It’s All Gone Potato-Shaped

Remember a little while back I introduced you to a new family addition called Mr Potato? He first came into family life not long after lockdown started, when Mumma B found a misshapen potato in the shopping. She took a liking to the vegetable and before you know it you’re fighting for parental love from a flipping potato.

Well patience has finally paid off and it’s now with a heavy(-ish) heart that I have to report Mr Potato is no more.

He’s wrinkly, he’s shrivelled and, in Mumma B’s own words, it’s started sprouting stuff from the back of his head.

(And technically his bum, but lets not dig too deeply into that.)

Mr Potato is now in the compost bin. Actually, given the rate of decompostation for your average potato, I’d probably say he’s more likely to be feeding Papa B’s runner beans in the polytunnel. But again, we’re really splitting hairs here.

If you are just as upset as Mumma B over this development can I kindly suggest you invest in a new hobby. Also, I have reason to believe that during his/its lifetime Mr Potato was a little bit right wing…

And trust me, in our household there are enough personalities going on to then try and fit a Boris lover in there as well.

So, in short, Mr Potato is gone and life is certainly no worse for it. Lets just leave it at that (please, Mum?)


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Betrayed by a Toblerone

he Repair Shop is on, but we can’t watch that because of your father.’

‘Is that because the clock repair guy?’


At which point Mumma Bennett quickly switched channel to the more favourable Homes Under the Hammer in case the family member suddenly made an appearance. (Although usually that occurrence is preceded with the sound of creaking floorboards and my sister calling out ‘the kraken has awoken!’ from her lady cave upstairs.)

To my dad, a clock maker, the clock repair fella on the aforementioned television program represents a sour relationship from a time now since passed. Their falling out was probably the only time I had to give counselling to my old man.

‘Perhaps I should call him again.’

‘Dad he’s not interested, if he was he’d have contacted you last week when you emailed him.’

‘But maybe he didn’t see it.’

‘Dad…I know it is hard to accept but perhaps it’s time to let go. Here, let me get you an ice cream.’

‘I’ve texted him.’


And that’s the thing, to my dad the feeling of ES_c0af6c02-0371-4c24-9c11-3e51d230b6cdSELRES_bc66a467-30bb-4348-8029-e005ac1betrayal SELRES_bc66a467-30bb-4348-8029-e005ac142724SELRES_c0af6c02-0371-4c24-9c11-3e51d230wasn’t marked by a singular event but more ongoing jabs. How the other party continues to ghost my pa but happy to lap up minor celeb status as an apparent expert on horological affairs.

In a very different example people tend to interpret the Biblical Judas as a man who betrayed Jesus (I know, what a novel concept). In Christian theology Judas is seen as not a nice guy but then his actions in turning against Jesus led to the salvation of humanity. If he hadn’t turned Jesus in for 30 silver coins would we be in a better place than we are now? Would it be worse? Would Toblerones still be the same size? I guess there’s some things we’ll never know.

Don’t, I can’t bear to look at it.

For me when it comes to defining a back-stabber I think of it as more someone that damages the reputation of oneself or one’s trade. Don’t get me wrong, when BankUK stuffed up my mortgage application I was pretty miffed about my treatment but on reflection (and having conducted a number of Financial e-learning courses) I see that what they did was incredibly immoral to the institution as a whole, as well as myself as a customer. It undermined the wider financial industry and the rules that govern lending.

I also see the creative efforts of certain authors, artists, directors etc. as a criminal act. I’m sure you can think of a multitude so I won’t name any in particular *cough* Twilight Saga *cough, cough* Burn After Reading. Such tragedies are anything but Shakespearian.

Also, why is it called “Good Friday” when something bad happened on it? I mean you don’t go ‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss Sally. Was it a “good” Monday?’ In terms of emotion I feel rather ‘meh’ today on Good Friday. More meh than good, which makes me question everything about my almost non-existent Christian card I use.

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“On Good Friday? JESUS DIED INDIA!”


The concept of betrayal is more complex than we give it credit for. Does the pain of betrayal make us intelligent beings or are we human because we’ll use that intelligence to better ourselves no matter the cost? Are we no more than immature children (after all, wars have been started for little more than a perceived betrayal of treaties). I suppose it’s something scholars have discussed and argued over for many centuries and a topic that will be debated over for years to come.


Today’s WordPress prompt was Betrayed and given today is Good Friday I wonder over the choice of daily prompt (WordPress being, after all, a forum of all creeds and faiths). This post is admittedly rather forced and not my best (starting with such a fun topic to write about is like trying to make a puppy cute when its head is already half hanging off). It’s a hard task is all I’m saying.

On a lighter note, here’s a pop video about Moscow:


If you were unfulfilled before I hope you are now satisfied, if you held my work in high regard before I expect your expectations have been suitably lowered. I will not pass judgement on either.

