Another Day Out In Belfast

Finished my Christmas shopping in Belfast today. Yippee! I had a really enjoyable day too. Just got it finished about an hour before my train was due so I took a little rest on the benches beside the Christmas market. I got in a conversation with an older gentleman who recognised my accent. Turned out he had been a Police Sergeant in my home town for nearly 30 years. After establishing that he had never had cause to arrest me, we dandered on to Great Victoria Street to wait for our respective trains. He knew all the people from around my part of the country so the craic was good.

It occurred to me that I am now a very junior member of a club, the folk who like to get out and about using their SmartPass.

There was one slightly sour note on the train home. I had grabbed a cup of coffee at the station and because I was early got on the train about ten minutes before it was due to leave. There was a choice of seats so I picked one with a table so I could put my drink down. Shortly before the train left a couple with two well-grown children got on and as they passed me the mother said, "One person sitting in seats meant for four." They headed past, obviously looking for four seats together. Moments later they came back and  she said it again! Making sure I got the message. I was telling Bert the story when I got home and he asked,

Did you consider giving them your seat?

What do you think? I should have said, 'Even though you are an ill-mannered harridan, I will let that go past. Please take this seat so that you, your ruffian of a partner and your great lumps of children can sit together. It would be my pleasure.' If they wanted a choice of seats they should have got there earlier. 

I have considered since that if it had been a sweet family, with two little children like Martha and Evie and they looked like they would dearly love to sit together I would gladly have found myself another seat.

Jilted!

There was this boy I fell in love with way back in 1976. It was a short relationship, late summer to Christmas Eve and its end took me by surprise. He was a very attractive boy, maybe a little on the small side but that didn't matter for I am short too. My mother did not take to him. I think she found him glib. To tell the truth she did not take to anyone I went out with for she suspected (rightly) that I was not adhering to the teachings of the Holy Catholic Church. This boy, I will call him David, was not from Ireland and he must have been quite lost to end up adrift in Ballymena. He had nowhere to live and was sleeping on various friend's sofas. I think he might have wanted us to find a place together but I had a daughter and I knew that she and I were both better off living at home with my family.

I was so happy then. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I must have known that David and I were not going anywhere but I ignored these doubts. We were both so young. Our jobs were crap and we had very little money.

Christmas Eve came. I hadn't got David a present. He said it didn't matter. I said I would buy him a gift after Christmas. He said he had something for me but he would give it to me on Christmas Day. He wanted me to stay with him that night but I had my taxi booked. I needed to be home to sort my daughter's Santa presents. He pleaded. I was firm. I would see him at Rob's party the next day.

He never came to Rob's party and no-one knew where he was. There were no mobile phones in those days, no way to catch up with people. I tried to put on a brave face. A couple of days later a friend told me what had happened. After I left on Christmas Eve he had got talking to a girl and he had left with her. She had a cosy flat and he moved in with her that very night!

And that was that. I think about it every Christmas. And I feel for anyone who has a relationship fall apart during this season. But when I do look back what I remember best is the support of my friends and family. And am so happy that I put my little girl before my boyfriend. And I know now that he was definitely not the boy for me.

Jilted Nelly putting on a brave face at Rob's party, Christmas 1976

Dragging My Feet

I awoke this morning from an unpleasant dream in which I had hacked an unknown male to death with a kitchen knife. At first I was very relieved to find it was a dream but then felt disturbed to have dreamed the dream.

I am trying to watch The Curious Case of Benjamin Button but am rapidly losing interest. It was moderately enjoyable when Benjamin was old and decrepit but now he is looking more like Brad Pitt I don't care for it so much.

I could watch this week's episode of Homeland instead.

Or I could finish this blog post.

I have two books on the go and I have a chapter left of each one and I cannot seem to get round to finishing them.

I did not go to the post office today to post Kerry Sister's present.

I have a cold and feel very tired.

But is it any wonder I feel a bit flat when I read this interpretation of my horrible dream?

Murder

To dream that you have committed a murder indicates that you are putting an end to an old habit and a former way of thinking. This could also refer to an end to an addiction. Alternatively, the dream indicates that you have some repressed aggression or rage at yourself or at someone. Note also that dreams of murder occur frequently during periods of depression.

Knife

To dream that you are carrying a knife signifies anger, aggression and/or separation. There may be something in your life that you need to cut out and get rid of.  Perhaps you need to cut ties or sever some relationship. Be more divisive. Alternatively, a knife refers to some sexual tension or sexual confrontation.

Blood

To see blood in your dream represents life, love, and passion as well as disappointments. To dream that others are bleeding signifies an emotional cry for help.

Guilt

To dream that you feel guilty about something relates to how you are handling your successes and failures or competence and incompetence. You may feel undeserving of your achievements. Or on the other hand, you feel that you have let others down. Alternatively, the dream is symbolic of repressed and negative feelings that you may have about yourself.

Here is a photograph of a kitten to cheer us all up.

