Chez Spud

Heaven only knows what this post will look like. The general consensus was that Chez Spud is a bit broken for some people, not others. MrSpud worked like the little munchkin that he is and thought he’d resolved the reloading issue, but Miss Buckle broke the news this morning that he has not. Need to buy a bigger stick to beat him with…I have a fabulous guest blog post to put up about wedding photography. But I’m loathe to load it up to a crappy broken site. Cry cry cry.

Moments in time….I bought four cards today; a birthday card, a christening card, a baby congratulations card and a condolence card.  Standing in the queue to pay I looked at them and thought how I only needed a wedding card to have a full house, more or less. All these milestones, these moments in time that mark the passing of the years, the good times and the bad.

Lots of desperate news Chez Spud over the last week or so, it’s a bit gloomy round here. A very dear friend of mine died suddenly on Monday. I feel so shocked by his death and the cruel suddenness of it, he was only 51…actually the same age my mother was when she died. It seems so young. I can’t stop thinking about his wife and his four children, the youngest ones similar in age to the Megaboys. And I can’t believe I’m never going to see him again. I felt like this for a long time after my mother died…I could accept the fact that she was dead, and that in the midst of life we are in death etc etc, that death is the normal order of things. But I just couldn’t accept that one day she was alive and moaning at me, and the next she was gone. I felt so cheated, and I feel the same now about my friend R.

Oddly, the person I want to talk to about this bizarre feeling is R. I read a few articles about him and his death online today, all headed with a photo of him. I couldn’t bear to look at him because I wanted to chat to him, and hear his big fat laughter fill the room. I realise I sound like I had a total crush on him, but that’s not the case. He was just someone I loved, but not like that, and admired and respected. He was my boss for many, many  years, and a truly visionary leader..probably the only ‘born to it’ leader I’ve ever worked for.

Life is precious, that’s a truism. But some days, like these days, it feels so fragile you hardly dare breathe on it.

RIP R…I will miss our ‘conversations that we never had’…your booming laughter…your passion for thinking up double entendre codenames for projects we worked on… your warmth, wisdom and wit…your political nous and a complete devotion to what you believed in, regardless of whether it made you popular or not…and your unfailing loyalty and kindness.  Your love of air guitar and the vision of you strutting your stuff around the dance floor at a very fancy gala will stay with me all the days of my life. I hope they’ve got Bon Jovi on a loop up in heaven for you, and fine red wine on tap. Slurp and cheers to you my friend…the world is a quieter, duller place without you.

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Autumn 2009, originally uploaded by isayx3.

I like doing tribute shots, it’s a good one for when inspiration is low and is also a neat way of paying tribute to photographers who you admire.

The pigs have gone. We left very early this morning, to be at the slaughterhouse for 6am. Our pigs were very calm and well behaved, unlike the lot in front who had very noisy sex in the holding pen….well, that’s the way to go I suppose. It was all very orderly and the animals were treated with due respect. I’m surprised I didn’t feel emotional about it at all, I had a real fondness for them however. Feels strange to know their enclose is empty now…they had a good life though, a huge outside pen, truffling for acorns from the trees….it was a pretty blessed life as piggy lives go. And their end was stress free for them (they were asleep in the trailor!) and humane. As it should be.

Interesting people watching opportunity at the slaughterhouse…and old country gent handed over a wodge of notes to the slaughterman, growling, “That’s the money for the killin’” at him, in a deep Suffolk accent. ‘The money for the killin’…waaaaah, Mafia stylee.

My 4.15am start is catching up with me. It’s only 8.40am and it feels like lunchtime. I feel like going back to bed but am on Mummy Duty today, curses.

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Look look look! It’s hard to know which to love more…the purple sparkly shoes or the purple heart tights…but the combination is a winner. Helpfully Little Miss Stylish was snapped on these yellowish tiles, oh so Wizard of Oz. So I called this photo ‘Dorothy’s Weekend Shoes’. Perhaps she flirts with purple sparklers on a weekend?

