Chez Spud

I love love LOVE this headdress, I keep it on display in my china cupboard with a few other pieces of ghastly tat cherished items. I should probably get it mounted and framed or something but, ssshhh, sometimes I like to put it on and prance about a bit. I’m a big fat show off like that sometimes. You might have noticed that about me if you were a 30 secrets fan.

I bought it in Moscow in 2001. I went on business but the office I was visiting had built a free day in to my schedule, and then produced a bi-lingual guide who whizzed me around all the sights. So fabulous! In all the years I was travelling and working, this was the only time I had a ‘treat’ like this. When I look back at ‘the travelling years’ I feel like I went everywhere and saw nothing, it’s a regret of mine. And I bought very few souvenirs; I should have a house full of treasures from all over the globe, and photo albums full of wonderful memories of my trips. Alas I have neither! If ONLY I’d taken up photography years ago.

I asked my guide what she thought I should take home as a traditional Russian keepsake, and she helped me chose this lovely headdress and some handcarved Christmas tree decorations. Later I took her out for lunch, as a thank you, and told her she could chose any restaurant in the city. She took me to MacDonalds and was very pleased about it!

I felt quite alarmed the whole time I was in Moscow, not helped by being escorted off the plane on arrival by an armed soldier. I thought I was about to be shot, but in fact I was being given some kind of VIP immigration fast-track jobbie. Terrifying. I saw Lenin whilst there, and can confirm that he is dead. Just in case there was any doubt.

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…see what’s become of me…(bonus points: name that song)

Time is slipping through my fingers. I can feel it speeding up and speeding away from me, laughing in the face of my ‘to do’, ‘to action’, ‘to buy’ and ‘to grudge’ lists.

The basics are sorted: children and MrSpud are relatively clean, happy and cared for, house is in a reasonable state, Mount Laundry is surprisingly under control, work/life balance in check, on top of admin and correspondence, Real Life and Interweb friendships on track, photography 365 project up to date.

So far so good, right? I should be feeling pretty chipper, don’t you think? Yes I agree, I should be marveling at my jiggly juggly skills and keeping focused on maintaining an even keel. Instead I am cooking up another project, another hobby. I know I shouldn’t, it will tip the balance but its eating away at me…sshhh…crafts are a-calling me. My inner quilter is screaming to be released, my felting tendencies will not go unheeded any longer, I long to Stitch & Bitch along with the rest of the planet, my vocabulary aches to embrace words like wadding, bobbin, interfacing, overlock, bias and dose-doh. ‘Might’ be off course with the last one, but go easy…I’m a beginner remember?

This is not new. Crafty bubblings have been burbling up in me for a while but have easily been quashed by the remembrance that I don’t own a sewing machine and can’t sew anyway. Finally, in a flash in insight last week, it came to me: I could BUY a sewing machine and LEARN to sew. Don’t you just love those eureka moments? And I wasn’t even in the bath, because I am ‘that’ brilliant.

Posts like this, and that (shades of Extranjera?) and pretty much everything here have naughtily awoken those long suppressed creative longings. Mostly because I want to make pretty things, partly because I want to dive in to the bloggy craft kleeeeek…it’s painful having to stand on the sidelines, pathetically favouriting and RSSing beautiful things people have made rather than having a crack at making them myself. So, enough…I am Spud…I have fingers….see me make unidentifiable ‘offerings’. Set Crafty Spud free and let her do her worst.

There is a tiny problem which is that, as well as not being able to sew/embroider/knit/crochet etc,  I have pretty much no creative skill and I lack patience. This has the makings of a disaster doesn’t it? I have previously dabbled with glass painting (not bad), cross stitch (hmm, OK) and tapestry (more shabby than chic, let’s leave it like that shall we).  I can’t draw and am not capable of originality, thus my ‘offerings’ will not be inspired by anything, they will be straight copies. I have no lofty thoughts of expressing myself through craft, I just want to bloody MAKE something.

