tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81029692024-03-19T08:48:28.490+00:00Nelly's GardenNellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.comBlogger3564125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-22627427865714223312024-03-18T22:28:00.000+00:002024-03-18T22:28:33.055+00:00A Man Who Loves Kittens<p>I have been watching a thriller about FLDS folk in Utah. In this show there are people portrayed who believe than the Heavenly Father speaks to them directly. Apparently one just opens one's heart and listens.</p><p>I tried this and received the following message which I intend to put into practice.</p><p style="text-align: center;">Be Nicer To Bert</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0rRY6j8rqngi3_RR2i8BM_YqOcdB-e2LoQpYGYjIJ-mrW_b1S3ssyzZxxmJgZDQNFw02KklNdZpAEYZvgz6Yd2WbHjMaxcDDMo_84mz2G9qOf8NguGlfDEPOYsa3DDWGW_KeLPhVyWMej87jp8KEg0BqywN87H59GZpbDXKMIbW-PXxNtdPv-Q/s4123/Bert%20&%20Pippin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4123" data-original-width="3369" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0rRY6j8rqngi3_RR2i8BM_YqOcdB-e2LoQpYGYjIJ-mrW_b1S3ssyzZxxmJgZDQNFw02KklNdZpAEYZvgz6Yd2WbHjMaxcDDMo_84mz2G9qOf8NguGlfDEPOYsa3DDWGW_KeLPhVyWMej87jp8KEg0BqywN87H59GZpbDXKMIbW-PXxNtdPv-Q/s320/Bert%20&%20Pippin.JPG" width="261" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">How could anyone not be nice to a man who loves kittens?</p><p style="text-align: center;">And cats.</p><p style="text-align: center;">And dogs.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-35016836018217408052024-03-13T21:11:00.001+00:002024-03-13T21:16:29.030+00:00Pig Dreaming Again<p> </p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 22px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;"><a href="https://nellysgarden.blogspot.com/2018/10/pig-dream.html" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration-line: none;">I was going to write a post about unreliable memories but it turns out I am too tired. Instead here is a recycled post about dreaming and remembering that is, I think, mostly true...</a></h3><div class="post-header" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10.8px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-6277343485676985816" itemprop="description articleBody" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 546px;">I dreamed I stole a little pig that wore clothes. Not on his nether regions of course as that would be impractical, just a little jacket and a scarf. Bit Beatrix Pottery.<br /><br />Anyway, I felt very guilty that I'd stolen this pig and decided to return him to his owner Mrs Hanna, the farmer's wife who in real life always baked cakes using Stork. Coincidentally Mrs Hanna was also the mother of a teacher at Cullybackey High who was there in Bert's time and was violent and slightly insane. Or so they said.<br /><br />The Hannas were a nice respectable Protestant family who lived next door to us in Cannonstown. I have some very good memories of them and some not so good.<br /><br />I remember Mrs Hanna being very kind. And George, her husband was the first person who showed me the stars above and told me about the constellations. I've gazed skywards ever since.<br /><br />Their youngest son Alan would invite me over to watch children's programmes on their black and white television for at that time we did not have a TV. The only programme I can remember seeing was Captain Pugwash. Those were good memories.<br /><br />Then there was the time I took their grandson Samuel Alexander for a walk. I'm not sure where but it wouldn't have been too far away. But it must have been very muddy because Samuel Alexander got his bright white socks and his shiny black shoes completely filthy. George was very cross with me. I was devastated as he'd never been cross before. I realise now that he was probably going to get into trouble with his son and daughter-in-law.<br /><br />Mrs Hanna had a fruit garden full of currant bushes and gooseberries which she used for jam-making. She used to give my sister and me ripe gooseberries and I thought they were delicious. Once the family had planned a day to Portrush and I, ever wicked, said to my sister that we should go to Mrs Hanna's garden and pick gooseberries. We did and ate the fruit off the bushes. The next day we had upset stomachs and Mammy mentioned this to Mrs Hanna. She said,<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.</i></blockquote><br />I was mortified. It turned out that only the men of the family had gone to Portrush. Mrs Hanna watched from her kitchen window as Jean and I stole her fruit.<br /><br />I was very, very young when I first encountered the future teacher. Maybe three or four and despite his chosen career path I don't think he had a lot of time for children. I was annoying, kept knocking the front door and he came out and chased me down the path. I thought it must be a game and called him a bugger, a word I was trying out for the first time. Where I heard it, I don't know, as my parents did not swear. Well, maybe Daddy did, among other men but not in front of children. Mrs Hanna told my mother who brought me home and smacked me around the legs, very hard. I was heartbroken as I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong. But I had. I had embarrassed her in front of her respectable neighbours.<br /><br />The very worst memory was the day they killed the pigs. I don't even know why I was there. The most horrific part was how they screamed when they were being brought to the killing place. I cannot bear to write the details of what happened next but it is imprinted in my memory and will be forever.