Chez Spud

I have completely lost my blogging mojo. We had a couple of weeks of appalling internet and I kind of fell out of the habit and now I find I don’t have much to say. But here’s a diary moment to record…I couldn’t let such a big moment pass without a record of it…

Woooooeeeeeeee! See that up there? That’s my boy, 4 and a little bit, riding a bike without stabilisers. “Mission accomplished” he declared, matter of factly…

In fact, [stupidly proud mother..slap me] he never even TRIED using stablisers. He’s gone straight from his balance/push along bike to a proper bike. And he went from ‘don’t let go!!’ to ‘LET GO LET GO DADDY!!!’ in about 2 minutes.

15 minutes later he was cycling at truly terrifying speed, looking around all over the place and screaming with laughter and able to get on and off the bike and get going totally solo.

I’m so proud. I can’t help myself, I’m bursting with pride…it’s shameful. There’s nothing worse than a stinkingly proud parent but, hey, sue me why doncha? I’m ready for you ;-)

Fortunately my son doesn’t share my shameful pride. After bigging him up with the whole “I’m so proud of you, you’re so clever, most children don’t learn to ride a proper bike as fast as you have” speech…he was silent. I asked him if he was happy…silence. I asked him if he was proud…silence. Eventually he said, rather quietly, “I’m shy because of all the words that you’re saying”. Howl. That put Miss Pushy Parent right back in the box…that’s my boy.

We had a first go at the Big Bike in September on his 4th birthday. He actually cycled solo very briefly then, but hated it and utterly refused to get on the bike again. So we left it and tried not to feel bitter about the vast sum of money spent on the Birthday Big Bike…

This week he announced he was ready to cycle. “On Saturday”, he said. And he did.  He’s so like MrSpud. Won’t be rushed. Won’t be persuaded in to anything. When’s he’s ready…he’s ready. The end.  Admiring passers by who watched his amazing progress commented that he’ll soon be ready for the Tour de France…so, how soon can I get his name down?

Since we’re having diary moments, here’s those Megaboys earlier in the week…ready for Christmas. Um, 11 months to go boys…

Oh, and I cut the curls off…

Bertie told me I looked another ‘another mummy’. Both boys said I looked ‘silly’ and ‘like Daddy’. Hmmmmmm…….how soon can they go to boarding school? do they take then at 4?

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Hurrah hurrah and thrice hurrah! Thanks to the patience of Kristina, a few million views of truly excellent videos from Meet Me At Mike’s and a healthy slug of awe/inspiration/jealousy from Lucy at Attic24 ….I can finally crochet a granny square! I can’t begin to express how proud of myself I am for doing this. The phrase ‘all fingers and thumbs’ was invented for me, I am the least crafty person on the planet and yet I have managed to turn out a couple of grannies and, ahem, even managed to change colour. Preens preens…

I even went a little bit fancy and quickly eschewed yer common granny for Lucy’s Summer Garden Grannies which are a far classier affair. For the Granny Unaware amongst us, the Garden Grannies have a circle at their middle, like a flower. Just …that…little..bit…fancier?  Emboldened by my success I sauntered off to our local wool shop and, having stepped back to the Days of Yore, I truffled for yarn for my First Project. I think I chose badly actually….but I’m a learner so cut me some slack. The wool is chunky and thus the Grannies are looking a bit industrial. Ah well.

Anyway, I bundled up my chosen yarn and paid the rather flustered looking owner of the shop. Normally this place is pretty empty, but yesterday it was BUZZING and he could hardly keep up. “There’s a 15% discount today” he said, gasping for breath from the exertion of more than one customer in the shop at a time. “Oh great!”, quoth I, “Why is that?”…”Erm, because it’s January and it’s very quiet so it’s 15% off everything”, he shouted over the noise of more customers in the shop than he normally gets in a month.

I asked the woman next to me why she thought it was busy. She thought for a bit. “Well, because it’s cold so we’re all, like…LET’S GO AND BUY STUFF TO MAKE SOMETHING!! No, I’m wrong…it’s January and finally it’s not Christmas so we’re all, like…LET’S MAKE SOMETHING!! AT LEAST WE CAN’T EAT IT!” Riiiiiiight, OK….