Coming To Terms With Father Christmas

Poor little Hannah was traumatised by the Father Christmas with the serial killer eyes

The Misses Martha and Evie visited Father Christmas today and, by all accounts, the meeting went very well. There had been some concern that Evie wouldn't take to the old guy as she had previously expressed some reservations about him.  It reminded me of my own youngest child's feelings about old Santa Claus when she were a girl. Indeed Hannah was not at all keen on scary strangers in unusual costumes. I recall her running in terror from the Michelin Man at Ballymena Show. 

Another terror figure from Hannah's early days

The sweet Staffordshire Santa that Hannah loved. 

The first thing that cured her of her fear of the fat guy in the red suit was getting a holiday job as an elf while she was at college. She never looked back.

 Totally cured of her Santa phobia. 

Christmas Begins

I've already completed a bit of Christmas shopping but, as it happened right here in front of this screen it doesn't really count. Today I hit the town, delivered a Christmas tree, took Miss Evie up the street and bought one thing. Then I came home, opened up my To Do spreadsheet, crossed off #27 Buy Kerry Sister present and replaced it with #104 Post present to Kerry Sister. Flushed with a real sense of achievement, I treated myself to a mug of coffee, an Ormo snowball and a read of The Guardian.

Christmas? It's a doddle.

Tomorrow I might tell you about the three incredibly rude women I encountered in the Tower Centre and how I dealt with them. That is if something more interesting doesn't occur in the meantime.

I'll leave you with a picture of the Christmas tree I brought to town and what happened when a pair of young reindeer got their mitts on it.

Organic home grown tree from Bert's Wood

A Day Out In Belfast

Nellybert had a wee day out in Belfast today. It did not start well. Bert wanted to wear his new hat, the one that bears the legend Killyless Stores, Animal Feed and Hardware Supplies but I said he shouldn't because it was too culchie looking for the city. He said I was a terrible snob and that it was a good warm pixie but when it came to the bit it wasn't dry enough because I had to wash it after Martha needed to use it as an emergency handkerchief. Poor child has a sneezy head cold. We decided we wouldn't call Bert 'Snot Hat' because it wasn't his fault.

Belfast was a-buzzing. We had a quick look around the Continental Market at City Hall before meeting our friends the Mularkeys, everyone of them social workers from Belfast. Despite this they like hanging out with Nellybert. Being a social worker from Belfast is, as you might imagine, an incredibly stressful job, so we, being good people, allow the Mularkeys to come to Cully and do unpaid horticultural work to relieve their stress, and this seems to work to everyone's benefit. There is probably not one single clematis montana rubens in County Antrim that has not been potted on by a QUB fully-trained social worker.

We had lunch at the Cafe Havana. Mrs Mularkey is quite the wine buff and her choice was inspired. I really will have to source a good supply of passion fruit to see if I can replicate that delicious wine we had. Afterwards we took a leisurely pub crawl around the Cathedral Quarter. But all good things must end. It was time to hit the train station. We had a leisurely stroll past City Hall, beautifully lit up for Christmas. We got to Great Victoria Street just in time for Young Mularkey to catch his bus. We had two minutes to get to the train so wisely decided to get the next one and headed to the Crown Bar with Mr and Mrs M. This bar, wile popular with tourists and film companies, was so bunged you could hardly see the ornate Victorian features within. We had time for just the one before we had to get our train.

On the train, tired and slightly bored, I logged on to the free wifi and found that even while we were sitting in the Harp Bar there had been a bomb in the Cathedral Quarter. We never heard a word of it. Ah Belfast! Keep on keeping on. You're bigger and better than any stupid bombers.

I Raise My Head Above The Parapet. A Teeny Bit.

I have been writing this blog for more more than 9 years now and. apart from a few incidents, have managed to avoid controversy and 'flame wars'. I'm a blogger, not a fighter. I keep my Facebook and Twitter accounts pretty vanilla as well.

That doesn't mean that I don't enjoy a bit of controversy on other people's pages and some spats are so compelling that I follow them with great interest. It is different when you don't actually know the people involved.

That changed for me a couple of days ago when someone I've actually met (through blogging) got involved in an argument with Loyalists Against Democracy (LAD for short). I'm a LAD fan although I don't agree with absolutely everything they get up to. For instance, a few of the comments on the site can be as sectarian as those they lampoon.

I won't go into detail as to what the spat was about but if anyone is interested enough  it should be easy to find out. The guy I know did LAD a big sneaky disservice and they came after him. Now I see that his Twitter and Facebook accounts are taken down.

This is what disturbed me. He is now accused as a bigot and a Loyalist while he didn't strike me as either. He has pictures of Loyalist bands on his Flickr photostream. So do I. He has a strong opinion on the Ulster Covenant. So does one of my best friends who'd walk over broken glass to help me if if I needed it.

Ah well people. If you court controversy on the internet you will get it in barrowloads. As for me, I'm just a wee Catholic granny living in Cully, keeping my head down. I'm not courting controversy or looking for a fight. Don't hit me!