Chez Spud

Famille Spud is confined to barracks – we have swine flu. Bawl. Not badly, let’s hope it stays that way. But since we are housebound I thought I’d pass the time by packing for Blog Camps 1.5 and 2.0 (I know, greedy..TWO Blog Camps). A little ahead of time, I realise, but a girl can’t be too organised.

Here are my boys‘ Trunkis which I think are the perfect size for the trip. One for essentials, the other I will take empty and then snaffle a couple of friends to take home with me.  I don’t have any many local buddies and at this point my options seem to be (a) knit my own or (b) steal some. Well, I’m not at all crafty (so don’t be expecting any of that crochet nonsense from me, I ‘might’ manage finger knitting?) so (b) it is.  The case is kind of small. Must remember to take axe to dismember Blog Camp attendees so I can squish them in my Trunki and then reassemble Chez Spud. Ta da!

Inside one I’ve packed all the essentials:

1. Blog Camp T shirt
2. Standard issue Converse
3. Entire lens/camera stash
4. Bottle of white wine (for the journey – will send 10 cases ahead. Each)
5. Dressing up kit
6. Wig (just in case)
7. MacBook
8. Passport
9. iphone (for non stop Tweeting)
10. Grudge Book (never leave home without it)
11. Stones for Julochka in case she needs a fix. They are special ones. From my driveway.

Still to be packed:

1. Spare liver
2. Funnies
3. Bleep Revision Notes (so I don’t boob and call everyone by the wrong name)

On the final point, I am aware that I am a Woman of Mystery due to my penchant for dressing up. I don’t want my fellow BC victims attendees to worry about which one I am. So I had my name printed on my Blog Camp T shirt. Thoughtful huh? So, ladies, when you spot the bearded, googly eyed, blonde swishy wig, habit wearing one…you’ll know it’s me.

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Already the memory of the 30 secrets is fading fast; I was just looking at my photoset of the project on flickr, and honestly I couldn’t remember what a couple of them were from the pictures, I had to click through to the description. How could I already have forgetten Secret 27…I am a total faker? Or Secret 3…every day I go in to battle with my inner domestic slattern?

I’m so pleased that other bleeps are joining in the fun, and I’m enjoying reading their secrets WAY more than I enjoyed doing my own. It’s a fun project to look back on, but it was a bit stressy doing it. I made a crucial error by not mapping out the entire project at the start and, as the days went by, it became more and more tricky to nail the secret, get the props I needed, set up the shot and then actually write the damn thing. So, if you feel like joining in the fun (1) take my advice and sort out the secrets right and the start and then (2) tell me here and I will get a linkydinkydo thing set up so we can all enjoy your revelations.

In the meantime, take a twirl to Julocka‘s place, A Day in the Life of a Would-Be Bambi, Turning Stones and, newest entrant as of today, Deb at sojourner who has got off to an absolutely cracking start. They’re all sharing their secrets, so why don’t you?

Final thought on my secrets before I put them away for a while..my favourite secret? A tough one…the one that makes me giggle the most is the description for ‘Secret 16…I can’t dance to save my life‘. I know you shouldn’t laugh at your own jokes but, honestly, that one makes me bubble up and snort. But I think my absolute favourite is Secret 24…I wish I didn’t have to wear glasses. It’s the photo, it’s a thing of beauty..no?

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USA: Land of the Free, home of appletinis...

I have a really large and special collection of Christmas tree decorations. My mother started the collection when I was a child, and bought me one, very beautiful decoration each year so that I would have a real treasure chest of decorations when the time came for me to have my own tree.

Terrible photo - taken with a P&S (gasp)

When she died, I inherited her huge collection too…so it’s quite a big box now, too many to actually put them all on the tree in fact so I have to rotate them a bit.

Taken with the Nikon...much better...

My Mum was big in to Christmas. And when I say big, I mean BIG. I used to cringe as I drove down the road coming back for Christmas once I’d left home, I think our house was visible from Outer Space. These days I would probably really appreciate it as the boys would like her over the top approach way more than my minimalist one!  Bah humbug.