Edging quietly away from the shouty one, I paid. And the man handed over the goodies in a brown paper bag. And, in that instant, I was 7 again and standing in the shop attached to our local post office, buying wool with my mother.  My mother was a very taleneted knitter and crocheter until arthritis, which set in during her early 20s, finally got the better of her fingers. She bought her wool at the post office shop and, like everyone then, would reserve however many balls she needed for her next project so that all the balls were from the same batch (for colour matching). But she, like most people, couldn’t afford to buy more than one or two balls at a time. So the shop put all the balls on reserve, and would let her buy one or two as and when she needed them. I can’t imagine shops do that now?

I had completely forgotten about this until yesterday, not ever having bought wool myself. But, in that moment as I clutched my brown paper bag, I was transported back to the post office shop…staring up at the shelves behind the counter, packed with brown paper bags which were stuffed with wool, each neatly marked ‘Reserved for Mrs Smith’, or whoever.

I was never remotely interested in knitting, crochet or sewing while my mother was alive. Shame on me. When she died, I slung her sewing machine on the skip with all the other stuff of her life that I threw away. What a waste! Here I am wondering how I can justify the purchase of a sewing machine to MrSpud, when I could be using the one my mother used. And, whilst I’m so grateful to Kristina for teaching me how to crochet, I feel a deep sadness that I didn’t let my mother teach me. There’s a missing ‘link’ in my work, as it were.

I’m sure she’d be very pleased and astonished, in equal parts, to know that I’m crocheting. Yesterday I got out my Christening shawl, a beautiful white circular one which she crocheted for me. All of a sudden it felt like something so precious…not least because I finally appreciate not just the love but the WORK that went in to making it. I feel very connected with my Mum again, ‘hooked’ back in to her…one stitch at a time…one paper bag at a time.

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I love tea. It’s a love affair that’s evolved over time and has involved occasional flirtations with coffee but me and tea are now going steady. I have standards and these are they: builder’s tea (strong as you like and ideally one tea bag to a cup, then pressed against the side for extra za-za-zooooom), a little milk and one sugar, in a mug and not a cup and three times a day…on rising…mid morning…mid-afternoon. Sometimes I go crazy and have four cups a day, but I regret it. Me and tea have found our groove and three times a day is the foundation of the groove.

Today I did a little photoshoot at home for my friend Katherine, who is shortly to relaunch her super cakes and catering business. She zipped over with delightful baked goods for me to shoot (badly, but that’s a whole other story). I found myself hoping she’d be prompt as I was more than ready for Cup Two of the day. I debated having a cup before she arrived, but then realised she’d have to drink tea alone when she arrived, or I’d have to push on with an ill-advised pre-noon Cup Three. It was quite a quandary…

In the end I waited for her and the gods of tea delivered her right on time (rejoice). So, it seems, it’s not just the tea and tea addiciction that is at stake here…it’s the well documented ‘ritual’ of tea. I’m not fancy about the ritual though and, frankly, nor is Katherine. We bonded over our trashy love of cheap builder’s tea, and disdain for Earl Grey and other such nonsense. That one sugar makes me very common; Katherine is fancier and goes without but I don’t grudge her for it (yet). So, as non-fancy girls, the ritual doesn’t seem to be part of it on the surface…but neither of us can set a foot over each other’s doorsteps without the kettle going on for a ‘cuppa’.

It’s almost like ‘breaking bread’ together.  Why is that? It’s so deeply ingrained…someone comes round? Put the kettle on. Bad news? Put the kettle on. Good news? Put the kettle on. Need a little pick me up? Put the kettle on.  Recently a New Friend came to visit for the first time. Naturally I put the kettle on and asked if she’d like some tea. “No thank you”, she said. “Coffee?” I said, in desperation, “No thank you I’m fine”. Erm, I don’t think so…no tea..no coffee…are you ILL? I immediately grudged her…f…o…r…e…v…e…r.  Surely everyone knows that tea is the elixir of life, the oil in the wheels of social situations. To refuse? Rude.