<br /><br />I was seven when we left Cannonstown for the Murphystown Road. It was only a few field lengths away but I never saw much of Mrs Hanna after that. Her oldest son, the very handsome Josie, used to do contract work for local farmers and would be around our place occasionally. I had a big crush on him when I was about thirteen. The Hannas are all gone now, every one of them.<br /><br />In my dream, when I took the stolen piglet back to Mrs Hanna, she listened to my apology in her quiet and familiar way then she said,<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.</i></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-LTPccrIH5QZl3O5qaCPl5V7sFljnwPhhEonqR5fK1OBvRiOh78QNAh3Cof2AHnDkD2IDcqkrkJ5kKF9DI514DWfRUJ1zPSYf8S6bKb6k3dHrLWgZpQy-LpiESjJbRYWiK3GoRA/s1600/5030865327_44c4746f65_z.jpg" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="119" data-original-width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-LTPccrIH5QZl3O5qaCPl5V7sFljnwPhhEonqR5fK1OBvRiOh78QNAh3Cof2AHnDkD2IDcqkrkJ5kKF9DI514DWfRUJ1zPSYf8S6bKb6k3dHrLWgZpQy-LpiESjJbRYWiK3GoRA/s1600/5030865327_44c4746f65_z.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" /></a></div></div>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-63158165142399396082024-03-08T20:55:00.000+00:002024-03-08T20:55:01.806+00:00The Reading List<p>How long is it since
I started reading multiple books? I need to look this up. Thankfully
it will have been recorded in Nelly's Garden.</p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">[checks blog]</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Aha! I first
mentioned it EXACTLY five years ago. This is why I blog.</p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Friday, March 08, 2019, I posted this, </p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><blockquote><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #121212; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">For
several months now I've been reading 10-12 books simultaneously. I
was inspired to do this by Will Self, who in answer to the
question,</span></p><div dir="ltr" id="post-body-4761650213591736115"><p style="line-height: 140%; margin-bottom: 1.19cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">
<span style="color: #121212;"><span style="font-family: times, times new roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><br />
What
are you reading currently?</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #121212;"><span style="font-family: times, times new roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><br />
Replied, </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #121212;"><span style="font-family: times, times new roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><span style="color: #121212;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Before
I read digitally, I’d be reading perhaps 10 books simultaneously –
but now I read as many as 50 at once...</i></span></span></span></span></p></div></blockquote><div dir="ltr" id="post-body-4761650213591736115"><p style="line-height: 140%; margin-bottom: 1.19cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #121212;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i></i></span></span></span></span></p>
</div>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I still don't read digitally and I've never went as far as fifty books. That would be beyond me. Also, I.ve never read Will Self. So far, never felt the need.</p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I have kept a list of most of the books I've read this past five years and it numbers 199 which does not seem a lot. Forty books a year. At that rate if I live to be 90 (which I'd quite like to) I'll only be able to read another 800 books. Some of those will be re-reads and some still to be written. </p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My current favourite reads are The Bee Sting and The Age of Innocence. </p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">All-time favourites Louise Kennedy - Trespasses and Claire Keegan - Foster. Recent favourites Wally Lamb - I Know This Much Is True and Barbara Kingsover - Demon Copperhead. </p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUS7SIR27wTi5G4sKCKkQAFg7_ySFqymLwZnfPIZWApQli-ffiNjFsOEk6bnbJteRevB57XJtGzzGRG3rOCjUNmmraQy0eNkrJZEYYrTBD56ogkKj8cpR9NyDLilzxMrqKMzeOT_t2hZuqxH0Vlx1jNs2ZLRx5u_2PcM_ouL6CV_dc2Y2urTu7A/s2048/12.-The-Age-of-Innocence-Edith-Wharton-image-front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1318" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUS7SIR27wTi5G4sKCKkQAFg7_ySFqymLwZnfPIZWApQli-ffiNjFsOEk6bnbJteRevB57XJtGzzGRG3rOCjUNmmraQy0eNkrJZEYYrTBD56ogkKj8cpR9NyDLilzxMrqKMzeOT_t2hZuqxH0Vlx1jNs2ZLRx5u_2PcM_ouL6CV_dc2Y2urTu7A/s320/12.-The-Age-of-Innocence-Edith-Wharton-image-front.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><br /><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-68014873503104828872024-03-03T21:38:00.006+00:002024-03-03T21:41:55.024+00:00The Rest of the Week<p> On Tuesday I cooked dinner for the Haribos. Lasagna and lemon drizzle cake for afters. I expected the lemon drizzle cake to be a doddle as I'd made two on the Saturday for Banjo Man's birthday. The first of those was a disaster, baked in the mini-oven, it was burnt black on top and uncooked in the middle. I pur it down to having oilified the butter before I mixed it. The second cake, baked in the big oven was perfect.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTvant9ypOIdRYCKnxv5kvAmbm2RvAab9wGxuhL_KyVn4L26LUlBTFUO8i9ldbThBiKA2y0I-UWlDKR0Bj8OsV-w6N4-F9dfl-gnvpbtOOCLi5HCGlCg7RPPdLIuX2VqqKFdyKJxJC_-Fw_l9WoV-xa17htMSsbUx03uZh7VtNtXzm5cWjzb_Mg/s536/Screenshot%20(3539).