I love RedVelvetArt’s art journaling class idea, and may start there on the basis that I have nice handwriting and am a Master Sticker (comes with the territory of having preschoolers). Possibly I have misunderstood the point of art journaling?  And I want to sew something. I will start with a Morsbag. But what I really want to do is make a quilt, it’s quite ambitious but there we are. It’s good to have a goal. Whilst looking at the art journaling stuff I found a quilt kit for beginners, perhaps that’s the way to go?  Or there is a quilting shop nearby, where they run classes. Should I give that a go? Although that involves mixing with RWP  (Real World People) of course, that’s the downside.

I was particularly peeved to read about The Make Lounge on Wee Birdy’s fabulous blog (which by the way everyone MUST read) because  (a) it looks so much fun (WINE! I CAN SEE WINE IN THOSE PHOTOS) (b) this is exactly what I need to do to learn ‘my craft’ and (c) that place is spitting distance from where we lived in London before moving to The Country earlier this year. Why, why, why couldn’t these crafty urges have urged more urgently last year? Am having my first teeny regret at living in Not London.  I could be there, I could fit in…I have quirky glasses…I drink wine…I have fingers…Instead I am stuck with Ye Local Stitch & Bitch, frequented by a bloke who is knitting a rat (I am not making this up, I have a spy in the camp).

So that’s my plan, how do you like it?  To be honest there is a little bit of me that is reticent as there just aren’t the hours in the day to do all this stuff and keep on top of ‘life’ too. Something will have to give and I don’t know what.  Possibly the hours I spend languishing on the sofa in the evening could be used more productively? MrSpud will vigorously nod his head when he reads that last sentence…

However, before I unleash my ‘offerings’ on an unsuspecting world there are two ongoing projects which I have promised myself that I will finish before getting crafty:

1. Finish sorting out my photo library. 5,000 to go.

2. Learn how to use Lightroom properly. The ‘wife‘ lent me a Lightroom book ages ago, and I’ve never even finished the first chapter since it became apparent I should sort/catalogue my photos before really getting in to the nitty gritty of using LR to process my shots.

I thought I’d chuck the rules I’ve imposed on myself in to this post to make me stick to it. But, you see, if only I had an art journal I could doodle about it there….and then stick stuff on it.

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This was my birthday  present from MrSpud last year and I adore it. I had been hinting for a ‘nice pen’ and then held my breath and hoped for the best, and this was a really excellent choice…complete with a sapphire to match my engagement ring (although MrSpud admitted he had no clue that this was the case, just a lucky fluke!)

As we all know MrSpud has a record of poor gift choices but, to be fair, sometimes he’s right on the money. For my birthday one year he booked us in to a very swanky hotel as a surprise. We went out for the evening, and he then suggested a drink at said hotel. But when we got there he shovelled me in to a lift and produced a room key. He’d even packed a bag of clothes and make up for me, and stashed it in the room. To complete the lovliness he’d hidden all manner of perfect gifts all over the room…perfume…champagne…champagne glasses etc etc. So, you see, sometimes MrSpud Gets It Right.

Let’s pass over the year I did all the Christmas shopping and told him the only present he had to buy was his father’s (beyond my gift buying expertise). So he did. He only bought a present for his Dad, and nothing for me, and then claimed, “But you didn’t tell me I had to buy a present for you!”. Hmmmm.

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I’m not sure that my wedding dress is a very sensible addition to the Ten Treasures list, given that I’m unlikely to wear it again (not least because I’ll never fit in it again). But it is very special to me, and symbolises the day I finally dragged MrSpud up the aisle and enslaved him to me every bit as much as my pile of bling. For, although I dig and poke fun at MrSpud and make him the butt of all my jokes, I completely adore him and my marriage to him is the foundation of the very blessed life that I lead. I thank the sun and the stars for MrSpud and feel so lucky to be married to him, apart from when he balls up his dirty socks and leaves them all over the house like love gifts. Then I just feel cross with him and give him the evils.

