Tag Archives: Spud Bud

Sick O’Clocks

16 Jan


no-one turned up for the imaginary party which is just as well, because poor Spud is ill.  Think ‘wasting disease’ rather than ‘gastroenteritis’. 

He came back from the City game yesterday with a temperature and a grumpy mood, despite the win.  We sent him to bed and I even went as far as giving him two paracetamol: only given in extreme cases because I blame everything on wind and you don’t need pain killers for wind unless it turns out to be appendicitis, which it once did but you’ve heard that story so I’ll gloss over it. 

Checking on him thirty minutes later, I found him tearful because he was ‘wasting his birthday by lying in a dark room.’  He was much happier once he was allowed to lie on the bed and watch his brother play an X-Box game.  So much happier, in fact, that he sent his brother downstairs to play so that they could battle online.

Tory Boy came home specially for Spud’s birthday, because he’s a nice brother.  His flatmates won’t think he’s nice.  He has an alarm that is set to ‘Kill’ because nothing less will wake him, and he suddenly realised he forgot to switch it off before coming home for the weekend.  His room is locked and the alarm has no automatic cut-off, and he has it on good authority (fill in the swear words) that it can be heard on the third floor from his ground floor room.

I guess the moron gene doesn’t fall far from the apple tree: the Hub gave me a new alarm clock and I can turn it off and on but I can’t change the settings so, if I wanted to be up at eight on the weekend, for example, I have to get up at six-forty-five because that’s when my alarm is set.  Plus, it is gaining time and is already so fast that I’m actually being woken at six-thirty.  Another couple of weeks and I won’t need to bother going to bed because it will be getting-up time.

Time to get a new clock, I think.

Bappy Hirthday, Spud

15 Jan

  Spud is fifteen today.  This is the same child who was nearly ten pounds at birth (thank goodness for caesareans) and looked like the ‘V’ alien baby.  He was the biggest child born in the hospital that week and staff from all over the wing popped in to the nursery every day to have a look at the little monster. 

He used to stick his hand down my top as a toddler, for no reason that I ever learned.  He liked to load a toy shopping trolley with shoes, walk them up and down the hall, and repeat to himself, ‘Shooss’.  He developed a taste for formal attire at the age of three, and went everywhere in a waistcoat and dicky bow.

He’d better wear one tonight: he’s having a fictional party.  Yesterday at school, some of his friends joked about him having a party; then someone created an event on Facebook.  Despite his repeated denials, he has had at least thirty messages asking him if it’s true.  I posted a message to say that it’s not, but anyone who turns up will be offered a slice of pizza, a glass of coke and a duster: if that many people are coming, they can make themselves useful.  I already raised him; I’m not cleaning up after him as well.

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