I knew I’d love Bee forever when I first met her at Blog Camp 1.5 which she hosted last Summer. I arrived unfashionably late yet again and all in a flap. The others offered me wine, but Bee saw the fear in my eyes and offered me a ‘cuppa tea and then some wine?’ which was just the thing. Made all the more charming since she had taken on some kind of East End accent for ‘cuppa tea’ which juxtaposes in a very interesting way with her Texas/Berkshire drawl…

And then lovely Blanca bought me Friendship Tea as my Blog Camp 3.0 gift and it hit the nail right on the head for me:

“Pour on boiling water and, while it brews, we’ll talk. We’ll talk about everything, we’ll talk about nothing. Whatever you want to say, I’ll listen. Show me your secrets, your troubles, your joys, your profound thoughts and silliest imaginings”.

Tea…the balm for life. We had a long discussion about tea at Blog Camp 3.0 and the differences between Denmark and Other Countries…teabags…loose tea…sugar…milk…warming the pot..many nations… divided by a common tea leaf.

Anyway, tea rocks. Luckily not-so-common Katherine bakes so beautifully and thus tea is always a tea ‘n’ cake experience with her. That’s why I heart her. Her baked goods and love of trashy cheap teabags won me over.

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Cheers! Gin & Tonic (Hendricks of course) at Julochka‘s place to celebrate the start of Blog Camp 3.0.

End of day one…I got up at 4am…left the house at a less than ideal 4.45am…foggy (oh crap) so got to the airport at 5.50am…arrived at check-in at 6.13am (2 minutes before it closed)….resuscitated myself after briefly passing out due to stress and had a disgusting coffee (thanks Pret-a-Manger) and then took a lifetime to get through security ARGGHHH.

Ran through the departure lounge to the gate with the words ‘Would the last remaining passenger Miss Spudballoo please go immediately to Gate 19 etc etc". ARGHHH. So I got up at 4am and yet barely made the flight.

I then hung out in Starbucks at Copenhagen airport for 4 hours waiting for the rest of the Blog Campers which was way more jolly than it sounds.

Skipped back to Julochka’s on the train, drank gin, drank wine, drank wine, drank wine, drank wine (etc etc), ate dinner, drank wine, drank wine, decamped to blue room, opened wonderful presents, drank wine, gossiped, laughed a LOT, giggled some more, drank wine, bitched about people, drank wine, took a million photos.

Roll on tomorrow. And crafting. And crochet lessons.  And wine.

I heart Blog Camp. And wine….

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I’ve been pondering about Life Rules…as in Rules for Life rather than some kind of cringe making affirmation type statement (because if it were an affirmation surely it would have at least one ! if not !! and an OK!!! after it like this…Life Rules!! OK!!…and anyway I don’t do affirmations…I only do moaning & groaning)  Excuse me while I clear the clutter of unnecessary !!! from my blog [takes a moment]. I’m back.

So I thunked and thunked about some Life Rules or ‘Guiding Principles’ if we want to get all corporate about it. Not those dreary ‘eat well, sleep well, count your blessings, don’t go to bed on an argument, don’t consume entire bodyweight in Pimms No 1 etc etc’ type rules which just beg you break them. No, I mean some user friendly might actually live by them rules  And these are my rules (for me, not for everyone…you can live by them too if you want but I might be a little afraid of you…):

1. Have a framework (like a routine but without the dreer) to banish chaos but don’t be ruled by it.

2. Ruthlessly cull stuff on a regular basis (excess clothes, tat, toys, piles of paper, toxic friends and other randoms who drain the life blood from you). Stuff is the enemy.

3. Have a passion and indulge it.

4. Remember that what goes around comes around.

5. Bad stuff might have happened in the past, but it’s over now. Let it go.

6. Talk less, listen more.

7. Orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.

8. Burgundy hair never looks good on anyone.

9. Do less, better.

10. I am the master of my fate…I am the captain of my soul…and if you can’t change your fate, change your attitude.

And those are The Rules. I reserve the right to change them of course, but that’ll do for now. So what are your Life Rules (OK!!)….what do you MEAN you don’t have any? Tush and fie.