Oh how I wept on my wedding day; not tears of sorrow, nor tears of joy (OK one or two might have crept out), but tears of laughter. I was laughing my pretty white beaded arse off at MrSpud who, only a few years earlier, had earnestly vowed that he would never marry me nor ever have children. Ho ho ho…look how well that worked out for him. In his defense, he did offer to go out with me ‘forever’ but that just didn’t have the same kind of ring to it as the whole ‘in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live’ kind of agreement.

My wedding dress is the only piece of couture clothing that I own and it was worth every one of the many pennies it cost. It sparkled in the candlelight and I felt like a million dollars all evening. I couldn’t breathe or eat in it but these are mere details that we should not concern ourselves with as it looked the business. SECRET TREASURE….a flower from my mother’s wedding dress is sewn in to the lining. My mother died long before I met MrSpud but I know she would have adored him, admired his cleverness, fondess for caffeine, his quirky sense of humour and his total devotion to his family.

The dress is hanging in my wardrobe hoping, against hope, that I might actually get round to getting it cleaned sometime soon. It’s been nearly 5 years now, you can’t rush these things. If I’d had girl children I might have considered chopping it up to make a Christening gown; another reason to be grateful for my boy children as I’m not sure I actually had it in me to hack that beautiful Italian hand beaded fabric about.

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Giddy. That’s what I’ve been all day, giddy. I went to London. On a trip. On my own with no husbands or children or pigs or pigs ‘n’ wigs or anything. And it was absolutely blissful. I spent the day with my ‘wife’, BFF and brilliant photographer Lyanne; we went to an exhibition, we walked miles in hurty shoes, we took thousands of photos, we had lunch, there might have been wine, we giggled, we gossiped, ears must have been burning…hell, some of them must have been SMOKING.  She taunted me with her shiny new 3G iphone and I tried hard not to collapse in a rage of jealousy.  It’s been a rough week Chez Spud but I feel so much skippier now (it’s a word), and all nicely buoyed up for my cheeky little jaunt to Paris next week.

I could witter on but I thought I’d do the day in pictures. There are a LOT, so if photography’s not your thing..move along…nothing to see here…see you tomorrow for another treasure.

Here I am at the station REALLY living dangerously. Look! Little Miss Goodie Two shoes has a foot (only one mind) OVER THE YELLOW LINE!! Note to self; those chucks are nowhere near as comfortable as you think they are. Relegate to ‘only wear when in a very good mood’ pile. This one is an iphone/camerabag photo:

Hoorah, here we are in London Town. A camerabag photo of the station roof:

First on the agenda was a trip to the National Portrait Gallery, and a twirl round the BP Portrait Award 2009 (we were stalked around the gallery by a museum ‘bouncer’ after getting a bit too close to a few of the paintings…Julockha are you reading this?) and the brilliant, brilliant Gay Icons exhibition. Alas no photos allowed but you can imagine: gallery, people, whispering etc.

Next we hit Trafalgar Square to watch the One & Other ‘exhibition’ which is too bizarre to describe meaningfully. Click the link to see it happening live! 24 hours a day, for 100 days, ordinary Brits are spending an hour up on the empty fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square doing ‘art’. We saw a man flying coloured paper airplanes out to the crowd. It wasn’t that interesting and my photos were awful. So I started taking photos of the wife instead:

Oh and she started taking photos of me. Who needs ‘art’ when you can take photos of your buddies?

Right around now we had a debate about the relative merits of matrix metering and spot metering. Because we are THAT clever. Conclusion? Spot metering is crap. Just in case you needed to know.

Things took an unfortunate turn when we stalked a photographer with some serious gear, only to find it was a Canon. Argh, soul…troubled…eyes…bleeding. We so we hoofed it from Trafalgar Square which was then sullied for us, we shall not speak of it again, and made haste to the South Bank.

And look! Something very strange had happened to the trees along the South Bank. More ‘art’:

A few yards on we found yet MORE street art, a photobooth. In we jumped, wrote a few words about ‘our time on the South Bank’ had our photo snapped and it was uploaded to Flickr immediately. Cool. Cooler…it was wine o’clock lunchtime.

