Chez Spud

When I say ‘cheated’, I prefer to think of it as ‘improvised’ although deep down I know that it was cheating. Tut tut, tush and fie.

About a million years ago I read music at university. During our first year we had to do a number of tedious, compulsory ‘modules’ such as composing, conducting, orchestration and tape composition (more of which later). What an utter chore. All I was interested in was singing, playing the flute, floating around campus in my Laura Ashley skirts and hanging out in the medics bar.

Anyway I muddled my way through it reasonably well, but tape composition got the better of me. i just didn’t get it. Mainly it involved recording sounds like a door shutting, one beat of a drum, a dripping tap, a first year music student slipping silently in to a catatonic state through sheer boredom etc, on tape and then manipulating the sounds in to something vaguely toe tapping. Well what’s the point of that? Why not just pop on an LP (CDs very much in their infancy in those days) and listen to that instead?

I just couldn’t get my head around what I was supposed to be doing, and the studio terrified me…full of reels of tape, scalpels for cutting it,weirdy beardy sweaty ‘studio’ guys and scary signs ‘DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TURN OFF THE STUDIO WITHOUT TURNING THE SPEAKERS OFF FIRST OTHERWISE YOU WILL BLOW THEM’.

As the year rolled on it became apparent that I was totally incapable of putting together the 3 minute composition required of me for the end of year assessment. So I panicked, and then I improvised.

I dug around in the studio bin and found a length of disgarded tape, someone else’s rejected work. I then recorded it backwards (cunning), sampled various bits, shoved those in, speeded up some bits and with a flourish of brilliance, added in my own ending. Job done. A 3 minute masterpiece of which approximately 10 seconds was all my own worn. Roll over Beethoven.

If I could have cheated in my Keyboard Harmony exam the following year I would have done. I finished ‘playing’ (think, plinky plonk, plinky plonk), got up from the piano and turned round to find all 3 examiners with their heads in their hands. I failed. Spectacularly.

Well, what goes around comes around.

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• Secret 21…I’m not much of a good sport

Digby, my younger son, has two middle names because he’s fancy like that. One of them is Elliot. Or is it Eliot. Or Elliott? Seriously I couldn’t tell you. Every time I need to fill in an official form I have to get his birth certificate out to check. MrSpud and I made our wills recently and neither of us were at all sure of the spelling – OH THE SHAME.

Diggy's Vital Statistics

Sometimes I have a wobble over the spelling of one of Bertie’s middle names too – Rafael – and have an ‘is it with a ph or an f?’ debate.  I have to google Rafael Benitez (Liverpool FC Manager) to double check it. Rafael was added to Bertie’s names after Liverpool won the European championship while I was pregnant. MrSpud made me stand in front of the TV, bump aloft, so that our unborn baby could “hear the roar of Anfield”. Yeah, blah, whatever.

Anyway, luckily my wonderful wife and BFF Lyanne designed the fabulous graphic above, and had it printed on canvas, for Diggy’s last birthday. It’s so clever and uses all his names, nicknames, initials, his date of birth and his birth weight. So when I need a quick reminder of how to spell my own child’s name I can just nip upstairs to his bedroom and check.

Here’s ‘the wife’ a wonderful portrait taken by our photographer pal Liz. Thanks for letting me use it here, it’s about 100 times better than any shot of her I’ve taken. It’s Lyanne’s fault I’m blogging actually, so if you don’t like what you see…please address all complaints to the Mrs. She’s a brilliant photographer and somehow got me started on it last Autumn and then I started to enjoy spinning the yarns to go with my snaps on Flickr as much as taking them. And thus A Blog was Born.

The 'Wife'

So thanks to my buddy I now have a ready reckoner of Diggy’s middle names for those ‘senior moments’.  I might just get his name tattooed on his forehead and be done with it.

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This one isn’t for the sensitive or squeamish, or pregnant – if you fall in to any of those categories you may prefer today’s alternative gratuitous puppy shots.

