Translating Matt.

We know each other pretty well now, and can easily identify when the other is speaking crap.

A handy guide for understanding Matt, according to Bec:

Are you sleepy? – Can we have sex?

How’s your meal? – Can I have some?

Can I try just a little bit? – I’m going to eat more than half of it, and the best bit.

Matt teaches charm school in his spare time.

I was too busy to clean up this morning darling – I love having a long shower.

I was running late this morning – I stepped over the dog poo because it is gross.

Let’s go for a drive today – Let’s go four-wheel-driving for 5 hours.

Should we drive tonight? – I’m going to get maggot, so, what are you going to do?

I can’t remember how much it cost – You’re going to yell at me, so I’m not going to tell you.

I was too busy at work to run those errands today darling, I’m sorry – I got an ice-cream at lunch.

I don’t know, I think they’re a little boring to be honest – They weren’t into my music or jokes.

Yes darling, I filled Molly’s water bowl – No I did not.

How lovely – Why do you keep buying Mad Men dresses?

My television program is on! – Please don’t talk through the fourth re-run of Top Gear unless it will lead to sex.


The Amalfi Coast

Bec and Matt head to the beach in Amalfi

It was 9:15am and, in her apparent commitment to extinguishing all trace of her wedding dress diet/general health and well-being, Bec had just finished her first gelato for the day. The following conversation then took place.

Bec: Let’s go to the beach. We’re in Amalfi, let’s go to the beach.

Matt: OK.

Bec: Let’s get some beach chairs.

Matt: OK.

Bec: There’s a man with some beach chairs for rent. Let’s rent some beach chairs from him.

Matt: I think it’s a scam.

Bec: Why do you think it’s a scam?

Matt: Because beach chairs should be free.

Bec: Why should they be free?

Matt: Because it’s a beach. Beaches should be free.

Bec: But someone has to pack up the chairs and clean them and things.

Matt: OK.

Beach Chair Man: You want chair?

Matt: Cuánto?

Beach Chair Man: Excuse me?

Matt: Cuánto?

Beach Chair Man: Do you speak English?

Matt: I’m speaking Italian.

Beach Chair Man: No, you’re speaking Spanish.

Matt: Me parlo Italiano.

Beach Chair Man: Vuoi una sedia? Sono dieci Euro.

Matt: I don’t understand.

Beach Chair Man: The chairs are ten Euro.

Matt: That’s a lot for a chair.

Bec: Darling! Just get the chairs.

Beach Chair Man: It is ten Euro for two chairs. And you can use the toilet and the showers as well.

Matt: OK

Bec: Let’s go sit over there.

Matt: OK. I’m going to go to the toilet.

Bec: Hey, so, before you go, can I see your birth certificate? You just went to the toilet in the hotel. I want to be sure I haven’t married a three-year-old.

Matt: I have to go again.

*Two minutes later*

Matt: I’m back.

Bec: What’s that wet patch on the front of your shorts?

Matt: Nothing.

Bec: Is that wee?

Matt: No.

Bec: Are you not wearing any underwear?

Matt: Look, the man is coming.

Bec: What man?

Matt: The Beach Chair Man. He’s holding a piece of paper.

Beach Chair Man: Here you go. For you.

Matt: Is this a receipt for the chairs?

Bec: It’s a fine for weeing on your shorts.


Who are The Granfields?

Matt, Bec, Molly the dog, and a baby, who will arrive any moment now, are navigating the 21st Century without a compass. After three years of marriage and a move to the country, they have no idea what they’re doing, but their adventures into the unknown are mildly amusing.

Find out more about them here.

Health and Fitness

Does evening primrose oil work?

Bec: I went to the chemist to see if they had something for PMS and they recommended evening primrose oil, so I bought some.

Matt: Great. Do they have morning version as well?

Bec: No, that’s what it’s called. Evening primrose oil.

Matt: Does it work in the mornings?

Bec: It works all the time.

Matt: Excellent. What is it?

Bec: I don’t know. But it’s good for PMS.

Matt: Let’s Google it.

Bec: OK. It looks like it’s part of the Oenothera family.