I had to mess with the original photo a bit to get it looking like this. The original, an iphone snap, was ok but Dorothy’s mama’s black shoes really bugged me and her papa’s shoes had sneaked in too, plus her skirt was quite distracting  and the colours were rather muted. Other than that I loved it ;-)

So I processed it ‘lolo’ in Camerabag to give it a square crop and vivid colours. I saved the ‘lolo’ version, opened it in Fotomuse and added a frame and a texture to (a) mute the mama’s shoes and (b) make it look really, really cool. My name is Spud…I’m an iphoneapplicationaholic.

Here’s how it looked before:

I like my edited-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life version much more, although I wish the mama’s shoes weren’t there. Next time I’ll just push her out of the way. You know, for the sake of my ‘art’…

And with that I will wish you all a contented week. Mine’s getting off to a fearsomely early start…we head off with the pigs tomorrow at 4.45am. It’s time for them to be exited and we are taking them to deepest Norfolk to do the deed hence the unspeakably awful time of departure. I’m hoping fatigue will mean I don’t notice ‘the business’ that we’re there to do.

Over and out. x

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It was my grandfather’s funeral earlier this week…a tough day although, truly, he went on his way surrounded by the enduring love, respect and deep admiration of all those around him. ‘They broke the mould when they made him’, said my Dad and that sums him up for me. One of a kind for sure…and one of a type that you don’t seem to ever meet never mind know anymore, except those of his generation.

He was a quiet, kindly, peaceful man…a true ‘gentleman’ in every sense of the word…with a sparkling sense of humour and never a bad word about anyone. Ever. I really can’t think of one bad thing to say about him, and I’m not making that up. I don’t think I know, or have known, anyone who I could say the same of. His old school sense of loyalty, deep faith in the goodness of humankind, his love for his family and friends and an astonishing capacity for not just hard work, but hard labour were among just a few of his very fine qualities. He loved trains, planes, Liverpool Football Club, Only Fools and Horses, Open All Hours and cars with electric windows…but, more than any of those, his garden. No visit to see him was complete without a guided tour of his garden…for ever he will be synonymous with roses and dahlias to me, both of which he grew with spectacular success.

He was born, was schooled, lived, worked and died in the same small village…and he lived in the same house for over 60 years…isn’t that something? I can’t think that can be very common anymore.  He was a farm labourer and worked on the same farm for 50 years, for 3 generations of the same family. He was a man of the land and, in the words of a neighbour, was the ‘last true countryman of the village’, she also commented on how fitting it is for a farmer to die in September…when the harvest is done and thoughts turn to the next season’s crops. September clearly was a special month to him; he was born, was married and died in that month. Fitting indeed.

He even met his wife in the village. My Nana was an ack-ack girl in the war (aiming anti-aircraft guns at enemy planes) and, having lied about her age to get in to the army, was initially stationed alongside the farm my grandfather worked on. One night he wanted to pass through the camp to visit his great-grandmother, but needed to go through the checkpoint (manned by my grandmother that particular evening)…”STOP!!!! Who goes there?” she commanded. And the rest is history, in the shape of two children, two grand-daughters and three great-grandsons.

He was popular with the farmer’s children (and his grandchildren!) for his sweet tooth and the ever present bag of sweeties about his person and tucked in to the corner of the kitchen drawer. I”‘m just going to see Bert” the children on the farm would say, drawn by the promise of a sweet treat. I stayed in my grandad’s house the night before his funeral, and was relieved to see the a bag of fruit gums in the corner of the kitchen drawer, exactly where I expected them to be….where they have been kept for nearly 40 years and probably longer!

He was never seen without a hat, he was that kind of man. He wore a navy blue beret on the farm, and I have memories of him bringing back freshly laid eggs in it together with a pint of warm milk for breakfast when I was a child. Out and about he always wore a tweed cap or hat, I saw a blue one tucked in to the umbrella stand by his front door…I wonder how many hats he got through in his 89 years?

