Chez Spud

An unusual post for me, a kind of Public Service Announcement…but I read an article last week which shocked and disturbed me, and it’s been on my mind ever since. Today MrSpud happened to read the same article and showed it to me. Similarly, it completely overturned everything he thought he knew about what someone who is drowning looks like…exactly as it did to me. He suggested I blog about the article in the spirit of sharing and, as you know, I always do as I’m told….;-)

The full article ‘Drowning doesn’t look like drowning’ by Mario Vittonne can be found here.  Please read it.  Please please read it because, the chances are, you think you know what a drowning person looks like (shouting, thrashing about, limbs flailing, waving arms etc etc). You’re wrong, totally wrong. Someone who is drowning will most likely be silent, still, not waving, or shouting, or thrashing about. I don’t want to paraphrase the article because I’m not a marine safety expert as Mario Vittonne is. Just read it, it will take 2 minutes and might save a life in the future.

The final paragraph:

“Sometimes the most common indication that someone is drowning is that they don’t look like they’re drowning.  They may just look like they are treading water …  One  way to be sure?  Ask them, “Are you alright?” If they can answer at all – they probably are.  If they return a blank stare, you may have less than 30 seconds to get to them.  And parents – children playing in the water make noise. When they get quiet, you get to them and find out why.”

The whole article perturbed me, mostly because I was appalled at how far away the reality of drowning is from the version I’ve learnt from the movies. It’s distinctly unpleasant to read about they physiological reactions to drowning, and the statistics are chilling. It’s an uncomfortable read, I’ll admit it. But then drowning isn’t exactly a trip to the fair either. Please read it.

I thank you.

x

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My Megaboys snuggled up this morning. Looks like they’re engrossed in a book doesn’t it? They’re not. They’d filched MrSpud’s iPhone, turned it on, broken the password and, having engaged in a little light movie snack, they are hard at work with their spelling using an app. Later they got busy with phonics on an iPad. It’s all oh..so…very 00s isn’t it? Who needs flashcards and tracing the letters when you can load up an interactive app on an iPad? There’s no replacement for 1:1 learning, and paper and pencil work…but the appeal of the ‘whizzy’ way is plain to see. Although it occurred to me, whilst watching them hard at work, that we’ve returned to the days of slate and chalk. Only the slate is a tablet of Apple loveliness and the chalk is our finger. What goes around comes around and all that. MrSpud told me that Diggy, puzzled at something not working whilst practicing his letters, looked at his finger and frowned.  That tickled me…his immediate assumption that his finger was faulty. Hope he’s got it covered by an Apple Care Protection Plan ;-)

I often ponder about whether my ingrained passion/obsession for ‘being connected’(for want of a better expression) will stay with me all my life. Or will it wane as the years get the better of me. When will I stop knowing and engaging in ‘the latest’, whether it be ‘puter, phone or gadget related or social media and whatever else is coming our way? Will I ever be like our grandparents’ generation…afraid of the VCR never mind a DVD player, unable and unwilling to use a mobile phone and referring to the internet as the “WWW DOT” as my grandad did?

Or has the technological revolution (shudder) over the last 30 years or so meant that we are the first generation of the Techno Tribe…who have been comfortable with technology and ‘being connected’ for so long that old age won’t defeat us? As octogenarians, will we still be doing the 2050s versions of Twitter, Facebook (I do HOPE that’s long dead by then), Foursquare, Spotify etc etc…and showing off our latest gadgets to our slightly alarmed great grandchildren?

It’s very rare that I’m truly curious about the future,  I much prefer to wallow in the past and enjoy today for what it is. But I would LOVE to know if my love love of CyberLife will stay with me for all my years. Or, when I’m old and crusty, will I idle away my hours crocheting, reading trashy novels and wondering why the hell I spent so much of my life glued to a computer. And was it worth it?

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Friends, boys, rivers, paddling, swimming, fishing (and catching two!), picnics, cold beer, sunshine, blue skies, birds singing, cattle a-lowing, stoats a-running … it’s hard to imagine a more blissful summer afternoon. I’m feeling very lucky to live in such a lovely spot. I didn’t know this place even existed until today and now I’m one of The Club…one of those In The Know.

It’s a pity Yoof turned up later, complete with Fiat Panda with the BIGGEST speakers in the boot known to man. Boom boom boom went the ‘music’….rev rev rev went the car’s pathetic little engine…swoon swoon swoon went the teenage girls…hurry hurry hurry we went back to our cars and home but luckily it was bedtime anyway.