Matt: It says here that you’re supposed to take evening primrose oil when you’re pregnant and that it helps cervical ripening.

Bec: I think you can do that, but it’s also good for PMS, the chemist said.

Matt: Good. What’s cervical ripening?

Bec: Do you really want to know?

Matt: No.

Bec: OK, well, anyway, I can take it throughout the month and it will work.

Matt: What does the ‘P’ in PMS stand for anyway. Is it ‘pre’ or ‘post’.

Bec: It’s ‘pre’.

Matt: Gosh that’s awful. So what happens when you hit menopause then? I know it’s a long way away, but what happens when you hit menopause?

Bec: What do you mean?

Matt: Well, if you have ‘pre menopausal stress’ for, like, 40 years, does it stop once you go ‘post’ menopausal?

Bec: PMS doesn’t stand for ‘pre menopausal stress’, it stands for ‘pre menstrual stress’.

Matt: Oh. I thought it was ‘pre menopausal stress’.

Bec: No.

Matt: So why are you in a bad mood so often then? If it was ‘pre menstrual’ wouldn’t you just be in a bad mood just before you had your period?

Bec: I’m only in a bad mood just before I get my period. On the Tuesday night before, remember?

Matt: *Cough*

Bec: What do you mean “*cough*”?

Matt: Nothing. I think it’s great that you have evening primrose oil.

Bec: OK.

Matt: Why did my mum call it ‘PMT’?

Bec: What did the ‘T’ stand for?

Matt: ‘Tension’.

Bec: She was probably tense because after she had you she probably decided the best thing to do would be to spare the human race and never have sex ever again. The decision would have been greeted with joy from the rest of the population, but, I imagine, a lot of tension forthwith for her.

Matt: Well that’s obviously not true because she had my brother.

Bec: Well maybe the ‘P’ stood for ‘post’ and the ‘M’ stood for ‘Matt’ then. I suffer from post Matt tension quite regularly.

Matt: Post marriage tension, more like. From not having sex enough.

Bec: That’s not fair.

Matt: Actually, you’re right. It’s not that you haven’t wanted to have sex since we got married, you’ve just have PMS and have been too busy telling me you hate me because I’m too pedantic when I cook breakfast for you and I have outrageous demands like wanting the toast to be ready at the same time as the bacon.

Bec: You’re not ‘pedantic’ in the kitchen, you’re a control freak.

Matt: Well maybe I should take evening primrose oil when I cook then.

Bec: I think you should take evening primrose oil whenever you decide to open your mouth.

Matt: I would, but I don’t want to get any cervical ripening.



Rebecca: Why do I have a pimple on my bum?

Matt: Because you talk too much.




Bec wouldn’t pose for any photos in Pompeii, so here’s one of her looking much happier in Venice

This is the story of me being a bitch at Pompeii. I was a bitch, but only because I find history boring, and I love eating. (N.B. Just to clarify I don’t really hate history, but I’d prefer to be talking with people and sharing good food and wine, than staring at old buildings or dirt – I’m not an archeologist. And; earlier in our honeymoon I concluded that if I can Google Image Search it, I’m not interested in standing in front of it, trying for a glimpse or photograph, and/or trying to avoid reaching second-base [Matt’s note: Second base is further than I got that day] with at least one of the 100,000 tourists competing for what I can view on my iPhone). I want cultural experiences – the view, sounds, tastes, feelings, smells (bacon), and conversation.

Matt knew this, because the day before we caught a train to Naples (from Florence) so I could eat a pizza. It was amazing and worth the train trip, expensive hotel room, and the litres of urine that lapped our Converse on Naples’ back streets as we walked to and from the pizzeria.

I digress. Matt decided on the way to Amalfi (pizza, gelato, limoncello etc.) that we should “pop into Pompeii”, because it’d “only take half an hour”.

Instead it took two, because we didn’t pay €700 for a map or ear-wax-decorated talking headset, got lost, and it turns out Pompeii is a city, not an apartment.

