Tag Archives: Children

Tomorrow And Yesterday And The Day Before And Tonight

20 Nov

The Tree of War is no more.  Now it’s death in Macbeth.

Alex is playing Macbeth.  Here he is in rehearsal:

Photo (C) Cog Photography

That boy knows how to commit to a part.  So much so, he passed out briefly last night when the Witches yanked his head back while he was hyperventilating. Fortunately, the Witches were the only ones who noticed.  He said he came to, mumbled for a moment, then went straight back into his line.

He’s a physical actor.  He bruised his hand quite badly in The Tree of War, punching a piece of wood each night.  He also hurt his back a little, falling (as per the script) from the wall going over the top.  He didn’t say anything until after the run because he didn’t want any of that ‘health and safety rubbish’ putting a stop to his performing.

Here’s the Macbeth trailer:

An interesting fact: WordPress spell checker suggested ‘machete’ for Macbeth.  Who knew blog hosts could be so Freudian?

Look What I Did!

18 Apr


Somebody went to hospital twenty-five years ago and all they brought back was this lousy mountain man.


Happy birthday, Hairy Boy.

Love you xx

Happy Birthday, Spud

15 Jan

Spud is nineteen today.  Happy birthday, my little potato cake.

He got there despite all the roasting I’ve given him, half-baked parent that I am. To be fair, though, I never beet him; and I yam a loving mother to my sweet potato.

He’s a chip off the old block because he’s a Golden Wonder to me, and never grates my nerves, fries my beans or sets me boiling.  I’ve done my best to raise a good crop and he hasn’t given me any hasselback, despite the many downright hash browns I’ve made.  We’ve had a lot of fun and latke, that’s for sure; though I sometimes leave him steaming, but that’s no skin off my nose.  Still, I don’t want to be peeling him off the walls.  He is my King Edward, after all; and he who pays the Maris Piper calls the tune.

Well, I’d better go – I hear him gnocching but he can’t come in because I’m typing this.  I don’t want him stewing; that will leave me having to sauté him out and it is his birthday.

Happy birthday, my darling little tater tot.  Here’s a birthday mashup for you:


The Reviews Are In…

3 Dec

The above video shows snippets of the Cabaret cast in rehearsal.  As Spud had no dancing to do – to his immense relief – there’s only a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shot of him.

A lovely email from a friend reminded me that I have been pretty quiet of late (the Hub has just fallen out with that particular friend; I can’t think why).  I must remember to change my encouraging subscriber tag line from Try to keep up; I talk a lot to Try to remember me; I forget to blog

I’ve been busy with one thing and another, this and that, bits ‘n’ pieces, the usual. I hope that clears things up?

I did take time out from my busy schedule to visit Spud in Sheffield and watch him in Cabaret.  Naturally, he was wonderful.  The whole show was, especially the three leads, including Sergio Filipe as the Emcee, who had better legs, lines and moves than any of the girls.  And I say that without any bias, because you know I never boast about my children or their friends.

And I managed to type that whole paragraph with a straight face.

If you don’t believe me about how great he/it was, you can read two reviews:

This is from a student paper, lb, which says that 

Alex Cosgriff as Cliff Bradshaw and Tori Klays as Sally Bowles gave fine performances as the lead couple. Cosgriff’s journey from awkward enjoyment to disillusionment felt perfectly natural…

And this from a Sheffield paper, The Star:

CSUPAS have produced a terrific rendition of Joe Masteroff’s original 1966 Broadway production.

Alex Cosgriff plays shy novelist, Clifford Bradshaw. He arrives in 1930s Berlin and soon finds himself falling in love with Sally Bowles, an English singer at the Kit Kat Klub.

We get a pleasant surprise when the reticent Clifford duets with Sally later in Perfectly Marvellous and reveals a great singing voice.

Now do you believe me?  

Spud sent me the links with the following excited message:

My first review that wasn’t written by my Mum!  

Like I’d ever be biased.


Tomorrow Belongs To Spud

19 Nov

As I type this, Spud is appearing in a student production of Cabaret, as Cliff Bradshaw (the love interest – they do know he was my baby just two months ago, hey?).

The trailer above is from that production, but features only the Emcee (they do know that Spud is in it as well, hey?).  

The video below is from another production, and is not Spud.  I include it to show you the song he’ll be singing:

But I prefer this version:

Boromir Fed My Child Last Night

25 Sep

This is absolutely true.