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTvant9ypOIdRYCKnxv5kvAmbm2RvAab9wGxuhL_KyVn4L26LUlBTFUO8i9ldbThBiKA2y0I-UWlDKR0Bj8OsV-w6N4-F9dfl-gnvpbtOOCLi5HCGlCg7RPPdLIuX2VqqKFdyKJxJC_-Fw_l9WoV-xa17htMSsbUx03uZh7VtNtXzm5cWjzb_Mg/s320/Screenshot%20(3539).png" width="245" /></a></div><br /><p>Haribos for dinner on Tuesday night. I made a lasagna and another lemon drizzle cake and this time, not having liquefied the butter it went into the mini oven. Ten minutes later, smoke everywhere, cake burnt black on top, uncooked below. I complained to Bert,</p><p><i>That oven is overheating. Something must have gone wrong with the thermostat. I'm going to dump it.</i></p><p>He went to check it. Told me,</p><p><i>You know what? You had it turned to the grill option.</i> </p><p>I scraped off the black top and finished baking it and it turned out fine. With extra lemon syrup and Bert's amazing custard it went down a treat. No more grilling cakes for me. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2zI0Xk-6RRy2SivE3G6mnrmiNgx1fTwksn8nW6wVEcmmC__i7vOgkkXZK4j4O9vdls1GxUaQV1tkUboS4Frv3mDfM2NLBhdq5KKa_b4kgRtdmio4Q4rkCqVmZNDN2McJycNbzUnaMf64N6L3Bin4Dm25iWMgi9s6EjwPoD7mLAngklXu92KrlrQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2zI0Xk-6RRy2SivE3G6mnrmiNgx1fTwksn8nW6wVEcmmC__i7vOgkkXZK4j4O9vdls1GxUaQV1tkUboS4Frv3mDfM2NLBhdq5KKa_b4kgRtdmio4Q4rkCqVmZNDN2McJycNbzUnaMf64N6L3Bin4Dm25iWMgi9s6EjwPoD7mLAngklXu92KrlrQ" width="180" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>It was up extra early on Wednesday morning . I was taking the eight o'clock train to Belfast as I had an appointment at the BBC. Afterwards I went to the Palm House, the Tropical Ravine and the Museum. I was disappointed to see that the dizygotheca elegantissima was gone from the Palm House. <a href="https://nellysgarden.blogspot.com/2016/07/many-years-ago-when-i-lived-in-town-i.html">Maybe the PSNI had it under investigation?</a> </p><p>Thursday was Martha day. No Evie as she was at her after-school music practice. I hardly saw Martha that evening as she preferred hanging out with Chico. I don't blame her. Chico is much more fun than Granny.</p><p>Did something happen on Friday? I don't remember. The only thing I can recall is a phone call from Vancouver Brother. He and his beloved are holidaying in Puerto Vallarta, staying in a gorgeous pink hotel. </p><p>Then on Saturday we went to a birthday party. Excellent food and the best craic. Today, Sunday Hannah and I went to St Georges Market and took Chico for his first train ride. He seemed to enjoy it all except for the pink double deckers racing past. In all his little life (3 months) he never saw the like before.</p><p>I'll be back in Belfast tomorrow as I am taking an old friend (Vee) to Ikea. Wish me well. </p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-14465398044975221592024-02-26T23:20:00.005+00:002024-03-01T18:08:01.135+00:00My Monday<p>There were a lot of people and dogs in this house over the weekend so, when I heard that I would not be expected to do anything or go anywhere today, I was pleased. Maybe catch up on my reading?</p><p>Despite all the extra dogs and people on Saturday and Sunday I managed to finish two books. Saturday's last chapters was Paul Lynch, Prophet Song and on Sunday morning, while Jazzer deep-cleaned my kitchen, I returned to bed and read the final pages of Demon Copperhead. I've been alternating those two for the last week. The Paul Lynch was an unsettling read but, in the end, worth it. Demon Copperhead was hugely enjoyable. It will be Zoe's next, then Bert, then Bilrus who really disliked Prophet Song. I know he'll like the Kingsolver as he once said that John Steinbeck's East of Eden was the best novel he'd ever read.</p><p>I am still doing that 12 books at a time thing so the Lynch was replaced by Beryl Bainbridge's According to Queeney and the Kingsolver by another Kingsolver, Animal Dreams. I expect to find them both good.</p><p>As it happened I did not read much today (so far). Instead, I cleaned floors. Unbelievable how much filth seven dogs, ten people and two sprogs can tramp into a house and Jazzer's deep clean did not make it to the floors. Then we watched an episode of Kin and another of The Way. Inbetween times I drank a lot of tea and followed Vancouver Brother's flight from Van to Puerto Vallarta on flightradar. They* are within minutes of landing and I believe they'll make it safely to the ground.** </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74nUF1LyHY9aQKf55tWTdK1Lt8a2_oWsOTILFLIB2td2ZxBgWxK5nQB-fZ6O5fqSuogUZmLUoO2tlhJuAhSsTD8ex226PBMQDvfg6WAUh7rIxpw0IhLscwduMGGLXmCuewNPdW1Mll-xti-HaWI3q38dahJWf8tYJ5hP_Jv8T0iAJQca1RvSAMQ/s707/dark%20hedges%20zb.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="696" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74nUF1LyHY9aQKf55tWTdK1Lt8a2_oWsOTILFLIB2td2ZxBgWxK5nQB-fZ6O5fqSuogUZmLUoO2tlhJuAhSsTD8ex226PBMQDvfg6WAUh7rIxpw0IhLscwduMGGLXmCuewNPdW1Mll-xti-HaWI3q38dahJWf8tYJ5hP_Jv8T0iAJQca1RvSAMQ/s320/dark%20hedges%20zb.png" width="315" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">At the Dark Hedges. Photo by Zoe</span></b></p><p><br /></p><p>*Vancouver Brother's pronouns are he/him not they/them. He is travelling with his beloved. </p><p>**I woke this morning having just dreamed that I heard Vancouver brother calling my name. This unsettled me and I became convinced that this meant he was in some kind of trouble. I messaged him some time later and he replied that he was OK, sitting on a plane and heading to Mexico.</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-80061207793485506092024-02-21T23:30:00.001+00:002024-02-22T00:11:00.190+00:00The Wooden Gate<p>Once again I am attempting to sort out a huge cache of photographs, my own, my mother's and Pearlie's. This evokes a great deal of nostalgia. Sometimes it's not the photographs of people that do this, but places and things.