River swimming is new to me. I think I ‘may’ have swum in a river on Dartmoor many moons ago? I actually didn’t swim today, too busy snapping to be honest. But it looked oh-so enticing on such a sultry afternoon and we couldn’t keep the boys out.

This morning we swam at the gym. We swam in the inside pool. Then we swam in the outside pool. I love the outside pool, it feels like such a delicious treat to be able to swim outdoors (even if it is on a light industrial estate on the A14). But swimming in a river? With cows looking over the fence, birds singing, fish leaping etc etc? Nothing can beat that.

When the Yoof are in school you can have the place to yourself, so I’m told. I’m thinking of tactics to drive away the Yoof. Classical music? Or should I just pay them to push off? Now I’ve found paradise I’ll be damned if I’m going to share it.  On the way home I was startled by a loud noise, and looked out of the car window only to spy a horse cantering along the stream running parallel to the road. It’s that kind of place. It wouldn’t surprise me if we saw a unicorn there one day.

The rest of the day was taken up planning a rocket build. Bertie has attempted the construction with various bits of wood in the garden, but has been persuaded that he needs to draw up a plan and make a list of essential items. He’s certain we can buy them all at ‘the rocket shop’ or ‘on mummy’s computer’. Here’s what we need:

• sticks
• planks
• matches
• space suits (heavy, no gravity in space)
• toys
• mummy and daddy’s computers
• bracelets
• steering wheel
• beds
• sleeping bags
• ropes (to tie sleeping bags to beds due to no gravity in space)
• blankets
• windows
• food
• table & chairs
• sofa
• TV
• watch
• compass
• levers
• electricity
• switches
• cushions
• books
• space toilet
• light
• cupboard
• camera for mummy to take photos of the moon
• binoculars to look at the earth with
• truck to drive around the moon on
• sellotape to stick everything down with
• honey
• Our cat and a space suit for him
• telephone
• ignition key
• Space bag to carry clothes in
• torch

That’s it so far. Tomorrow could be a busy day. If I don’t blog for a while it’s because I’m on the moon taking photos, wearing my space suit (heavy).

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Bertie went to his Big School today for a ‘settling in’ morning. I’ve no idea what it involved other than ‘a drink, a story, playing in the dragon’s cave and then you came to get me’. That’s a big improvement on his usual response to, ‘What did you do at nursery today?’ which is, ‘Nothing’. Great. So that’s money well spent then…

Here’s a quick iphone snap of Mr B having a last minute cuddle with His Love, our neighbours’ daughter who also went for her settling in session too. Bertie loves Imogen, but Imogen loves another. It’s a complicated 4 year old love ‘thing’. But, when the chips are down, these two stick together and what better way to start school than with a reassuring hug from a friend you’ve known since you were born?

We arrived at school, they went in to the classroom and I hung around in the doorway for a bit with Imogen’s father looking, and feeling, like a spare part. It was quickly apparent we weren’t required, so we shouted goodbye and they hardly even glanced at us, murmuring something that could have been ‘bye’ but quite possibly was ‘will you just get out of here you’re embarrassing us’. So we left and that was that.

Isn’t there supposed to be a bit of crying and clinging on? Or is that just for the parents? Sniff.

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This is not a post I ever thought I would write. But necessity means I must buy a new bike. When I say ‘new’ I mean I must replace the bike I bought when I was 18 (bought with the profits of selling my scooter, weep) which I rode about twice (both times clad head to foot in Laura Ashley) before giving it away in 2003 when I moved in with MrSpud. It was a Raleigh. It was pink. It had white wall tyres. It had a white wire basket on the front. MrSpud was embarrassed by it, but his ‘cool’ Shorditch mates thought it was ironic. How little they knew me, ho ho. It wasn’t an ironic statement…it was just totally uncool.

I think we can safely say I am not a passionate bike rider. I blame my parents. Well of COURSE I blame my parents, that’s what parents are for surely? My Dad ‘taught’ me to ride my bike when I was 3 by taking off my stabilisers and repeatedly pushing me down the hill in our garden until I ‘got it’. Harumph.

So, I don’t own a bike. But needs must. I have two bike riding pre-schoolers and I can no longer keep up with them in the forest by ‘jogging’ (think: shambling along and gasping for breath like a committed smoker). I need a bike so I can keep up. Although I’m not sure what I do when one or other refuses to cycle anymore since, currently, that involves me carrying either a child or a bike (and frequently both) miles back to the car. Woe is me.