After lunch we shambled up to the Hayward Gallery but didn’t make it in to the gallery, we were too entranced by the fabulous, newly painted bright yellow staircase. I’m not a big fan of concrete constructions but Lyanne adores brutalist architecture. I have to indulge her because, well, she’s my wife and that’s what you do. But the yellow was surprisingly appealing:

Not content with oohing and arrrring over it. We got in it! And then we took pictures of ourselves in it. Lyanne took pictures of me:

And I took pictures of Lyanne:

And after that things degenerated somewhat…

Oh no. And now what is she up to? What the HELL is she doing up there? Ah, right..sing along…near..far…wherever you are…

I recovered myself enough to take my favourite shot of the day, the underside of Waterloo Bridge:

And all too soon it was time to make the trek back to The Country, and my boys. The littlest of whom ran at me on my return and clung to my legs declaring, seriously, ‘Oh Mummy. I lost you!’. Final snap, a camerabag offering again, is the bridge over the tracks at my local station. I liked the pattern of the light.

Here endeth the lesson! And CHEERS to anyone that made it this far xxx

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Very cool little photobooth on the South Bank in London with a live feed to Flickr. Fantastic fun…write your message on a whiteboard, stand in the booth, SMILE and you’re famous.Well, on Flickr anyway.

Me and ‘the wife’ thinking about wine for lunch, exhausted by a long morning of culture, photography and gossip.

More photos later…

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So treasure 5, a letter from my maternal grandmother sent to me when I was 17.

She was a difficult person, hard to love and often hard to like if I’m honest. Life wasn’t kind to her, she lost her mother young, her husband young, her twin boys died in infancy and then my mother late in her life. She was brave and strong, and I admired her for that…but life had soured her, and she often lashed out at those she was closest to when they didn’t live up to her exacting standards.

She wrote this letter to me on the occasion of  my paralysing disappointment at not being made Head Girl at school, having been told that I would. In fact my closest friend got the job and all hell broke loose Chez Spud. LOL…it all seems to utterly ridiculous and pointless now but at the time it was a Whole Big Thing.  Her letter, whilst touching on The Crime, is more of a passing on of worldly wisdom from a woman later in life to one just turning from a girl to a young woman.

Her words are very eloquent and still speak to me with great clarity, and bring a tear to my eye. The PS always makes me laugh, I guess she put some money in with the letter.  After my mother died she religiously wrote to me every week, enclosing £10.00 despite the fact I was in my early 30s, working in the City and earning good money. I irritated her one too many times by not replying and, having rung me at work to shriek at me, she cut me down to £5.00 a week. Point made and heard, loud and clear.

Dear Spud,

So you didn’t get to be head-girl. You are disappointed; of course you are and it’s painful. But the butterfly of youth takes you in and out of the shade quickly, so tomorrow it won’t seem as bad. Seeing it in the right light you are the better girl, and that is what matters. Knowing that it wasn’t a right decision means you are not to fret. This is your grandmother talking to you! You are on the threshold of becoming a young woman, and now you start to weigh things up and see them as they really are. Not always nice are they? So learn early Spud, be like the Yorkshire man ‘see all, hear all and say nowt’. It’s not a bad maxim with regard to a lot of things and people.

Your headmaster is a poor specimen of how not to do things. If we get a reason for why things are decided we understand, not always happy about why thus decided. But not treated with very little regard. So now, Spud, say to yourself, ‘I am Spudballoo and I’m going make my name matter’ and you will. And it will be something more important than being head-girl.

So let x have the plum, but she also has the stone. So be happy and I mean be happy with the other girls for the rest of your time at school, but don’t be used. They have given x the job, let her do it.

And count your blessings Spud. You have a Mum and Dad who have come with you so far and it can’t have been easy for them. They love you, so you must keep that always in mind. They love you, and so do we. You still have a tough time ahead, and you will make them very proud, if you work conscientiously at what you will be doing, not just the result.

It’s a beautiful world Spud and you are a lovely girl, so get you share of it, don’t let things that don’t really matter sour you. You are talented and that’s wonderful. Let your Mum and Dad know that you love them. They are your blessings. God keep you always in his care.