Post-lunch time, I couldn’t feign any more interest in looking at this:

The most interesting shot we could find of Pompeii

..and wanted the appropriately timed meal, so when Matt asked if there was anything there I found interesting, I offered “No”. My delivery was in the style of what he calls ‘Anti-Tout Face’ which to that point, had proven 100% successful in deterring sellers of ‘genuine’ Ray Bans and Louis Vuitton luggage from approaching us, in all cities. Basically it involves me looking blankly with my blunt-cut fringe and ski-jump nose. Alternatively, imagine what Oscar losers look like when they’re caught off guard. Without the bulimia.

He did not respond favourably.

He yelled. I yelled. I was “selfish”. He was a “jerk”. “Fuck” “fuck” “fuck”. This exchange was far more entertaining than my surrounds, so it didn’t bother me. Also; we got to leave.

Afterwards I explained to Matt that visiting Pompeii provided me as much entertainment as visiting a Kardashian home would for both of us. He kind of understood. Hashtag fact: You can’t like what you don’t.

Usually Matt is far more tolerant of my history aversion, and preference for eating above all other activities, however I think I’d pushed him to his limit, after getting upset with him earlier on our honeymoon, for weeing too much. Which was another totally rational reason to be upset. Now, Matt wants to blog about boring history…


For 500 or so years no one in ancient Pompeii looked at the giant volcano-shaped mountain behind them and thought “isn’t it a bit strange that we’re getting all these earthquakes, maybe we should live somewhere else instead of under a giant volcano-shaped mountain”. Even if you look at it now the mountain is unnerving. And imposing. It’s so high up there it snows, even though Mt Vesuvius is so far South in Italy it’s practically in Africa. In fact there are so many African men touting Gucci sunglasses and carrying Luis Vuitton handbags outside Pompeii that if you arrived in Pompeii as a blind person and the volcanic air miraculously cured you of your blindness you would think you WERE in Africa. A very gay part of Africa.

According to Wikipedia Mt Vesuvius is ‘the world’s most dangerous active volcano’ because it erupts spectacularly approximately every 50 years and lots of people live nearby. In 79AD ancient Pompeii was a city of 25,000 people. Now, in 2012, ancient Pompeii is a city of 4 million people. It’s not called ‘Ancient Pompeii’ anymore though, it’s called Naples, and it’s the birthplace of pizza. The official story is that sometime circa 1850 the Napolitans began adding tomato puree and melted cheese to their flat bread to make it more palatable. The most likely explanation is that they were forced to invent pizza because their normal sandwiches kept getting flattened by cheese-melting, lunch-ruining volcanic eruptions, and they figured they might as well cut to the chase, pre-melt the cheese, pre-flatten the bread and give themselves more time to run when Mt Vesuvius inevitably went nuts.

Rebecca wanted to call this post: ‘Why you shouldn’t take someone who has no interest in history, is worried about getting skin cancer, and likes to eat main meals at main meal times, to an historical monument, on a 35 degree day for two hours, in place of lunch.’ We settled, in the interests of brevity, on ‘Pompeii’.

There are two morals to this story:

  1. Mt Vesuvius ruins lunch
  2. Don’t ruin Rebecca’s lunch

Dolphins and Whales

Matt wanted to use a photo of beached dolphins. I told him that was disgusting. I got him to change his mind by telling him that Jessica Alba was in Flipper. Thus.

One of Matt’s strengths is trivialising important things.

Our conversation today, following a story on the radio RE: dolphins beaching themselves and a number of them dying:

Bec: Gosh, with all these dolphins and whales beaching themselves all the time and more often than not, dying, you think they’d have developed some kind of machine to pick them up and push them back into the ocean quickly. Every beach that’s a known trouble spot should have something like that.

Matt: Yes. Or they could just put signs up warning the dolphins and whales to turn back – that beaching themselves is dangerous.

Bec: Right.

Matt: Like they do with cigarette packets – have signs that show the damage cause by beaching.

Bec: Ri-ight.

Matt: No, you’re right. If the signs were on the beach it would be too late. You’d have to put them underwater.

Bec: Wow, not sure when I bought a ticket to this stand-up gig, but I want a refund.

Matt: Just below the low-tide mark.

Bec: …

Matt: I like your machine idea too.

Bec: You do? Really?

Matt: Yeah, they’d also be useful for picking up American Republican election refugees who’ve had too much ice cream and can’t get up out of the sand. You could make them pay $5 a go.