I used to be a bag lady. Not the street living, life in a bag carrying kind…but the colostomy bag wearing kind. My ‘party bag’, as I preferred to call it, and I were constant companions, inseparable, joined at the hip (well, on the tummy to be accurate) for two, long years.

No one ever told me that a very rare and rather devastating complication of childbirth is a tear so bad you need a colostomy bag. I was reasonably prepared for the fact that childbirth would result in, well, a child. But never in a zillion years could I have imagined I’d be taking home a little extra something, a party bag, from the hospital.

This isn’t much of a secret as I never even attempted to keep it quiet – actually I bleated about it pretty much constantly. Having a party bag affects absolutely every area of your life, from what you wear, to what you eat. It nibbles away at your self-confidence, always nagging away, always present, always needing attention (hmmm, rather like small children then).

In many ways, though, it was the best of times and the worst of times. The best of times? MrSpud just SHONE in the way that he coped with the rather ugly addition to our relationship despite not having signed up for the “in sickness and in health, with a bag of poo on your tummy, or without” part of the marriage vows. He might be little in stature, but he is a BEAST of a man in my eyes. xx The worst of times? Well, it speaks for itself really.

I bade farewell to the party bag about 18 months ago. Can’t say I was sorry to see the old girl go, and I hope I won’t be seeing her again. The scissors in the picture are special, party bag scissors – rounded at the ends to help cut the bag to size for a perfect fit. I keep them in my make up bag as a little reminder of life’s ups and downs, a daily reminder to count my blessings.

It’s not all doom and gloom. 8 months after having Bertie, my first child, and despite medical advice not to have another child…I, er, had a massive Pimms and, er, conceived our second child Digby. He was a surprise, a shock and is an utter delight. Thought I’d share the photo of the Pimms that ‘done it’, giggle.

Pimms O Clock

Thus ends the serious secrets, back to comedy-ville tomorrow. MrSpud has queried whether I actually HAVE 30 secrets. Frankly, I take that as a challenge. Let battle commence.

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• Secret 27… I am the world’s worst shot putter

Way, way, way back in 2000 I had a dream date to end all dream dates. It went swimmingly, there was laughter, there was banter, I was hilarious, he didn’t do too badly keeping up. Frankly, it was a triumph.

A watched phone never rings...not even if you watch it for 8 years

I spent the next day mapping out our future life together, named our children, named our dogs, checked his surname didn’t sound ridiculous with my first name and practiced my new signature a few times while I waited for him to call.

I waited, and I waited, and I waited some more. And when I was fed up waiting it dawned on me that OF COURSE he had lost my number and was probably engaged in a frantic hunt for me. So I rang him, left a message. And still he didn’t call back despite me repeating my number at least 3 times and remembering not to call him my ‘hubbie’ or anything.

Either he’s never going to call or he’s engaged in some kind of extreme version of The Rules and he’s playing really, really hard to get.  My ego likes to think it’s the latter.

No matter as I have the fantastico MrSpud anyway who, thankfully, has never read The Rules and is far too little for any kind of extreme sport anyway xxx

Bonus outtake shot ;-)

Hello? Is that bonkers anonymous?

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Oh my, I so SO got busted taking the shot for this post, waaaaaah. I knew sooner or later I’d be caught ‘in the act’ but ideally it wouldn’t have been dressed like this. I knew it was risky, the farm was very busy today, so I cheated and got MrSpud to take this shot in the interest of speed. But our neighbour spied us anyway. Oh…the…shame….outakes and shots of being caught in the act are at the bottom of the post.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen...lend me your ears

Back to the secret – I speak Latin and Ancient Greek. Actually I don’t speak them as such, as no one does. “Ave” (Hello) is probably the extent of my spoken Latin, followed by “Caecilius est in horto. Caecilius est mortu, eheu” (Caecilius is in the garden. Caecilius is dead, alas). It’s not much of a yarn is it…not much in the way of drama and suspension? Nor plot, for that matter.