Hang on! What's THAT doing in there? Taken with an Olympus (double gasp)

Some are very special…the grim plastic fairy with no knickers on which used to adorn the top of the tree as a child…the slightly manky looking fairy which a friend gave me for my 5th birthday…hand carved russian figures bought in Moscow…a little beaded angel from our honeymoon in South Africa…dressing the Christmas tree is like a trip down memory lane for me and I love it.

But the stars & stripes heart pictured above is my favourite one. I actually bought this one myself in New York. I have spent a lot of time working in the US over the years, and I miss it. But a little piece of the Land of the Free nestles on my Christmas tree each year…to remind me of the appletini years.

Wot no appletini?

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New mini project…’Ten Treasures’…ten things I would grab should my house be on fire,  assuming all the Spuds were accounted for, my handbag, my photos and my MacBook. Some of the treasures are materialistic, some are sentimental, some are both. Some are pretty things that serve no purpose anymore, I just keep them because I like them. Others are things that remind me of people and days gone by, and I cherish them as much as I cherish my memories.

First up, my pretty, sparkly Chanel party shoes. I bought these a few years ago in New York, in about 5 minutes flat. I had a black tie work function to attend one evening, and realised mid-afternoon that the skyscrapers I’d packed to wear were completely impractical for an evening when I actually had to zip about working rather than just floating, drinking and making small talk. Note, these are the shoes which I was wearing for that ill-advised foray in to air guitar.

So I zooooomed to Saks, thew my credit card at a delighted looking sales assistant,  hurried out with these beauties and made haste to the Waldorf. Ah, happy days. These days I throw rice cakes at small children and zoom to softplay.

I totally heart them. One of my anxieties during pregnancy (as well as the usual ones about the babies!) was whether my folded over legs feet would go back to their usual size post delivery, otherwise my Chanel shoes would be for the chop. Well, other bits of me didn’t fare too well but at least my feet shrank back to their usual proportions. Alas opportunities to wear them are now few and far between, but I like stroking them every now and again.

For the pedants among you it should be CHANEL not Chanel. BUT THE CAPITALISATION BOTHERS ME. And it’s my project, and they are my shoes. Poor Coco is probably turning in her CHANEL NO 5 scented grave.

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Bunting at the Regatta

Despite a grey and drizzly start to the day, which involved frantic head scratching Chez Spud about ‘what do we do when the weather is rubbish?’, things brightened up pretty quickly and by lunchtime it was glorious.

Just as well as it was our town’s annual regatta today…think: loads of boats, boat racing, nautical types, pink shirts, collars up, Crocs by the million, poor sound systems, tombolas, hog roasts, bad live music, warm beer, ice cream, bouncy castles, carousels, candy floss, children pumped on sugar and parents on the edge etc etc. All so quintessentially English. And all so delightful; it even involved a successful ice-cream ‘in public’ attempt which is always a bonus.

Two of Diggy’s biggest EVER tantrums have been over ice-creams ‘in public’, more specifically him letting his ice-cream melt too much and thus dropping it on the floor and then totally losing it. One of them was so bad I ended up having to shoehorn him back in to his car seat by effectively elbowing him in the stomach to get him to bend -  he was totally rigid with fury and had been for 20 minutes whilst a small crowd of JudgeyPants gathered and tutted  at me(thanks guys, your reward is in heaven..remember that). He was 16 months old…you can imagine how we feared the ‘terrible twos’ given that he was a seasoned pro by 16 months.

Moments before the first, monumental ice-cream droppage tantrum..it set the standard..

It’s been a year since an ice-cream related tantrum occurred, but the memory of them is terrifying enough that ice-creams ‘in public’ still bring me out in a bit of a sweat. The main issue is that he never stops talking (hmm, now where does he get that from?) and thus the ice-cream melts whilst he is chattering away. A previous tactic to avoid ‘the droppage’ has been for either parent to swoop in and lick the melty bits before the entire structure gives way. Such a mistake, he has a tantrum about that too – he hates it if you take his food, even if he has no intention of eating it (clearly not the case with ice-cream) and has been known to attempt to take food out of your mouth if he thinks it’s ‘his’. Thus, by deploying the ‘emergency licking’ technique to avoid a tantrum, you actually end up causing one.