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Hello baby Sofie…not such a baby now….all growed up and 1 whole year old! And walking like a professional and sleeping like a champ.

How the last year has flown. You seemed to spend the first 4 months of your life asleep but you’ve made up for lost time since then. Fast and furious, in to everything, zooooooming around with that cheeky smile glued to your face and charming the stars from the sky. Jeepers creepers…where’d you get those peepers….you’re a heart breaker that’s for sure. Already the Megaboys are fighting over you, tussling over who gets to have a cuddle with you.

We love you and your shoutyness when you’re hungry and must have your food RIGHT NOW THIS MINUTE MUMMY I’M NOT KIDDING I’M ACTUALLY STARVING OVER HERE!!

And Diggy especially loves you for your fondness for sucking your thumb. He says that all the best people suck their thumb…

Happy Birthday Gorgeous Sofie. And congratulations to big sister Anna for breezing through the first year of being a big sister with such good grace and so much love xxx

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No, I’m not about to bring forth progeny once again. Or ever in fact. Although I did say that after Megaboy 1 was born and look how that turned out (hello Megaboy 2!). But, then, that wasn’t my fault, that was the work of some naughty imps forcing me to consume my own bodyweight in the Devil’s Own Potion (that’s Pimms No 1 to you).

So this isn’t a cutesy twee ‘we’re pregnant’ post. Which, since I’m in a ranting mode, is possibly one of the teeth grindingly awful expressions on the planet. ‘We’re’ pregnant? There is no ‘we’ in pregnant (apart from wee which is something entirely different and is ominprescent in pregnany, from the moment you have to wee on a stick/your hand to confirm the happy news, through the seemingly endless demands for samples of the stuff right up until you sign a direct debit for bulk deliveries of Tena Lady incontinence products to quieten the tremulous groans of your pelvic floor). I say again, there is no ‘we’ in pregnant…it’s not a team sport. The woman is pregnant, and the man is grateful that he is not.

End of Rant 1. Although I’m kind of warming to my theme and may go off on one about my other ‘twee twat’ hates which are right up there with ‘we’re pregnant’ which include the word ‘hubby’, ‘snuggles’ and ‘luv’. But I’ll save that for another day.

Rant 2….’Baby on board’ signs on cars. ‘Baby on board’…who gives a shit? Let’s knock the possible  arguments for them on the head, shall we?  I present my case:

(1) the emergency services are trained to look for ALL passengers large and small in the event of an accident. And, I’m thinking, that the presence of 25 tonnes of baby clobber in the car will probably be a give away?

(2) ‘baby on board’ signs have no effect on the standard of driving from other people DARING to use the road whilst you transport your ickle bubbas around. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest they are more likely to enrage The Sensibles amongst us who are more and not less likely to crash in to you as the red mist descends.

Erm, that’s it. I can’t think of any other reasonable argument as to why you would slap a ‘baby on board’ sign on your car other than sheer smuggery? And don’t even get me started on the ‘fun’ variations…’Princess on board’, ‘Small dude on board’, ‘Cheeky monkey on board’ etc etc. Actually that reminds me of yet another pet hate, appalling slogans on T Shirts for children (‘Lock up your daughters’ etc etc). But I will save that rant for another day too.

End of rant 2.

What has REALLY got my goat recently is the vision of a perfectly pleasant woman on the London underground, wearing her ‘Baby on board’ badge (pictured above) on her lapel. These aren’t new, London Underground introduced them a few years ago but it’s only recently that they have suddenly provoked The Rage from me.

The theory is that pregnant women often need to sit down when travelling on the tube (which is often horrendously busy, hot, slow etc etc). I completely agree with this point. However, it’s not always obvious that a woman is pregnant and thus might be in need of a seat. I agree with this point too. Also, some people are hesitant to offer a seat to a pregnant woman in case they are not pregnant, and just plump. Yet again, I agree with this point. Therefore, pregnant women should wear a badge announcing the fact that they are gestating so that the good folk of London can do their good turn for the day and give up their seat. I completely disagree with this point.