Pictured above is ‘the lane’…the lane that leads to the house where my Grandad lived for over 60 years, where my Dad lived from when he was 1 and where my Aunt was born. It’s got a few tales to tell that house.  This is the lane which my Dad trotted down as a toddler, pushing his baby sister in her pram and left her up the top by the road…for hours….this is the lane where I walked the Walk of Shame as a child, covered in vomit, having finally succumbed to travel sickness after an 8 hour car journey (my parents ejected me from the car and drove down, i walked…COVERED IN SICK!)…this is the lane where I first drove a car…I drove up, my Dad reversed back, repeat 100 times…

And this is the lane which ferried my grandfather away from his home for the last time this week…in a hearse. They do things in real style up north…the undertaker walked ahead of the hearse, leading the way down the lane for one last time…a fitting and respectful exit for this great man. I stood at the bottom watching the procession and cried a thousand tears for all the years and all the memories.

So, BRAVO to you Grandad for a life well and rightly lived, and loved to the full. Blessings to you as you go on your way. Package up a bit of that sparkle in your eyes, that infectious chuckle and a big tight squeeeeeze and mail it to us once in a while would you?  xxx

Above: Grandad and Diggy, looking on admiringly. Below: Grandad meets Bertie for the first time. We’re laughing because Bertie was just filling his nappy…….!

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I’m not here, I’ve twirled off for a little bit for my grandfather’s funeral. I will write about him when I’m back…I haven’t felt like it since he died. I hate this limbo period between death and the funeral, it’s a strange, suspended reality version of life.

I realise the photo has nothing to do with this post. I just LOVE it and it makes me feel happy looking at it, so I thought I’d share it. Oh to be four and whirling around in your party dress, with nothing more worrying than how big a piece of birthday cake you can snaffle without anyone noticing.

Blog Tribe…I salute you! Back soon x

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There is only one thing more astonishing than how fast your children grow up…and that’s how fast other people’s children grow up. I think you notice it more because you don’t see them day to day but, even when you do, birthdays are a time to take stock and goggle at just how fast that helpless little babe has turned in to the funny, warm, sophisticated little lady you see before you.

This is Violet Blush, first born and only daughter of The Wife. Isn’t she a peach? She’s a rock chick through and through and, from a very young age, has had clear ideas about her wardrobe choices which are on on the edgy/urban/punk side with accessories galore…hats, caps, shades, yards of beads and badges. That’s pretty cool for a just turned four year old don’t you think? She puts me to shame, but then that’s what happens when you shop at the local saddlery and allow overly precious haberdashery items in your wardrobe.

But, my, how you have grown Lady Violet! It seems like only yesterday that you were a tiny baby, addicted to door bouncers and taggies. Now look at you, all grown up and pink as a pink thing from pinkland..with matching pink nail varnish of course. Won’t be long before you’ll be allowed to dye your hair pink, Stephanie style. Will your Mama still straighten and crimp it for you when it’s pink?

We all love your spirit, your courage and your infectious laugh. However we remain puzzled by your hatred of tomatoes and wonder if Charlie & Lola have anything to do with this?

We loved your birthday party and thought you looked very swish. Did you go home with all 10 balloons that you were ‘just holding’ or did some grown up force you to share them out? When you’re older I will give you your own Grudge Book and teach you my evil ways….