</p><p>I have always liked these pictures...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKliwILNXDjbrUVZevBBA_pzivpTghqXfPcFAJ9JZBYhbRDCwhS2TpI8mjHVHq7d0-CcHmtL3dMroE6bnUJ2kjCER1PJvaMd3i4WJrkJD0KxPZlIom2cx-BbfwqaPcHXsYwNzo7cFh9kHAdN0l9zSuECFKGJmYMVX2Q24H1HkzxlIgpSn6fo_1uA/s2048/IMG_0139.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKliwILNXDjbrUVZevBBA_pzivpTghqXfPcFAJ9JZBYhbRDCwhS2TpI8mjHVHq7d0-CcHmtL3dMroE6bnUJ2kjCER1PJvaMd3i4WJrkJD0KxPZlIom2cx-BbfwqaPcHXsYwNzo7cFh9kHAdN0l9zSuECFKGJmYMVX2Q24H1HkzxlIgpSn6fo_1uA/s320/IMG_0139.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUsq3i2ygw-lcoQyt_jdobCmeug5UVQUFc_hK62hzsNcM2VJn5F-yFxUoR3cY1XUx-byXjMJeCQVvriKUS1qgrz8QlJK6WbPZejRrXYWmcdL6wgVnPuY3cgnX9H5GtA9kbNvshitEPh8-ioddk-CsvRiqwC_JS2CFNrHd0T1ENkqc2Bfx9J5c3A/s2048/IMG_0141.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUsq3i2ygw-lcoQyt_jdobCmeug5UVQUFc_hK62hzsNcM2VJn5F-yFxUoR3cY1XUx-byXjMJeCQVvriKUS1qgrz8QlJK6WbPZejRrXYWmcdL6wgVnPuY3cgnX9H5GtA9kbNvshitEPh8-ioddk-CsvRiqwC_JS2CFNrHd0T1ENkqc2Bfx9J5c3A/s320/IMG_0141.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>...of a little wooden gate in my parent's garden that led on to the Drumkeeran Road which was rarely used. Looking at the picture it's hard to imagine that it was yards from a busy dual carriageway.</p><p>Then there is this one.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQGe_cO3NFeWACMkjIgutIXKUC8_mHpvXyBgkuuJkl1EnZk0O_P0Yu8pDZOKfYodII7me-ssrj2aZfBxnRU9hvz7c1ma7MUgQZbnjOnGHp2wNZgAnUXRqG5yHJbTr1CyCw19H3aqKtW2zHgyPnNUCMuEN6-KQevwlG4G6jBummsk8NpewITiN1w/s1350/131398943_402818214369079_5631788376242677849_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQGe_cO3NFeWACMkjIgutIXKUC8_mHpvXyBgkuuJkl1EnZk0O_P0Yu8pDZOKfYodII7me-ssrj2aZfBxnRU9hvz7c1ma7MUgQZbnjOnGHp2wNZgAnUXRqG5yHJbTr1CyCw19H3aqKtW2zHgyPnNUCMuEN6-KQevwlG4G6jBummsk8NpewITiN1w/s320/131398943_402818214369079_5631788376242677849_n.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><p>Probably taken by one of my sisters in the year before Mammy died. Perhaps someone can enlighten me. There was a period of heavy snow that year and I remember our cousin John came out with his backhoe to clear a path for the carers to come in. Our mother was so fortunate in having wonderful neighbours who thought the world of her.</p><p>So today, whilst going through her photographs, I found this one. It was taken when our parent's house was fairly new and the evergreen hedge not yet planted. The sign shows that the dualling of the A26 had reached Tannaghmore but the farmhouse in front of the garage is still there. I don't know who the little girl is but she might be one of the McGills. She looks to be around two years of age so that would help to date the photograph.</p><p>And who made the gate?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VtKAc4zHwUBf-QenvapWNLoDvLKLpqYVrCvxiFzV72aS8pgncU_2yGZ2ta0YPTOwYuyUb-MiAYrT0qxNOMRNQY23Vg2pQL2yOSaWgP0ZMkUqOtJCyZ91FRglJR1JUTK-qY3px5szOefc0z9c7EfawOHhpZZ13UlNG9-yqdhwS1yKhrpCiNxYFg/s1404/gate.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="1404" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VtKAc4zHwUBf-QenvapWNLoDvLKLpqYVrCvxiFzV72aS8pgncU_2yGZ2ta0YPTOwYuyUb-MiAYrT0qxNOMRNQY23Vg2pQL2yOSaWgP0ZMkUqOtJCyZ91FRglJR1JUTK-qY3px5szOefc0z9c7EfawOHhpZZ13UlNG9-yqdhwS1yKhrpCiNxYFg/w412-h292/gate.jpg" width="412" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-11499198004300587392024-02-16T20:28:00.007+00:002024-02-18T12:57:14.802+00:00In Which I Try Out AI<p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">But let me be clear. I'm trying out Artificial Intelligence <i>not</i> Insemination.</span></p><p><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; border: 0px solid rgb(227, 227, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 1.25em; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></p><blockquote><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">"In the tranquil village of Cullybackey, where the scent of herbs mingled with the laughter of children at play, there lived a woman named Nelly – a guardian of the earth and a lover of all things green. With her hands as skilled as a surgeon's and her heart as tender as a mother's, Nelly tended to her garden with care and devotion, her fingers dancing among the leaves and petals like a symphony conductor guiding an orchestra."</span></blockquote><p></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; border: 0px solid rgb(227, 227, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 1.25em; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">So went the opening paragraph of one of my first and, probably, only attempt at trying out a free version of Ch@tgpt. I don't know what the app was channelling. Maybe Martha Finley? Nadine Dorries?</span></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; border: 0px solid rgb(227, 227, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 1.25em; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">So I won't be doing that again.</span></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; border: 0px solid rgb(227, 227, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 1.25em; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">On to the important news of the day. Our pup, Cleo is a year old day. She shares her birthday with her many siblings, also Francis Galton, Johann Strauss, Araucaria (still missed), David Austin, June Brown, Iain Banks, John McEnroe, and The Weeknd. An eclectic crew you'll agree. </span></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; border: 0px solid rgb(227, 227, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 1.25em; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Cleo had a lovely day tussling with her young friends Chico and Woody, playing with her red Kongs and chewing her favourite busted tennis ball and, because it was a special day, she got five chips from Frews in Ahoghill.