Pregnant women may well often need someone to give up their seat for them, along with many other groups of people….disabled people, old people, people carrying small children, people not feeling well, people who have consumed their own bodyweight in Pimms No 1 etc etc.

But, here’s my idea. Instead of wearing those crap badges (which are RIGHT UP there in terms of twee twattishness in my book)…why not just ask for a seat?  You know, just open you mouth and politely ask for a seat like we did in the old days before we had badges. It takes a certain degree of confidence, I will admit, but if you need a seat then just say so.  Frankly asking for a seat on the tube is a walk in the park compared with some of the battles you will inevitably have to get in to on behalf of your child, so you might as well start toughening up early on.

I traveled by tube when pregnant with both my boys. Very occasionally I needed a seat. When I did, I politely asked the people around me if I could sit down as I was pregnant and not feeling well. Pretty much everyone jumped to their feet every time I asked. It’s no big shakes, you just smile and sit down, say thank you and feel smug for not poncing around wearing a badge announcing your moronic status.

End of rant 3.

I might make myself a badge. Hell, I might CROCHET myself a badge. ‘Rage on board’. What do you think?

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• A time to reflect

I’m all about photography at the moment, and less about the words. Our Blog Camp 365 project has rekindled my love affair with Flickr and I’m spending a lot of time ‘over there’ and less time in the blogosphere at the moment. But save me a spot would you, because my Flickr passion waxes and wanes so it won’t be long before I’m troubling your blogs again.

This renewed enthusiasm has led to another on my list of 39 things to do before I’m 40 being crossed off ‘Learn how to use the Lensbaby’. I’m pretty chuffed to be getting to grips with the Lensbaby as there’s a bit of a knack to it, which has eluded me for a year. The wife gave me a quick lesson and ta da! I can do it, ish, but I do at least know what I’m supposed to be doing which is a major step forward. Those lemons up the top were taken with the Lensbaby…I know they look blurry but they are supposed to be, that’s the result of the Lensbaby’s ‘selective focus’ doodah. It’s not blur, it’s art. Giggle.

I was too hasty in crossing off ‘learn to crochet’. I can’t get to grips with the basics at all despite quite a lot of reading/YouTube watching, cry. I’ve put that project on ice until Blog Camp 3.0 next week where I intend to get the lovely Kristina in to a headlock and force her to teach me the ways of the hook.

The 39 List, which was only ever intended as a light-hearted and rather trivial project, has really got me thinking in a surprising profound way. Or perhaps it’s the thought of turning 40? I’m not sure what the catalyst is but I am continually finding my thoughts straying in to the ‘this is it…life’s not a rehearsal, one live, live it blah blah blah blah’ territory. Who knows how long I will live, but it’s a fair bet that I’m at least half way through it at this point and quite possibly that proverbial red bus is right around the corner. The realisation that there’s not ‘all’ that much time left and the fact that I still have a lot of things I want to do has really hit home in the last few weeks. The list of things isn’t getting any shorter, but my life is, so I might as well get cracking.

I’m not a procrastinator by nature, but I am a creature of habit and I really don’t like change. I’ve mostly been in hibernation since having children as I found the first few years really hard going, and it was all about survival. But those tough years are gone now and it’s time to come out of hibernation and  GET ON WITH IT. By which I mean, well, life I suppose. I seem to be engrossed in the reassuring rhythm of my own personal Groundhog Day, never breaking in to a sweat or doing anything different and just going through the motions of life. It’s like I’m 89 not 39.

But The 39 List has forced me to take action and, I have to say it, I like it. I’m even considering adding bonus items like learning the cha cha cha for no other reason than ‘why the hell not’? As Julochka likes to say ‘What are you gonna remember?’  It’s a good touchstone…what am I going to remember more…another night glued to my MacBook or learning to dance, however badly? What am I going to remember…the fact that my laundry was (nearly) always up to date…or the fact that I finally learnt to crochet?

