tapping out a tune with his tootsies. Worse, he’d already got hold of a stamp and had stamped all over his face, arms and legs and, double worse, the keys of the piano.

I will have my revenge in the form of compulsory piano lessons from the age of 5  with double helpings of scales and arpeggios. Let’s see how you like it then, twinkle toes…

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Only a French chap could get away with this – drain pipe blue trousers, pale orange socks and tan boots. The whole outfit was super chic (French again). Ideally I’d have snapped the entire ensemble (look, French yet again! I’m on a roll) but I’d passed out on the pavement, swept away by his Gallic good looks. The man was a dream boat, just sitting there sipping un cafe solo like something out of a movie.

Paris, j’aime your really fit blokes.

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Success! I managed to order breakfast and, you know, actually get some. Am linguist extraordinaire (look, French again. I’m pretty much bilingual now).

Not a can of coke in sight. 1-0 to Spud.

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… although not enough to eat snails I will confess. These gigantic, garlicy ones were snaffled by my friend’s husband while I looked on in horror. Meanwhile I nibbled some melon and drank 25 pints of wine, ouch my head.

Also ouch my poor feet. I walked miles yesterday in what turned out to be literally blistering heat. Today I shall thus be limping around at a steady pace on account of being a tad overhung and the hurty feet.

I hope my photographic mojo will return today. Despite lumping 2 tonnes of gear round with me yesterday I took very few shots. The ‘moments’ seemed to pass so quickly, I couldn’t catch them fast enough. Or the moments seemed too ‘big’ to capture… like the sudden, magical glimpse of the Eiffel Tower last night: lit up and shimmering and breathtakingly imposing as we rounded a corner.

My French does not seem to have improved since I was last here. I asked for a bottle of water and got a can of coke? I was too
embarrased to send it back – perhaps my 4.30am start was starting to show and the bloke thought I needed a sugar/caffeine hit?

Au revoir mes amis! (translation: I’d like a can of coke please)

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