The – A new blog by wife and me

I just got married. Not just then, if I just got married then I’d be eating cake and drinking champagne, not writing a blog post. I got married less than a month ago though, to Rebecca McGuire, whose name is now Rebecca Granfield. In the spirit of modernity I offered for us to both change our names to Rematta McField, but she refused because she is old fashioned. I like that about her. We went to Italy on our honeymoon and had a big fight in Pompeii and decided that we should have a project together so we would love each other more instead of looking at history. I thought she was going to suggest we learn to dance or garden or something, which I wasn’t too fussed about, but we decided our project would be a blog about being newlyweds. Rebecca is piss funny and I love her so I said it was a good idea. It’s called The Granfields and our first post is about when Rebecca ate Weet-Bix in bed on our wedding night. That was my idea. The next post will be about our fight in Pompeii and then we’ll write about being newlyweds. I’m not sure what that entails, but we’ve got heaps of wine left over from the wedding reception so it should be pretty entertaining if nothing else.


How do we start this? Weet-Bix?

Matt: So shouldn’t this joint blog thing start at the beginning, rather than the fight we had in Pompeii on our honeymoon? Actually, I will rephrase that for the record, we didn’t have a fight in Pompeii on our honeymoon, you chucked a tantrum because you thought you weren’t going to get lunch and I was trying to find the ancient Roman amphitheatre and you wanted to see more dead plaster bodies and there weren’t any, anywhere. Except for that one. Which was pretty lame.

Rebecca: And, you were being a dick.

Matt: I wasn’t being a dick.

Rebecca: You were being a dick. Anyway, what do you mean by starting this blog ‘at the beginning’. Do you mean when we met for the first time when you saw my arse, like you mentioned in your wedding speech? I can’t believe you did that by the way. Why didn’t you talk about how much you loved me instead of my fat arse?

Matt: I talked about your arse for two seconds. And I said it wasn’t fat. I said in my wedding speech I was very pleasantly surprised that your arse wasn’t fat because we met ‘on the internet’ after you started following me on Twitter and all I could see from your Facebook photos was your face, and that you were so pretty I knew that you had to probably have a fat arse. And then when I met you outside your house on our first date your arse wasn’t fat at all. It was hot.

Rebecca: I’m sure you could have said something a little more meaningful than comment on the size of my arse.

Matt: It was a great speech. I’ve had numerous people come up to me independently and say it was the best speech they’ve ever heard. Very heartfelt. Very real.

Rebecca: I don’t believe we invited any deaf people to our wedding.

Matt: David and David said it was heartfelt.

Rebecca: Your brother?

Matt: No, David groomsman and David from work. Anyway. I think this blog thing should start at the beginning of our married life.

Rebecca: At the ceremony? That’s very sweet.

Matt: No, I don’t really remember the ceremony, it was too hot. I meant the wedding night.

Rebecca: The wedding night? No!

Matt: No, that’s the perfect place to start.

Rebecca: That’s too personal.

Matt: It’s not personal at all.

Rebecca: How is it not personal at all?

Matt: Because you came to bed, and then you got out of bed about five minutes later because you hadn’t eaten anything except lettuce and wholemeal pita bread for three months so you could fit into your dress and you wanted Weet-Bix…

Rebecca: You know that’s not true, as I hate vegetables, so I wasn’t eating lettuce. I was eating a lot of cheese though, and coke zero. You would remember this because you delicately told me that my breath stunk because of it…

Matt: And then you came back to bed and ate a bowl of Weet-Bix, in bed, on our wedding night. I would like the record to show that we consummated our marriage and subsequent life together with me having a diminishingly hopeful look on my face, and you eating a bowl of Weet-Bix. In bed. On our wedding night. Weet-Bix.

Rebecca: I ate Weet-Bix on our wedding night, AFTER what people do on their wedding night. Stop trying to get the sympathy vote by telling people all you got on our wedding night was disappointment. Especially given I had my Weet-Bix 12 minutes after being in bed with you.

Matt: OK, let’s not talk about our wedding night; let’s talk about your tantrum in Pompeii …