I didn’t make any New Year’s Resolutions because, let’s face it, they’re all a bit crap aren’t they? But I’m officially declaring war on inertia, and am making 2010 the Year of Action.

And that’s what I’m gonna remember.

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Awww, look! There’s the wife looking super fine, super cool, superdooper on her birthday yesterday. She’s actually 105 now but, by the miracles of modern science and good skincare, she doesn’t look a day over 35 does she? There are vicious rumours of a little post processing ‘help’ but that’s between me, Lightroom and the gun the wife has nailed against my forehead…

Lately I have age on my mind. The big FOUR-OH is looming this year and I’ve decided to embrace the fecker with my list 39 things to do before I’m 40. The theory is that I will arrive on my FOUR-OH birthday feeling smug and fulfilled rather than old and baggy. Also, over Christmas, I was truly delighted to learn that my Wii Fit age is 51. My mother-in-law (60 something) tried it too, just for a lark, and her Wii Fit age is 46. Wrongity wrong wrong wrong. Basically, I’m ancient and knackered already, and nothing but botox and a tediously strict macrobiotic diet can resolve it. Or so I thought…

Well, hoorah, just in the nick of time I have discovered the secret of youthfulness and you don’t find it in a pot of face cream or a syringe full of toxins. Instead you’ll find your mispent youth lurking on the dancefloor, clad in a pair of sparkley high heeled sandals and a swishy skirt. Even the men. Yes, ballroom dancing is the end to all our aging woes and I have photographic proof.

Whilst shambling through the Royal Festival Hall yesterday on our zimmer frames, me and the wife happened upon some kind of Strictly Come Dancing tea dance ‘thing’ going on. It was hugely popular, mostly frequented by men of a ‘certain age’ and their rather young Asian wives but let’s skip that part. My point is this…the ladies of a certain age (well in to their 60s) were so elegant, agile, light on their feet, balletic, athetic, jolly, gorgeous and looked decades younger than they were. Look at this beauty…I wouldn’t air my mummy arms in public even now, and I’m only 39…respect to the Toned Armed One…and check out the nipped in waist and lovely pair of pins…

Me and wife looked on helplessly having rebuffed offers to dance with her dapper partner on the basis that, er, we can’t actually dance. “But it’s the cha cha cha!”, he retorted looking, rightly, appalled, “EVERYONE can do the cha cha cha!”. Seriously, we can’t. So he danced with the Audrey Hepburn look alike and we photographed them strutting their stuff with such panache.

‘Audrey’ was much in demand as a dance partner, but when she wasn’t she sat on the side with her two lovely friends and waited like a proper lady.

I congratulated them on their wonderful dancing and told them that they’d made me wish I could dance. They very earnestly told me that I MUST learn, and that dancing keeps you youthful. And there they sat…the proof of the pudding….looking years and years, 10 years probably, younger than they actually were.

So I’m hoping my list of 39 things to day before 40 is editable? If so, I’m taking off ‘making biscuits for the first time’ off the list because (a) it’s toally lame anyway and (b) I could just nip down the shops and buy a packet couldn’t I? But the pursuit of guaranteed youthfulness? You can’t buy that in a packet down the shops can you?

So, who’s up for the cha cha cha with me? My dancecard has spaces but, be warned, I will likely clumsily stamp on your foot with my sparkly shoes. Sorry about that.

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Happy New Year all you lovely lovely people! It’s not too late to join in with the Blog Camp 365 project over on Flickr.  Please do join us, it’s shaping up to be a really friendly and diverse group. What better way to quickly improve your photography but just taking ONE photo a day….c’mon, you know you want to…

Just for fun, the photo above is the last of my 365 for 2009 (The End, my (rear) end…classy huh?). And here’s the first, from 1 January 2009…blimey, I can only assume I didn’t have a monstrous hangover…

and my first photo for my 2010 Photo-A-Day

Come on…join in…you know you want to…

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