</span></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; border: 0px solid rgb(227, 227, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 1.25em; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1JBZlq_OPFzmly5-JfjZX4ZpI_tnyw_hexFomW7DX7vG90rmTV9zRIj5tCrJd7KuN4GSK3hO5OVrR0c4VUvaErl7ZXyHByQJ3ZPwANbUo0g3U-ciAWX_n_0mOVL49XvykvrStX3Rki2MbgPgchhycT4M5rZLJYpPI8Djx6H7vvFL7gCCn7Dekg/s2279/IMG_20240110_084140.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2279" data-original-width="2245" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1JBZlq_OPFzmly5-JfjZX4ZpI_tnyw_hexFomW7DX7vG90rmTV9zRIj5tCrJd7KuN4GSK3hO5OVrR0c4VUvaErl7ZXyHByQJ3ZPwANbUo0g3U-ciAWX_n_0mOVL49XvykvrStX3Rki2MbgPgchhycT4M5rZLJYpPI8Djx6H7vvFL7gCCn7Dekg/s320/IMG_20240110_084140.jpg" width="315" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCtY9QFrUrWcb_V41tb9OQhY3WAzQwzklOZ-qNhvq1hgr1QW-LcYWTxUHd1FHFyYrBDDI3o_a1dUA_E02z9OIALOtt09ETuknFQDevElykIjPwNOf799shKPUxNbVkZzFhEmAN9wp6P1OdNTcFI-Qm2lq1mN6NWf8_mPbnuQQ66IbwcbClo-n_TA/s2346/tuss1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2042" data-original-width="2346" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCtY9QFrUrWcb_V41tb9OQhY3WAzQwzklOZ-qNhvq1hgr1QW-LcYWTxUHd1FHFyYrBDDI3o_a1dUA_E02z9OIALOtt09ETuknFQDevElykIjPwNOf799shKPUxNbVkZzFhEmAN9wp6P1OdNTcFI-Qm2lq1mN6NWf8_mPbnuQQ66IbwcbClo-n_TA/s320/tuss1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKiSf7hQ9F2qqINQsB0irx59BSVGHOTDVWvmwagH1VI6i53UVGTfOEM0aDCmJ0Rrmkxriavw8DtguBtwhwdPk7AH7PeetznpmKJfTK6Jg1ii3_mZWwLUlDwUqJetK7bFvUnPMiAmHdK4jBVGrN0YEuxOqK8Z2rvdbtNYqUAblC_XX6kPWi9qt5cQ/s2401/tuss2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1666" data-original-width="2401" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKiSf7hQ9F2qqINQsB0irx59BSVGHOTDVWvmwagH1VI6i53UVGTfOEM0aDCmJ0Rrmkxriavw8DtguBtwhwdPk7AH7PeetznpmKJfTK6Jg1ii3_mZWwLUlDwUqJetK7bFvUnPMiAmHdK4jBVGrN0YEuxOqK8Z2rvdbtNYqUAblC_XX6kPWi9qt5cQ/s320/tuss2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; border: 0px solid rgb(227, 227, 227); box-sizing: border-box; color: #0d0d0d; font-size: 16px; margin: 1.25em 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-69988043154514592442024-02-11T19:55:00.006+00:002024-02-11T19:58:00.564+00:00One From 19 Years Ago<p><span style="font-family: courier;">I posted the following piece back when our lovely Matty was still in the land of the living. It was nineteen years ago. We were still living down the road and in the process of having this house renovated.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDjRVjvH8yI2vtgPHziaUHpC0rBqtH0vDyawFsB-DOArLf4s4XnQM9N8o6EXAblCNycvityjGf9UwOBcltyt4PwkJErg91rk_ISiLZ7_QcjvjcNU9v0nVNzI7xastakIR0csMrzVxKdO0PJoCiQNuUHEfvQQH08gAlCUCYGxpzfo5OSnAmsLDGQ/s2574/Last%20Weekend%20038.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2574" data-original-width="1615" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDjRVjvH8yI2vtgPHziaUHpC0rBqtH0vDyawFsB-DOArLf4s4XnQM9N8o6EXAblCNycvityjGf9UwOBcltyt4PwkJErg91rk_ISiLZ7_QcjvjcNU9v0nVNzI7xastakIR0csMrzVxKdO0PJoCiQNuUHEfvQQH08gAlCUCYGxpzfo5OSnAmsLDGQ/s320/Last%20Weekend%20038.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p>I spend a fair bit of my time sailing Matty around the country and recently I've been coming to the conclusion that hanging out with the very old is a lot like hanging out with the very young.<br /><br />Here's some of the stuff I used to have to do for Zoe, Katy and Hannah when they were little ones.<br /><br /></p><ul><li>Hold on to them in town for fear they might run into the traffic.</li><li>Monitor their unsuitable conversations with complete strangers.</li><li>Encourage them to eat nourishing food.</li><li>Leave them at home if I was going to do some serious shopping.</li></ul><p><br />Now take that last point. Last Wednesday I visited a plumbing supplies shop in Kilrea and Matty came too. Now when the shopowner realised that I needed a lot of stuff for the new house he went into selling overdrive. After about two minutes I got awfully bored as he was speaking Plumberese and I don't understand Plumberese except for the odd word like pipe or tap. Now normally I'm awfully good at cutting these conversations short, usually by being very blunt. On this occasion I put it to him that I didn't understand a word he was talking about and that I was just here to look at the pretty baths and basins and that Bert would be along shortly to talk technicalities with him. But because I was also keeping an eye out for Matty I couldn't concentrate properly on getting away. Meanwhile Matty was becoming very restless indeed. Just like a toddler who hates this boring shop and wants to go somewhere more interesting instead. She was at her usual tricks. Wandering around aimlessly whilst sighing heavily, looking as if she might collapse if somebody didn't come and take her to a charity shop this minute and I swear I think I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, kicking one of the baths.</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;">When I wrote this I did not have grandchildren. That was still five years in the future but since they've been around I've had the whole taking small kids shopping experience all over again. And yes, I stand by what I said then. Shopping with the elderly is not unlike shopping with little ones. Except, maybe, if a little one falls over they get picked up, dusted down, given sweeties and all is well. If an oldie falls it's ambulance time and a day and a half in Accident and Emergency. Thankfully that never happened with Matty and fingers crossed, it won't happen to me. For it's only a year or two to when it will be Miss Martha keeping me from walking into the traffic.