Happy Birthday lovely Violet, precious not-such-a-baby girl  xxx

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See that? That’s the most precious button in the world…e…v…e..r. Actually I’m surprised it doesn’t have its own bodyguard and signature scent it’s so engrossed in its own wonderfulness.  It’s probably got its own blog somewhere, WordPress of course. I just wanted some new trousers but, unseen and unknown to me, the Queen of Preen cadged a ride home in the bag…no doubt hoping for a dreamboat boyfriend,  her own TV show and a pair of perky boobs to boot. Don’t we all honey…

Seriously, I’ve got some problems with this button. It’s overly glitzy for a pair of purple velvet trousers but that’s nothing a belt and a pull-it-down-cover-up-that-mummy-tummy top can’t handle. But no one told me this button has dreams, this button is adventurous and, thus, this button needs protection. It even came with a special little instruction card telling me so…

..and, being really belt and braces about it, it came with its own, horribly ugly ‘rubber cap’ to be worn by the Queen of Preen during washing and drying…

Snigger. Look! Queen of Preen goes brunette…welcome to the dark side Barbie girl. But let’s back up: apparently the Cap of Doom should be donned ‘when storing in case of accidental falls’. Don’t you think that’s a little strange? What, exactly, are these trousers planning on getting up to in my wardrobe? What kind of ‘falling accident’ could befall them while just hanging in my cupboard? Are my clothes engaged in some kind of extreme acrobatics in there…should I install a safety net… are they planning to compete in the next Olympics….do they need an agent…do I need employers’ liability insurance? I’m confuzzled.

But mostly I’m FURIOUS. Those trousers were expensive [very cheap, if MrSpud is reading although apparently he isn't anymore and why the hell not I don't do this for you know AND BREATHE] and yet it seems the trumped up, vacuous, lookatmelookatmeohmygodohmygod ‘Swaroski’ [fake? shudder. bad spelling? double shudder] button can’t handle a bit of wardrobe and laundry rough ‘n’ tumble without a crash helmet. Wuss.

Well I’ve got news for you Precious Princess…we live in the country haven’t you noticed?  We don’t do ‘dazzle’ round here , we despise ‘nouveau’, we embrace ‘vieux’…we hunt, we shoot, we fish and we laugh in the face that all that glitters. So I suggest you pack up your big boobed sparklyness and sling your hook, and don’t forget your protective cap. Because who knows what falls may befall you? Accidental, or otherwise…mwha ha ha, evil laugh….did she fall? Was she pushed? Did her big fake boobs weigh her down? Who can tell…

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I think I’ve cracked it. World peace, I mean.

Or rather I’ve stumbled, literally, upon a major barrier to attaining said world peace. High heels. Ban them and the world would immediately be a happier place and thus peace and harmony would surely be a step nearer?  Women would be cheerier, no longer tottering around with red hot pokers attached to their trotters, every step of the day squeezing and numbing toes, throwing their weight on to the balls of their screaming feet, shortening leg muscles, arching backs in a way to make every osteopath on the planet rub their hands in glee. And men would be cheerier because women would not longer be terminally snarkish and snipey, a condition brought on by the daily discomfort of hurty shoes.

This truth was revealed to me at about 9.00am on Wednesday, approximately 2 hours  after I’d popped on a pair of skyscrapers and decided they were appropriate footwear for an 11 working hour day. Huh huh huh….that’s my hollow laugh by the way. I could NOT have been more wrong. Those evil instruments of torture plagued me all day and brought on the snarks and snipes big time, only eased by regular periods of sitting down and taxi rides. And my feet, legs and back bitched about it for two whole days afterwards. So, all in all, a split second decision that a pair of heels would be just the thing to boost my confidence/height/ego cost me three days of agony/pain/embarrassment at my own stupid vanity.

Here I am, at about lunchtime…look…definitely snarkish & snipey.

So let’s just make a pact to cut it out shall we? Ladies, let’s ditch the red hot pokers….gentleman, get ready for us ladies to make nice. World peace…we’re a [gloriously painfree] step nearer to achieving you.

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My little world, seen through a glass, darkly. Or, more accurately, reflected in a garden ornament…me in regulation green wellies, Bertie with his handbag, MrSpud displaying freakish jazz hands, Klingon Baby Diggy in a sling, one little fat leg poking out…our house…our garden…pig food lurking in the background.

My husband, my sons, my home, my life. 1, 2, 3, 4…that’s me counting my blessings x

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