“You’ve started a blog. That’s nice, but can you actually earn any money from it?” Mother Bennett

My family are the centre of my world. They have been there through thick and thin, from my first swimming lessons to my move to Swindon. There was the time I baked a fruit loaf (“Alice that’s a brick”), the time I went through my side-fringe phase (“we were so relived when you got rid of that, it never suited you”) and this one time when I was six:

“Mum, India and I were playing builders and plumbers…” (side note, ‘builders and plumbers’? One for the feminists right there) “…and my arm really hurts”

“I’m sure it’s nothing dear, just a sprain.”

[Weeks later]

“Ow! Ow! Mum my arm still really hurts!”

“Fine! we’ll go to a doctor about it.”

[Days later]

“Your daughter has broken her arm.”


That aside they have supported me more than any daughter could expect. When my secondary school told me I wasn’t ‘academically able’ to even aspire to a Russell group University my family stuck by me and helped me turn statistical predictions of CCC into real grades of AAB. Tears, exhaustion and, finally, joy. Getting into Southampton changed my life and I have my family to thank for it.

Ok, so have you got the point about how key my family is to me? Good, I can stop centring this text now.

So, in homage to them, I will be writing a post on each of my close¬†family. Given their importance to me I guess I should have done these posts sooner, but then explaining my housemates kinda took over in importance due to the blog title. I mean, “My Mother Is a Retired Part Time Teacher” didn’t really spring to mind during the 30 seconds it took to decide on a blog title.

Any who, here goes. Where better to start than with my dear mother, alias Lynn, alias Mumma, Bennett…


(Mumma Bennett and a Greek waiter. If she’d not been constricted by British values she’d have probably hit him for embarrassing her in the restaurant.)

The best way to sum up my mum is to picture Mrs Bennet. No, not my actual mum, but Mrs Bennet from the higher popular (God knows why) novel, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Mrs Bennet by name and nature, mum love to fret over things, especially her two daughters. She dispares that the pair of us will never find boyfriends or, long term, suitable middle-class husbands. Every weekend is spent with her asking me if there is anyone on the scene, and every weekend she’ll let out a little sigh when I say no. I’ll come back from a social evening out and the next day I’ll be asked “were there any nice guys there?” “Mum!!” “What?! I’m just asking!” She may not be as bad as Miranda’s mum from the BBC sitcom who tries any and every attempt to pair off her daughter, but give it a year and I’m sure we’ll be there.

Actually, take that back, having watched that clip I’ve decided she is Miranda’s Mum.

My mum is the head of the household. Dad may like to think that he rules the roost, but if it wasn’t for mum dad would be ruling more of a pig sty than a roost. A pessimist by nature, she is the force that keeps Mr Bennett from undergoing some of his wacky ideas, and believes that if a panoramic view is really worth seeing you won’t have to climb up narrow steps because it’ll be on an interpretation board at ground level. Winding¬†Asian con-callers up is another one of her many skills:

“What can you see on your online banking screen madam?”

“I can see a frog”

“What sorry? A fr-og?”

“Yes, and it’s dancing. A dancing frog!”

“I’m sorry madam, I don’t understand. Can you go back a screen?”

“There’s now a rabbit on the screen. It’s smiling at me.”

“Please click refresh madam.”

“Oops now the screen is black. Oh well, this was fun, bye!”

When she’s not winding me or half of Asia up with her comments she’s running around fretting over something or someone. In Summer 2011 it was four months of “oh I hope you get into Southampton, don’t you?” “Yes mum, this time and the time you mentioned it this morning, half and hour ago and the 500 times before that.”

Spring 2014: “I hope you get this job with English Heritage, don’t you?” “Yes mum, although it’s been over a week now and I’ve still heard nothing.” “Yes, but I still hope you get it. Check you emails again!”

Summer 2014: “I hope India gets into Cardiff, don’t you?” “The weather is lovely today, don’t you think?”

We’re currently in a lull because India and I are happy and stable where we are, which bizarrely frustrates her because there’s nothing to worry about. This is probably why the boyfriend topic is making a come-back. Poor guy, if and when I do find someone she’s going to stalk them to oblivion “Show me a picture. What does he do? What did he study and where?” She does this with my current friends and I doubt she’ll ease off for any partner of mine or India’s.

Photo wise there’s always very few of her. Like me, she believes the camera is her mortal enemy and therefore prefers to act as photographer rather than model. That said, none of the Bennett clan are about to be Britain’s next top model and when forced into it she can put up with the odd photo:


For all her fretting and pesamism though, mum is one of the key rocks that keep our family strong. If you can tolerate Deal or No Deal and have a special place in your heart for Kirsty Allsop and Phil Spencer (Phil on his own is ok. but anything where Kirsty is on her own is the work of the Devil) then odds are you’ll get on. Do you like tea? If you didn’t before you met mumma Bennett you certainly will after a day with her.

So that’s mum. More on my other family members to follow.

To be continued…

Oh, mum also does this indescribable movement that’s half walk/half run and does it up and down the house. She also randomly jumps up and down in the kitchen from time to time. No one knows when these random actions started or why she does them, but it’s her thing. I wasn’t really sure where I could fit this nugget of information in, but I felt compelled to say it.