</span></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-7762197078601676422024-02-08T21:01:00.004+00:002024-02-08T21:12:18.754+00:00Conversations with Bert<p>The first thing Bert said to me when he came down this morning was,</p><p><i>How did Ivan Kroll die?</i></p><p>I say,</p><p><i>Who the fuck is Ivan Kroll?</i></p><p>I'm thinking, knowing his interests,</p><p>(a) some Nazi</p><p>(b) Eastern European politician </p><p>(c) why is he asking me?</p><p>He elaborates,</p><p><i>You know, that show we watched - Boy Swallows Universe.</i></p><p><i>Oh that Ivan Kroll. He died horribly. How can you not know that? We only finished watching it two weeks ago.</i></p><p>Truth be told, I had to look it up myself. I remembered the horrible bit and I remembered it was Gus. Other details escaped me.</p><p><i>OK. Gus pushed him through a glass clock in a tower and he landed on a limousine. Totally dead.</i></p><p><i>So who's Gus?</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisI6e_bm8A-EaiU2JGwm6jLdJPD9Iw1rCZ7enNAPuXP5Lzc_v12yb0Kz89KX3ekN5k-9duK775UlvxPtdt9k5YBMmKPbgV8oET5_j5tDCHgJ6voFu-OGyldRxgkxp_HFyBFH71p63sXUqLq2nl7qmbZOXBjPEx3i7ObKhg8860TsVTTaAxpdJBuA/s600/f596fa662a10ff88753f2d435f7baa4b.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisI6e_bm8A-EaiU2JGwm6jLdJPD9Iw1rCZ7enNAPuXP5Lzc_v12yb0Kz89KX3ekN5k-9duK775UlvxPtdt9k5YBMmKPbgV8oET5_j5tDCHgJ6voFu-OGyldRxgkxp_HFyBFH71p63sXUqLq2nl7qmbZOXBjPEx3i7ObKhg8860TsVTTaAxpdJBuA/s320/f596fa662a10ff88753f2d435f7baa4b.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p>Later on Jazzer called while I was making dinner. She begins,</p><p><i>I know you'll want an update on Dora since Ben was talking to Bert...</i></p><p><i>Bert never said anything to me about Dora. Or Ben.</i></p><p><i>Oh well. We took her to the vet yesterday to have that lump investigated and it's OK. Nothing sinister, she had it removed and they are happy enough that it was benign. </i></p><p>We talk on, supportive on my side, relieved on hers, jointly agree on husbands never telling us anything important. Call finishes.</p><p>I go in to speak to Bert and I am filled with wickedness. I say,</p><p><i>That was Jazzer on the phone. </i></p><p>I sigh and continue,</p><p><i>Poor old Dora.</i></p><p>His face drops. I relent.</p><p><i>It's OK. She had her operation, she's fine, it's benign, she's going to be OK. Why didn't you tell me?</i></p><p><i>I forgot. You came in with the girls, they were fussing with Chico and Cleo. I just forgot. </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8J0pV-0MXKFpumVbS0zWgHbpAtpXhm1NR1kdsMXb7xUtibQPs82BYFaWvnI5-QvFYjUcu6FOkdrA3Y-OCxoyM9tHafP8_I3G-iIF3Ja_y4cPs3GpJeASDPFszvgZ0DBO0W-7g-l-2Pe8mYLamQtSNg4tnON430ALCejeIDXqVix4f_Yi3WZfFQ/s1786/IMG_3080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1786" data-original-width="1786" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8J0pV-0MXKFpumVbS0zWgHbpAtpXhm1NR1kdsMXb7xUtibQPs82BYFaWvnI5-QvFYjUcu6FOkdrA3Y-OCxoyM9tHafP8_I3G-iIF3Ja_y4cPs3GpJeASDPFszvgZ0DBO0W-7g-l-2Pe8mYLamQtSNg4tnON430ALCejeIDXqVix4f_Yi3WZfFQ/s320/IMG_3080.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p>I'm putting it down to Bert's superior abilty in compartmentalisation. Worrying things are put in one box, trivia in another. Another example, we went out for lunch on Sunday with some good friends. While she and I were discussing psychopaths we have known and know, Bert and he were discussing who was Sheila Grant's first husband in Brookside. That's when I told him about IMDB.*</p><p>*Enzway - everybody knows it was Ricky Tomlinson.</p><p><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-51141712550448648142024-02-05T21:33:00.003+00:002024-02-05T22:14:24.198+00:00One From 17 Years Ago<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWILTMbgQ648IO1qSHSmi1Q4o9jfYgQTsS9l27Bf3GQNyxo2yURwe-SsdZ342hetJI7_zZY2_9sBSCzumCGmgI9mGQjiDtwQ_kg8W39RmHR7mGuS5rV5nSAdK2huLuCsOtkQmSkX3DwBJC2FwiCwXkzpHogBgehcjCwLAZ_k1AKbdEbWZ1YEoBw/s4000/IMG_20240127_124444.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWILTMbgQ648IO1qSHSmi1Q4o9jfYgQTsS9l27Bf3GQNyxo2yURwe-SsdZ342hetJI7_zZY2_9sBSCzumCGmgI9mGQjiDtwQ_kg8W39RmHR7mGuS5rV5nSAdK2huLuCsOtkQmSkX3DwBJC2FwiCwXkzpHogBgehcjCwLAZ_k1AKbdEbWZ1YEoBw/s320/IMG_20240127_124444.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>One of our regular guests. Chico is day care only, no overnight stays yet.</b></div></b><p><br /></p><p>This blog will be twenty years old in August so, with all my archives to draw on I am recycling a post in which Bert, Young Rooney and myself, discussed Nellybert's fast-approaching old age. What has changed since then?</p><p>We have arrived at our old age and seem to be managing OK even though we didn't go down the paintballing or stables route. .</p><p>Like ourselves, Young Rooney is seventeen years older, he's married now with children. He's given up on horsey girls. So has Bert. I still run around in filthy jeans and body warmers. We sort of do boarding kennels but only for family and friends and their dogs get to sleep on our beds. And it's free.