MrSpud, a very keen cyclist, has all manner of ideas of some kind of ‘hybrid’ bike for me (d’ya see how I’m getting the lingo?). He’s thinking this, a Trek Allant. Kind of cool?  Apparently I needn’t limit myself to girls’ bikes. There’s no reason why I can’t ride a ‘male’ bike as long as I’m prepared to get my leg over further, as it were ….ahem.

This is EXCELLENT news. As what I really want is a Pashley bike. Oh swoon…vintage styling…handmade loveliness thou shalt be mine. Pretty much all of their ‘contemporary’ bikes should be in my garage, but I’m quite taken with the Tube Rider – Double Scoop. Add a Leather Handle Bar Bag at a cost of £195.00 (getting on for half the price of the bike) and I’m all set.

Kind of dreamy huh? Although possibly the charm of its pastel loveliness might wear off. It’s a pity of terrified of traffic otherwise I’d be ordering it tomorrow. But, alas, the Pashley loveliness isn’t going to cut it in the forest. That’s only an out an about on the road kind of bike. Hmm. So what I need is TWO bikes. All of a sudden I’ve gone from zero bikes to needing TWO bikes. One for the forest and one for the road (although, sshhh, isn’t that what cars are for?).

But it’s OK. MrSpud (currently owner of 3 bikes, one about to be sold to be replace by …er…another bike apparently) has admitted he’s a FIVE bike bloke. Erm, racing bike, road bike, mountain bike….and two other bikes that I can’t remember since I’d glazed over at that point. He definitely wants yay NEEDS a Pashley too. Apparently we will dress up in vintage clothing, smoke gigantic pipes and grow vast moustaches (even me) and then potter around Suffolk on our his ‘n’ her Pashleys.

Who cares what bikes he wants though. The point is this: his five bikes equals my TINY two bikes plus pricey camera equipment. Plus, bonus, my camera kit actually EARNS money through client work. Score! I win, as ever, I win.

I’m a bit cross about spoiling the look of the lovely Pashley with a helmet though. It will detract rather from its ‘Brideshead’ elegance, no? Although possibly my big, fat, gurning, sweaty face will detract more…

I haven’t actually ridden a bike since 1990 but I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’ll be like, er, riding a bike. Won’t it?

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Last weekend, at the beach, I spotted my 10 year old self. An only child I suppose, since no siblings were in evidence nor cousins or friends. Just her, plus parents and assorted grandparents. She pottered about the beach on her own, making up games, paddling, making sandcastles, swimming a bit. Every once in a while she’d call out to her family, ‘Look at me!’ or some such. But, mainly, she watched the other groups of children rather wistfully…clearing wishing she could join in. She’d edge nearer and nearer, and then back off again. Later, a very glamourous Italian teenage girl turned up. “I wish I could be like her”, I could almost read her mind since 10 year olds haven’t yet developed the skill of covert observation. My heart broke a little bit watching her since she reminded me so much of myself at that age. A little bit plump and plain, comfortable and confident in the presence of adults but always wishing I could part of whatever group or clan I inevitably was excluded from. And I definitely always suffered from French/Spanish/Italian teenage girl envy on the beach, always wanting to be older, taller, slimmer, more suntanned etc etc.

Then, somewhere along the line, I shed my awkwardness and put on the Confident Cloak instead. If I want to join a group of people, I join in. I no longer want to look like an Euro Teen. I’m comfortable in my skin. How did that happen? Did I do it myself, though a combination of nature/nuture/force of personality? Or was it instilled in me by my parents, friends and peers?

A friend’s son, 4, seems to be suffering from low self confidence and, when his brother tells him that he’s a ‘rubbish waste of space’ the boy will cry and agree, ‘Yes I AM a rubbish waste of space’. His mother was chewing over how she can help him to believe in himself, how she can bolster his self-confidence and teach him to stick up for himself a bit. We were both a bit stumped for ideas and I’ve been mulling on it ever since.

So how DO you help someone to love themselves, to have confidence and be proud of who they are? Success, does that breed confidence? Should we be helping our children by creating situations where they can succeed and be proud of their achievements? That seems so artificial but surely self-confidence must, in part, be reinforced by the confidence others have in us?

But it’s SELF-confidence. The nub of the issue is in the title. It’s something that we, as individuals, have to find in ourselves. And I don’t know how you do that. But I wish I did so I could parcel some up for the wistful girl on the beach and the 4 year old boy who, quite genuinely, thinks that he’s “rubbish”.

Anyone got any ideas? All gratefully received.

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