I absolutely loved Latin at school and my love of the language was in no way linked to a crush on the Latin teacher, oh no. I loved it so much I took it as my second subject at university and this was in no way linked to a crush on a fellow Latin student. Are you beginning to see a pattern here? I sometimes think my whole live has been shaped by a succession of crushes. Of course Michael is the Crush. The others are merely crushettes.

I’m not sure my costume is very authentic? Was nylon around in the Olde Days? Ideally I’d have ditched the wellies, not sure Romans wore Hunters? Although perhaps Caecilius did when he was ‘in horto’, but perhaps not when he was ‘mortu, eheu’.

So, right after the shot on the left was taken I heard our neighbour Adrian shouting YOOOOOOOHOOOOOOO!! And I was busted. MrSpud jumped in to action with the camera as best he can, bless, and snapped the folllowing:

Invaders? Right, let's face the enemy

So how do I look?

I know! Looking good...

Retreat! Retreat! The enemy is laughing...

Assume the position...

...and, thank you and good night

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When I was a child, I really really wanted to be a nun. I was quite a devout ‘Litttle Catholic’ as my grandmother used to call me, always bothering the Lord, fiddling with my rosery beads, toting round a small Tupperware box of holy water from Lourdes (seriously), singing hymns, making up my own prayers and colouring in pictures of Jesus.

Sister Spud

I had a picture of the Pope on my bedroom wall, and used to turn it around when I got undressed at night, in his case His Holiness suddenly developed an All Seeing Sense and was offended by my Wombles knickers and Holly Hobbit nightdress.

I can’t remember when it tipped in to ‘I know, why don’t I BE a nun’, or when I realised perhaps I wasn’t up for getting me to a nunnery after all. Quite probably the realisation that I might have to have a man’s name and the fact that nearly every nun I knew was actually quite vicious…Sister Joseph Mary where are you now, with your ruler slapping across the backs of knuckles and yells of “Spudballo…I’ll..slap…your…LEGS!”. What a lovely, Christian woman she was.

As a child my mother thought there were three sexes: men, women and nuns. Nuns sounded like women, but didn’t wear make up and had short hair hidden under their veils, wore long black dresses to the ground (in those days), but had big heavy ugly black lace up shoes. So, men, women and nuns.

Mind you, my mother’s judgement shouldn’t be relied on. She also thought that the reason men go bald is because they run out of hair as it grows from the top of their heads, down in to their beards and eventually they just run out of hair altogether…it’s all been ‘bearded’ out, as it were.

The Lord and I aren’t quite so pally these days, since I ditched the chance to be a Bride of Christ in favour of being a Bride of MrSpud (nicer clothes and less rules).

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Awww, look at us, the happy couple…enjoying a joke. Michael is amusing me with his legendary sense of funny, and he’s looking pretty tickled too. Or is he laughing at my dodgy growing out hair? No matter, I’m sure whatever it is he is laughing WITH me at not at me.

Me and my 'other' husband

We’ve been together for 24 years now, since I developed a lasting and stonking crush on him as a teenager. Naturally, like any couple, we’ve had our ups and downs but in the end we love each other very deeply and will be together forever.

There is the ‘slight’ knotty issue of his wife and family, and MrSpud and my boys, but the course of true love never runs smooth does it?

I’ve never actually met Michael Palin, I will admit it. I have come very close on two occasions, both book signings. The first time, early 1990s, he was doing a signing in Selfridges and I got as far as the lift before my heart started pounding so fast I thought I was going to faint so I had to go home. Waaaaaah!

The second time I took reinforcements in the shape of various colleagues from work. Got to Waterstones, same thing happened, I was completely frozen to the spot. Someone shoved me forward and, squeek, HE LOOKED AT ME. That was it, I turned on my heel and ran back to the office, completely overwhelmed.

Recently I read an interview with ‘my husband’ and the interviewer commented on the longevity of his marriage, and how rare that is in celebrity world. Michael said that someone had caught his eye once or twice, but in the end family is more important.