</p><h2 class="date-header" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><span style="background-color: #bbbbbb; color: white; letter-spacing: 3px; margin: inherit; padding: 0.4em;">Wednesday, March 07, 2007</span></h2><div class="date-posts" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting" style="margin: 0px 0px 45px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><a name="202538786863948747"></a><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 22px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;">Farm Diversification</h3><div class="post-header" style="font-size: 10.8px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-202538786863948747" itemprop="description articleBody" style="font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 546px;">Young Rooney called in this afternoon and we got to bouncing a few ideas around. These mostly centred around what Nellybert's going to do to bring the dosh in for the old age. Neither of us has much in the way of pension plans. In fact I just cashed mine in and it's just about enough to pay off my credit card and buy some decent teeth. Young Rooney says,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">You could rent out the ground.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Doing that. Money's crap.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You could plant trees.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Done that. Fifteen acres in trees already.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What about a garden centre? Bert could run it and you could do a tea shop. Sell your cheesecake.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We hate garden centres.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Lots of money to be made.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Huh!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Boarding kennels then?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Someone tried for boarding kennels before and the road put in against it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cattery?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mmmm. Maybe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Riding stables? Paintballing?</span><br /></blockquote>Nelly goes,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote>Paintballing? Lots of fit blokes running about? Mmm. Maybe.<br /></blockquote></span>Bert goes,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote>Riding stables? Lots of gorgeous lassies in jodphurs? Sounds OK. Far better than all those oul biddies that hang about garden centres.</blockquote></span>Young Rooney goes,<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">Aye. Riding stables. Me and Loveheart'll be round here all the time. Loveheart says all those horsey girls are mad for it. He says it's all the bouncing about in saddles that gets them going.</blockquote>Nelly says,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote>Yeah. And I can become one of those old eccentric horsey women running about in filthy jeans and bodywarmers with no time to go to the hairdresser.<br /></blockquote></span>Bert says,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">Sure that's you now...</span></blockquote></div></div></div></div>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-7065830771613511982024-02-03T22:30:00.007+00:002024-02-04T09:16:02.696+00:00The News From Cully<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRekQS5oyhOdPKN1u1ouzORKyf0Z0G6sMYBm9sIkgr_VduCa7aaTlJcUNkR1nbNiAdZV_zUV90SjpagEYwTUP5I9oWF3jHhi7HIM3MWaNhpSHjQVolLCpGeAfry9qeZZoeVIOa8RjPlUifTyS7yS1L9uIPpor3g3kSYteQbl2JZpjQKh3hNSdjAg/s4000/IMG_20240202_184555.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRekQS5oyhOdPKN1u1ouzORKyf0Z0G6sMYBm9sIkgr_VduCa7aaTlJcUNkR1nbNiAdZV_zUV90SjpagEYwTUP5I9oWF3jHhi7HIM3MWaNhpSHjQVolLCpGeAfry9qeZZoeVIOa8RjPlUifTyS7yS1L9uIPpor3g3kSYteQbl2JZpjQKh3hNSdjAg/s320/IMG_20240202_184555.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Never mind the Windsors and their recent over-reported, who cares* hospital stays - our Judy, the old girl, has had dental surgery, the price of a week's holiday in Spain, but with complementary toenail trimming thrown in. She came through it courageously and is already showing signs of improved mood and zest for what remains of her life. Who needs a holiday in Benidorm anyway? I'm holding out for Seville.</p><p>*Who cares? If the reporting around King Charlie's prostrate treatment results in more men seeking help and more lives prolonged then I say - that's good.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5zHpSysM1NA4blWalMFUGhIqeEgj_RZ5VB75VpqpglheUnvSgo10QaCCNXuu_VJaxRQuz_vxa7jwK4KrkQe-QWDcc7oRmOlKFq_DCsrBrZ8a5tz38XY7a9EdiSYHG1SWLdRph92SKH8QDtligmAxloAKtxCJPqQbciRVjR_zeDVzW02U9Lk9jQ/s3620/IMG_20240203_171622.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3620" data-original-width="2930" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5zHpSysM1NA4blWalMFUGhIqeEgj_RZ5VB75VpqpglheUnvSgo10QaCCNXuu_VJaxRQuz_vxa7jwK4KrkQe-QWDcc7oRmOlKFq_DCsrBrZ8a5tz38XY7a9EdiSYHG1SWLdRph92SKH8QDtligmAxloAKtxCJPqQbciRVjR_zeDVzW02U9Lk9jQ/s320/IMG_20240203_171622.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /><p>I'm always ordering books of the internet but this week I thought I'd try a new seller. I was immediately drawn to this volume of short stories by H.E. Bates in an Etsy shop**. When I was in my late teens I was a big fan of short stories by the likes of Bates and Hardy. I remember staying up late reading in front of the old Rayburn , fire door open, and being overcome by carbon monoxide fumes. When I finally closed the book, but not the fire door, I climbed the rickety wooden stairs, entered the bedroom where my two youngest sisters were sleeping and there fainted to the floor, overcome not by the fumes of cheap coal but the sharp, fresh, cold air of that freezing room. There is a lot to be said for living in a draughty old farmhouse. I bought that book for the sheer nostalgia of it and I look forward to reading it again.</p><p><a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/mcanespieandfox/?etsrc=sdt">I'd recommend the seller. </a>My book arrived promptly, beautifully wrapped and with a complimentary postcard. How did she know that I use literary postcards as bookmarks?</p><p>**Full disclosure. This Etsy shop belongs to my sister. But I'd still be recommending her even if I didn't know her personally. And because I know her I also know how much time and effort she puts into providing this service. </p><p>Other news from Cully - Ben and Sara are camping in the woods tonight. It's February. I'm so proud of them. A well-reared pair.</p><p><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-15870899541073738882024-02-01T21:20:00.001+00:002024-02-01T21:20:54.766+00:00Red Coat<p> </p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Yet again I find that I am turning into my mother for Matty had a