Tip: ALWAYS take the tub option over cone...NB ice-cream on the beach in mid-winter

So ice-creams ‘in public’  now involve ignoring any of his attempts to engage you in conversation and constant ‘KEEP LICKING!’ orders, barked at him in a slightly shrill tone. It takes an age, and by the time he’s finished we’re normally running late so he has to take a ride on MrSpud’s shoulders to override the default toddler walking speeds of dead slow/stop/reverse to examine every leaf on the path. That works out well; we get where we need to in good time, and Diggy saves me the job of clearing up the post ice-cream aftermath by wiping his sticky hands on MrSpud’s hair. What’s left of it…

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A couple of months ago I read a wonderful and very poignant post on the Pioneer Woman’s blog which suddenly made me so aware of how few photos I have of me with my boys, or MrSpud for that matter. That’s the downside of having a camera stuck to your face 24/7; no one dare wrestle it off you and attempt some snaps for fear of scorn and ridicule.  Plus, many of the photos that are taken with me in them are deleted as I don’t like how I look, or it’s not a ‘perfect’ moment in some way or another…no make up on, hair looking like a bird’s nest, mountains of laundry in the background, not wearing fancy dress etc etc.

But Miz Booshay makes an excellent point that, in the future, the viewers of your snaps won’t care on jot about such details…they will just see a lovely moment in time, preserved forever.  I have very few photos of me with my mother, who died many years ago, but the ones I have are so precious. So, since I read that post, I’ve been trying to ‘get in the shot’ for some portraits and also trying to get some ‘snaps’ of us just hanging out, doing the normal ‘stuff’ of life. It’s harder than it sounds, and it involves MrSpud getting regular ear bashings for ‘GETTING IT ALL WRONG….AGAIN’ (mostly for out of focus shots, sigh, how hard can it be?).

But slowly, very slowly, there are some photos of me with the boys. I can’t go back and get the shots that are missing, notably any shots of me with both my boys when Diggy was a newborn, but I can try to make sure my thick necked, speccy twat face sneaks in to a few shots going forward.

So, I challenge you all…if you’re the ‘family photographer’, then start getting in the shot. Get in there with your partner, your children, your pets, your friends, your neighbours…anybody who is important to you. YOU might not like the way you look, or handing over your camera (especially if you are a Nikon owner…Canon? Not so much, it’s no big deal for you…tee hee)…but if you don’t do it, the people who look at your photos in the future will be so sad that you’re never in the shot.

So get in there.  And when you have, come back here and post a link for me so I can have a good nosey. I neeeeeeed to seeeeee you!

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Playing along with Jane of Spain Daily, and her Corner View. This week it’s ‘A Place of Reflection’.

Controversially, I snapped this with my old Sony P&S. The Nikon is thus sulking and pretending not to care, but I can tell that she’s hurting inside. Don’t worry trusty Nikon, it was a spontaneous shot..I was pig feeding…making them talk to Extranjera re wig preferences…pig whispering if you like? Then I spotted ‘the shot’, what’s a girl to do but point & shoot? Don’t be hurt, I still love you the most…fret not..it’s me not you..kiss and make up?

This is my office. If I was remotely creative I’d call it my studio, damn I wish I was creative. But it’s definitely a place of reflection both figuratively and, because of all the glass, literally. The desk is in the corner pointing away from the fabulous view down the fields. When I sit on the sofa to ‘do some reading’ I inevitably end up doing nothing, just watching the world go by. Although that seems to involve watching foxes pick off baby bunnies at the moment, sob.

I’m off to soothe the Nikon somemore. Nikon whispering…

Edited to add more photos, none of the inside, it’s REALLY boring! Think, peach swirly wallpaper. Hmm, redecorate?

At the bottom of the garden..office to the right

On the day it was installed...looking rather bare!