Your Grandmother

PS Treat yourself to a gooey bun. X

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DISCLAIMER: I am not a medical professional!

A quick tip for parents of small children, or anyone who can’t manage to take meds as capsules. Tamiflu (Oseltamivir) was prescribed for us as ‘hard capsules’. Great – ever tried making a 2 and 3 year old take capsules? Hmm. There is a sticker on the box, from the pharmacy, which says:

If necessary, the capsules may be opened and the contents mixed with a teaspoon of sweetened food products such as chocolate syrup, sugar dissolved in water or apple sauce

Naturally I had no chocolate or apple sauce, and was pretty sure the water/sugar trick wouldn’t cut it. Completely housebound at that point, but desperate to get the first dose in to the children I tried honey (disaster, spat out) and it kind of worked in orange juice. But bits kept getting stuck and I ended up wrestling with Bertie to get the last bits in.

MrSpud got chocolate sauce (for ice cream) on the way home. Dose 2 was a doddle, no arguments, no fuss.

So – tip – get some chocolate sauce in now, before your children get swinish. Because on the day you need it you’ll be housebound and the last thing you’ll want to fret about is HOW you are going to get the drugs in to your children. The faster you start taking them, the more effective they are.

Disclaimer reminder: I am not a medical professional. I am sharing advice from a printed pharmacy label! It might be worth asking the pharmacist if it can be dispensed in liquid form?

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Only a worry if the hypothetical fire happens at night, as I only take the pile of bling off at night..I just can’t sleep in jewellery. Full make up, skanky bitch style? Fine, no problem. But not my jewels.

So my engagement ring (the sapphire), wedding ring and the Ring of Shame or ‘Medley of Misery’ as I like to call it (the diamond one; it looks pink in the picture..it’s not: I’m not J Lo, I don’t dig pink diamonds). What’s a girl to do with a drawer full of ‘old’ engagement rings? Sell them? Cry in to your gin about them? Or break ‘em up and make one big gigantic sparkler?

I wear The Ring of Shame as a constant reminder to MrSpud that he owes me TWO pushing presents for delivering him TWO delightful children. He actually guffawed the last time I reminded him and said pushing presents are a ridiculous notion, like a ‘reward’. HELLO! Yes, that’s the whole point MrSpud: I grew and delivered two human beings therefore you should buy and deliver two big fat diamonds. That’s The Law.

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Zebedee

Voici Zebedee (“Time for bed? Boiiiiiiiiiing!”). He’s a bit battered and bashed because he’s been in my posession since the early 70s and, frankly, he’s been around the block a few times. But, then, haven’t we all?

Is the Magic Roundabout an international thing? I can’t think its utterly English eccentricity would translate well In Foreign? But then who can account for the lasting popularity of Benny Hill and Faulty Towers?  If you don’t know it…The Magic Roundabout was a children’sTV sho w in the early 70s. Beyond that, I am confuddled to describe it other than a load of talking animals on acid in a psychedelic garden. See, told you it was eccentric.

I would struggle to save this in a fire as it’s hidden under the bed, and I’m fairly sure I can’t get it out without dismantling the bed. Plus I’d have to fight the cat to get it as she sleeps on the box. Pity, as these sets are quite rare and can sell for up to £1,000. I wonder if I’d get more if I included the cat? Anyway, I don’t have a picture of the whole thing due to bed/cat issues, but you can see one here.

Zebedee has somehow escaped from the playground though. He appeared one morning a few years ago, mysteriously, and has since been mauled by small boys. Poor chap, first the cat, then the boys.

My grandparents bought this set for me, and then were quite keen for me to pass it on to my cousin when I’d grown out of it. I totally adored it and flat refused to pass it on every time I was asked to do so. I’m so glad I clung on to it, as this is one of very few toys I have from my childhood. All my other toys were lent to my cousin who, in a very entrepreneurial moment, took them to a car boot sale and sold them all when she was 12 to buy a clarinet. Sob! I want my Family Treehouse back!!

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