HE MEANT ME!!!! HE LOVES ME TOO!!!

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At the grand old age of 38, I still have two of my milk teeth. The incisors. So far, so weird.

But, weirder and rather alarmingly, when they do eventually fall out…there are no adult teeth waiting to come down. I’m completely missing a pair of teeth. Not my adult incisors in fact, as they are next to my front middle teeth i.e in the wrong place. My dental arrangements are pretty complex.

More alarmingly a recent x-ray showed that the milk teeth are hanging on by a thread, i.e their demise could be imminent. So when they do finally come out, I will have large gaping holes. Children will point and stare and run back to mummy, and I will inadvertently whistle when i talk like a mad old lady. Might as well grow a beard while I’m at it.

I'm still due two more visits from the Tooth Fairy

On a more positive note, that means I’m due two more visits from the tooth fairy. Yay! How much do you get these days? At least a quid, surely?

So two of our finest British pounds as compensation for becoming gappy, whistling bearded woman? Definitely worth it.

I’m hoping the Good Hair Fairy might take pity on me soon. Although the Ken Dodd look as shown here might divert attention away from the dental issues. Although the beard might balance it quite nicely?

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• Old School Photos {literally}

In my head, I have shapely lower legs, slender ankles and slim feet with long, delicate toes. They are a strong point, people compliment me on them, and skirts and strappy sandals are my friend.

Folded over legs or 'my stumps'

In reality, I have calves on the chunky side, big thick ankles, chubby small feet and even chubbier, stubby toes. Believe me, this photo is very, very flattering.

This is deeply unfair because I NEED slim ankles and dainty feet for the vast collection of elegant designer shoes which I own (in my head). I love shoes, but not that many of them love me apart from Birkenstocks, Uggs, Clarks and other footwear loved by lentil weavers.

A ‘friend’ once told me I didn’t have ankles at all, just ‘folded over legs’, and no feet ‘just stumps’. So I killed her.

I inherited the stumps from my mother. She was even more self-conscious than me and, as a teenager, used to make my Dad and his friends walk ahead of her so they couldn’t see her big fat ankles.

Having shoes made for my wedding day was a particular low point. I had lovely shoes made to match my dress, made to my design, with beading to match my dress and – ahem – a very low heel so I didn’t completely swamp MrSpud who is on the little side. During my first fitting it became apparent I would need EXTRA LONG ANKLE STRAPS to accommodate my vastness, oh the shame.

So back to the cobbler they went who, I am sure, still dines out of the Tale of the Heffer With Folded Over Legs to this day.

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Gosh, getting deep already and it’s only secret 4! By secret 30 I may be forced to reveal my former identity as a biker called Dave.

I lack intellectual curiosity

I’m reasonably smart, I’m well read, I’ve passed a host of exams and even have a good clutch of letters after my name and have had a successful career. But, here’s the thing and sssshhhh – I have absolutely no intellectual curiosity whatsoever beyond the very narrow areas of my natural interest or those which my work requires me to entrenched in. It’s not that I’m not capable of understanding the issues, I choose not to as it bores me. I’m shallow like that.

Politics, current affairs, business, the economy, history, science, technology…no thanks, I’d rather file my toenails. As a result I have a very loose grasp on some fairly fundamental issues and I regularly have to deploy my dazzling wit and charm to steer conversations away from the vast, gaping holes in my general knowledge. Any bets on how many years it is before my children discover that their mother is a bit of a thickie?

Poor MrSpud despairs of me, and continues his valiant attempt to broaden my mind with a daily flurry of excited emails with links to some tedious new scientific development or archaeological discovery and his seemingly unquenchable appetite for Time Team.

I’ve watched approximately 759 episodes of Time Team and haven’t enjoyed a single one of them. Or learnt anything. Or even developed an inappropriate crush on Tony Robinson or any of his bearded chums which would, at least, have made the wasted 759 hours of my life slightly more pleasurable.

Drink in knowledge? I’d rather drink in wine, since you asked. Cheers!

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