Edited again…Nikon wanted to show what she can do…clearly feeling threatened by the Sony P&S. Sheesh, talk about insecure…

Nikon has the final word

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Somewhat alarmingly, HRH Blogger of Note Extranjera keeps goading me to fish out that swishy wig and put it on a pig. “Pig ‘n’ Wig” she calls it, like “Guns ‘n’ Roses”, or “Pick ‘n’ Mix” (Let’s take a collective moment to mourn the passing of Woolworths shall we? UK peeps only….)

Never one to shy away from a challenge I plotted a ‘Pig ‘n’ Wig’ shot for Her Royal Maj before, during a particularly challenging downward dog pose in yoga (read: trying not to fart, or “let go a boomer” as NBF Ali calls it)  I realised that posting pictures of dressed up pigs on the internet would bring the mighty combined forces of animal welfare and Freaks R Us knocking at my door pretty rapidly. But what to do? Her Royal Maj wants a Pig ‘n’ Wig? Then she shall have it. Extranjera SHALL go to the piggy ball(s) (more of which later).

But let’s step back in time shall we? Let’s review our pigs’ lives, their successes and failures, their fame and their fortune before we subject them to ridicule and bacon sandwiches. There are three little piggies, and we own them as part of a ‘co-op’ with a couple of friends. They were born in January 2009 and came to live with us in April; 2 boys and a girl (although were were initially told 2 girls and a boy…doh, you would not BELIEVE how easy it is to sex pigs [no, not like that] more of which later). So here’s one in the very early days, so small, so sweet…they are Norfolk Blacks…got to love those sunshades!

Pigs! Fun for all the family, here’s MrSpud and Diggy giving them a tickle. They look SO small here. In those days, April, I probably could have popped a wig on them no problem..a beard and googly eye specs too I would imagine.

But, look, it’s not just fun for the family! We can ALL get in the pig pen…here’s the ‘wife‘ taking shots with Bloggy Approved Nikon kit, and her daughter looking funky as ever. NB Bertie having to be lifted up, he’s not that keen on the pigs. Or dogs. Or girls.

Oh, here’s the wife again shootin’ pigs again…nice wellies … FOR LONDON! ONLY GREEN WILL DO IN THE COUNTRY…

And, because I don’t think enough people have seen this photo (567 according to Flickr…not that many actually…one of my photos had 22,000 views this week. YUP, 22,000 – crazy! It was on the Yahoo homepage, I think?), here’s the wife about to enter the pig pen. Why is her skirt tucked in her knickers? What does she think is going to happen in there? They’re not ‘those’ kind of pigs you know…

Oh, and as mentioned earlier, pigs are pretty easy to sex. I ‘think’ the one on the right is a boy. Not sure why, just something in the turn of his head…

But before we all get too emotionally involved with the pigs, here’s how it’s going to end up for them later this year…

So back to Extranjera and her ‘pig ‘n’ wig’ request. Well I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, but equally I feared the wrath of the ‘njera’. So I asked the pigs for their view and made a video for evidential purposes. Note how huge and shouty they are these days…I was prepared to accept that ‘no meant no’ on the basis of their speed and pointy, hurty trotters. Plus, they eat people, did you know that? So I wasn’t prepared to push the “pig ‘n’ wig” suggestion too far…

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Bertie...often mistaken for 'Betty' as he is a bit girly..clip doesn't help?

Julocha’s very funny post today about her learner driver buddy named ‘Snow’ got me thinking a bit about names, specifically the huge responsibility that we have when we name our children. It’s so tough…interesting but not to whacky, popular without being ‘too’ popular, meaningful, easy to spell, goes with your surname etc etc etc. And then there are all those people who can’t resist sticking their noses in and giving their unwanted, unasked for opinion of your choices. A friend of mine named her son Barnaby..her mother in law rang her when the baby was a few weeks old to tell her she was, ‘Coming round slowly to the idea of the name Barnaby’. WTF?