But, as I have mentioned, truth is relative…

Spud went off to Sheffield University on Sunday.  It’s forty minutes away by train; nearly three hours in a car when there’s no direct motorway, you have to trek through the Pennines, and there’s a big event on.  It took two hours to travel two miles at one point.

I have two children, both sons.  For all of the similarities they have, I might as well have a dragon and an iguana: they’re both lizards but you wouldn’t let one of them near your princess or the other your salad.

On their respective first days at university, one child kicked us out the minute the car was empty; the other encouraged us to do his unpacking for him.

One boy enjoyed Freshers’ Week so much, he made a point of going back early in his subsequent years; the other had decided by Tuesday night that he’s not a party-party-party kinda guy.

One son was irritated by the amount of food I insisted he take; the other was irritated that I had only packed enough for one term.

One lad didn’t call home for the first three months and when he did, made Marcel Marceau look like a gossip; the other has called home every day, because he knows we want to hear about all of the interesting things he’s doing.

Spud called today to tell us about meeting his tutor – he and Spud are the only males in a gaggle of girls.  They discussed the psychology of favourite biscuits for thirty minutes.  Looks like it’s going to be an interesting course.

He has signed up for various societies – dramatic, musical theatre, singing…oh, and the psychology society (‘Psychos’) as an afterthought, though he didn’t pay for a three-year membership in case he’s too busy to go because he’s rehearsing.

He mentioned that he had chips on the way home last night.  A small chippy owned by Sean Bean’s family offered free vouchers for chips, paid for by Sean Bean.  Yorkshiremen are renowned for being careful with their money but he obviously broke the stereotype.

I hope Spud gets talent spotted at one of his societies, moves to Hollywood, and pals up with his chip donor so I can finally ask the questions which have niggled me for years: who on earth named Sean Bean?  And why isn’t his name pronounced Shorn Born or Sheen Been?

I’m missing my baby.  I missed my other baby when he first left home; but then he kept coming back between moves, leaving more of his stuff each time.  I don’t have space to miss him at the moment: it’s taken up with boxes of clothes (a lot), books (a library) and Yu-Gi-Oh cards (some children never grow up).  The youngest child has made up for that by taking only what he thought he might need with him (not much); leaving what he wanted to hold on to but which was not essential for uni (even less); and chucking the rest (making a butter mountain look positively frugal).

So, with all of these differences, was my reaction the same to their leaving?  

No, it wasn’t.

With Tory Boy, I was caught up in his excitement and it was only when we said goodbye that I surprised everyone – not least, myself – when I burst into tears.

With Spud, I was tearful all week but didn’t sob (much) at our goodbye because I had become so crippled by holding it all in.  Of course, he didn’t see the tears flow in the car on the way home, having abandoned me for student dissipation.

Such a good look on me, don't you think?

Such a good look on me, don’t you think?

The boys do have some similarities. Tory Boy phoned on Sunday night and we had a conversation that I could have had with either one of them after an upsetting day:

Tory Boy:  I was worried about you; I wanted to know if you’re okay?

Mum:  I’m fine, thank you, sweetie. Managing, anyway.

Tory Boy.  Good, good…so: did you cry more for him or me?



Dumb Mum & Funny Boys

7 Sep

Two daft moments from yesterday

A Serious Talk


I woke up at three in the morning last night and saw the hall lamp was on which meant that Spud was still out and hadn’t let me know he’d be back so late.

My text: Where are you?!!

Spud’s reply: In Tory Boy’s room.



From lookimadethat.com

Tory Boy was asking me about Holy Communion and I told him about the time I influenced a vicar.

She always used a piece of bread from her latest open loaf at home for the communion bread and, discussing it one day, I mentioned that I loved it when she used the occasional bun because of the symbolism of its wholeness/completeness/the actual breaking of bread, and so on.  She didn’t say anything but she must have liked the idea because after that, she always used a bun at communion.

Tory Boy: So what you’re saying is, your vicar thought the bun was the best thing since sliced bread?


Vivinfrance's Blog

mainly poetry, also quilts, pictures, life-writing and the occasional short story.


Where is the heart of Stockport?

The Jog

notices and reflections in ministry

The Cvillean

The adventures of little read writing Hood

Guernsey Evacuees Oral History

An Overlooked British Evacuation


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