Chez Spud

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?

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.

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!

I’m a neat, tidy and organised kind of person. My house is nearly always very tidy and clean, and everything is well organised. I spend a lot of time and energy keeping it that way and I’m very house proud. Spick ‘n’ span Spud, that’s what they call me.

Secret 3...every day I go in to batle with my domestic slattern

But no, listeners, wait…spick ‘n’ span Spud has an evil twin sister …Slattern Spud, who really can’t be bothered to tidy up, put away, ready for …another day [any Doodle Do fans out there?]. Slattern Spud just looks at the mess and thinks, “Why bother? It will be messy again in about 5 minutes and there’s only me and the boys here anyway, so I’ll just have a nice sit down with a cup of tea and a biscuit instead”

I’ve noticed Slattern Spud has been around quite a lot more since we moved to The Country. I’m beginning to doubt whether I’m genuinely a spick ‘n’ span Spud at all. In Days of Yore my neat freak habits even extended to the workplace. I used to make my team tidy up on a Friday because I couldn’t stand to see the office untidy. ‘Tidy Fridays’, that’s what I called them. ‘Stupid cow’, that’s what they called me…

So here’s a totally candid shot of our playroom today. This was immaculately tidy until I popped upstairs to fetch something. This is what the boys had done in less than 5 minutes. I think I’ll just leave it like that and get MrSpud to tidy it up later. Because I don’t think that a 12 hour day including 4 hours of commuting is any kind of excuse for him not doing domestic chores. I’ll just direct from the sofa.

So, join with me, and set your inner domestic slattern free. She’s screaming to get out.

Not such a big secret, but it was at the time. I met MrSpud in 2001, in the infancy of internet dating when it wasn’t as usual or acceptable as it is now. My grandfather recommended it and, encouraged by the success of Cousin Julie who met her fireman husband (takes a moment to consider Men In Uniform) on the WWW DOT, as my grandad calls it, I decided to take the plunge.

So MrSpud was my first ever ‘for real’ internet date, although there had been a lot of chattering and, frankly, flirting with others before MrSpud ‘had me at hello’ with his tales of his love for gardening and his lack of stature.

Sneaky Kiss for MrSpud

“I’m 5 ft 5 by the way” was possibly the second thing he ever told me. He just laid it out like that, and said he knew his height was a problem for some [clearly crazed] women so he wanted to be upfront about it. I love that, a little bloke with no chips on his shoulders about it. Perhaps he’s too little to bear the weight of the chips? Perhaps the chips have crushed his spirit? Perhaps he ate the chips? Did he have ketchup with the chips? Who can tell.

We met on a deceased dating site called, cringe, www.woohoo.com. Oh the shame. I met him during my one month free trial. He’s paid £30 for his full year’s membership, clearly expecting lasting love and fulfillment to take a little longer than a month. He still claims I owe him £15. He’s funny and a little bit picky like that.

I was so embarrassed that I’d met him on the internet that, at the time, I told people I’d met him in a bar. Makes me hoot that I thought that picking up randoms in bars was somehow more acceptable than picking up randoms on the WWW DOT.

Mr and Mrs Spud

Creeps in quietly and looks around … is there anybody there, said the traveller, knocking on the moonlit door etc etc..no one? In the meantime I’ll just whitter on to myself. I’m an only child, I’m used to it. Also, I remain sure in the knowledge that there is no one more fascinating in the universe than myself (I’m an only child, did I mention that already?)

Secret 1 - I have double jointed elbows

Welcome to chez spud, home to random ramblings, chitchat, old fashioned yarns, hopes ‘n’ dreams ‘n’ fears, a lot of chat about children all washed down with a gallon of tea and cake. Any takers?

I’m not going to bother with a tedious introduction about myself, what films I like, what books I’ve read, my hobbies and other dreadful trivia.  Let’s bypass all that and assume I’m a regular normal person yadda yadda yadda, I watch the stuff you watch, I read the stuff you read….let’s cut to the chase and get intimate (no not like THAT, it’s far too early, and I’m British remember). So here is the first of a series, 30 secrets in 30 days…30 little known facts about me and a photo or two to boot.

Listen and learn…

Secret 1…I have double jointed elbows. Well, I don’t as there is no such thing but that’s the phrase most of you normal jointed folks use. My elbows hyper extend, see freaky photo and you’ll get the idea. They also then rotate kind of back on themselves too, hard to get a shot of that. Every now and again my head spins round too….and I have this strange 666 marking on my scalp…

Alas there is no useful purpose to my flexi arms beyond sheer entertainment value. In a previous job I was made to ‘do the arms’ for all new members of staff, as part of their induction. Kind of, ‘Here’s the photocopier, here’s the stationary cupboard,  oh and here’s our resident freak…go on, do the arms’. And then some poor person would have to politely watch me do my party trick and attempt not to vomit.

Random musing – I have finally worked out who I look like with my new, dodgy growing out hair style. Imelda Staunton. This came to me during pilates this morning whilst admiring my downward dog in the mirror. I caught a glimpse of myself from the side and, trying to ignore my big red face, it finally clicked. Imelda Staunton, and not in a good way either.