When I was expecting Bertie I made the mistake of telling my cousin we liked the name Celia for a girl. She launched in to a major rant about what an ugly/old fashioned name it is and that I would be cruel to name a child Celia. I was rather hurt but put it down to her being completely off her face slightly tipsy at the time. But the next morning she sat me down, with a hurty head, to tell me again what a vile choice Celia was for a girl. Then she added insult to injury by adding that her chosen girl’s name was Lucy, our grandmother’s name…which was my second choice for a girl’s name. Two lessons learnt here: (1) NEVER discuss your name choices with other people and (2) bagsy family names quickly.

On which note, ‘Celia’ turned out to be a boy and we named him Albert, but he’s known as Bertie. Albert is a family name on both mine and MrSpud’s side: it’s my grandfather’s name (although he’s known as Bert) and it was MrSpud’s grandfather’s middle name. We thought it was a fitting choice and that everyone would be so touched at our thoughtfulness. Oh…how…wrong we were.

My grandfather’s reaction? “Bertie? Bertie? No, I don’t like that, not at all. No. Bert is a good name. You should call him Bert”. Hmmmm. And MrSpud’s grandmother on hearing the news that her recently departed husband’s name would be carried on? “Bertie? As in Albert? Oh darling, Grandpa HATED that name!” Lesson three: do not depend on family to be pathetically grateful for naming your child after them.

Another tip, check your chosen name isn’t a traditional dog’s name. We chose Digby (always known as Diggy or Diggers) for our second child because we love the name. No other reason than that. But sooooo many people say, “Digby? What, as in ‘The Biggest Dog in the World’” Gah, I’d never come across that film as it’s not on The Approved List. Ah well.

Finally, the acid test for all names should be ‘Does it pass the rock star/prime minister/president test?’ i.e are you saddling your child with a name which will preclude them from pursuing their chosen career without ridicule and scorn? Can Bertie be a rock star, probably not but his initials are ART which kind of works. Can Digby be Prime Minister? Yes I think so, although he’ll have to quit the tantrums.

Not so the two children I came across recently. I know, I know…you shouldn’t criticise other people’s name choices but these were SO ridiculous that I don’t care. If you are reading this, mother of GYPSY and PIRATE, then you are a cruel woman. Pirate? Pirate? Who on earth told you that was a good idea? Long John Silver?

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It’s pretty exhausting keeping up with the non stop fun at Chez Spud, that much I will admit. My boys are generally well up for it but, sometimes, it all gets a bit much for them. They concede, they admit defeat, they submit and then they lie down on the floor and take a nap.

Here’s Bertie, 3 years old, a few days ago. It was about 10am when it was suddenly all too much…he couldn’t take the pace. So he grabbed a couple of cushions and lay down on the kitchen floor. Strange choice, we have beds, sofas, floors with carpets on them even, all mod cons but, apparently, the cold, hard, filthy kitchen tiles are the place to snuggle down for a doze:

Eyes…barely…open…

Meanwhile, in the playroom, Diggy was following his brother’s lead and was also settling down for a nap. He was probably exhausted having drawn all over his face with a red pen. In fact he’d also drawn all over the piano too. Later, I drew all over my Grudge Book...

I swear I took these photos within seconds of each other. So I had Bertie dozing on my kitchen floor, and Diggy thinking about a nap on the playroom floor. And it was 10am – I’d not even cracked open the dressing up box yet. Oh, hang on, this one is nodding off…eyes rolling back…note blue colouring in on hand…

For a child who, from memory, didn’t sleep AT ALL for the first year of his life he’s developed quite a talent for ‘on the hoof’ snoozing. Here he is, a few days before, sneaking a teatime nap on MrSpud

Oh, and look! MrSpud is snoozing too! It seems he can’t keep up with all the Chez Spud antics either. Shame on you Mr Spud, sleeping on the job. Like a horse. Well, more like a pony of course in your case. A Shetland Pony. A very, very, small Shetland Pony. A Shetland Pony foal, in fact.

If I don’t ever blog again, it’s because MrSpud has finally cracked and has beaten me to death with The Saucepans. SOS (save..our…saucepans).

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