thing about coats. Every time we went into a charity shop (which was
often) she’d be perusing the coat rails looking for the perfect,
lightweight, showerproof beige coat. My thing about coats does not
include beige. My thing is the perfect funeral coat.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I have yet to find
it. At a pinch I have a couple of coats that would do. One black and
one navy, both M&S. For a long time I resisted navy as I have
never gotten over the trauma of St. Louis Grammar School, those three
hellish years that I was tortured by fascist nuns - a special mention
for that vicious bitch, Sister Mary Benedicta. I still shiver at the
sight of navy skirts.*
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My funeral coat
needs to be smart and sombre. I know that now. For there was another
traumatic time in my life, thankfully brief, only about an hour long,
that I got the funeral outfit very wrong indeed. And it could have
been avoided, if only I’d known. You see, I was not used to the
mores surrounding a Presbyterian funeral. Bert’s Aunt Sally’s
husband Jack had died very suddenly. He was carrying buckets of meal
to his calves when he suffered a heart attack and fell to the ground
face first, stone dead. How the minister preached! At any moment, we
might be struck down! Are you ready? Are you saved? And so on…</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I heard all this
because in my stupidity, not wanting to be left alone in the house
with the female members of the family I went with Bert and his father
to the burial ground. Bert promised me I would not be the only woman
there but I was and not only was I the only woman I was the only
person there in a bright red coat. Everyone else was wearing the
darkest of hues. It is also highly likely that I was the only
Catholic in the crowd. Oh, I would have given anything then to be
back in the farmhouse, coatless and braving the Presbyterian
womenfolk.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">A humiliation never
to be forgotten. Although it didn’t put me off red coats. I’ve
three hanging in my wardrobe right now.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk178IbFOHcHkck-ZGgNd8FYlgJzFC1jKnY_NhsKl9GdpbMAwg0ZTooZC-4GuJpNOPhkxUXqC2_MxA1D5iNP_1-9XF4EPyHFHS8aYnu-LPerf-pHaPXWqhYj2m9-kjpN7BXGxJGURG3NSqja0ZdWFjjR7d1hiDHS4jcR8H7va_F5U1IRswO63JNA/s400/s-l400.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk178IbFOHcHkck-ZGgNd8FYlgJzFC1jKnY_NhsKl9GdpbMAwg0ZTooZC-4GuJpNOPhkxUXqC2_MxA1D5iNP_1-9XF4EPyHFHS8aYnu-LPerf-pHaPXWqhYj2m9-kjpN7BXGxJGURG3NSqja0ZdWFjjR7d1hiDHS4jcR8H7va_F5U1IRswO63JNA/s320/s-l400.png" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CvXDdndEoM1EoF6N9xnY6O6zKj10KmAFlUoYxs1Mt8XLWfxPTJdghdbR76L691U9SpI7JBwdUIe92uuvvF9si2NzacGCBhjZNsO-1M7bWOmaCUXnXEQredU4aJLPOKFiC_kJ6ug2LJmfEs-X2IYvGgRjH0lG6fCSthBJ4RK7EphOjbRXOmPHvQ/s981/s-l1600.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="735" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CvXDdndEoM1EoF6N9xnY6O6zKj10KmAFlUoYxs1Mt8XLWfxPTJdghdbR76L691U9SpI7JBwdUIe92uuvvF9si2NzacGCBhjZNsO-1M7bWOmaCUXnXEQredU4aJLPOKFiC_kJ6ug2LJmfEs-X2IYvGgRjH0lG6fCSthBJ4RK7EphOjbRXOmPHvQ/s320/s-l1600.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I know that's just two but the corduroy one I have in two sizes, one that fits and one that doesn't.</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-54898262358831315022024-01-31T21:13:00.001+00:002024-01-31T21:28:06.282+00:00A Tale of Two Badgers<p>I believe in the existence of badgers. I've seen the entrances to their setts, I've heard them snarl at Ziggy when he went down their tunnels, I know they live in the woods, I suspect that in the past they were scratching at the doors of the hen house and I've even seen dead ones on the road. But I've never seen a live one and I still haven't.</p><p>Last night Hannah came rushing into the house, Chico in her arms.</p><p><i>Where are the dogs? Are the cats here?</i></p><p>What panicked her? Just outside our house, halfway between the back door and the entrance to the hen run two badgers were fighting. Hannah was scared that one of the animals might have been one of our pets. But no, two badgers fighting. Bert saw them both run across the yard then scoot off in different directions. All our pets were fine. Cleo was outside, as was Judy. Judy, being stone deaf, heard nothing but Cleo was excited and set off in pursuit of the badgers. </p><p>I was so jealous. I've never seen a living badger and now Chico has and he is only eleven weeks old.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH33NUQ2VudL9rmsx2zpsWAzNqQ8_8g8yZNly14Sln84Btppdd4QzotBmgu8ghQ7aebNLEtQdrRmtvItygpygYWc4g6KTlE7vkq6LA0gYMapm5ftiQO_Buj5EwoNCe-vkwX8xX_P-7wc57lbQw2ImosKEr0GqqgyOwhXnSLWzvL2R5fzULttN7oQ/s4608/P1110251.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH33NUQ2VudL9rmsx2zpsWAzNqQ8_8g8yZNly14Sln84Btppdd4QzotBmgu8ghQ7aebNLEtQdrRmtvItygpygYWc4g6KTlE7vkq6LA0gYMapm5ftiQO_Buj5EwoNCe-vkwX8xX_P-7wc57lbQw2ImosKEr0GqqgyOwhXnSLWzvL2R5fzULttN7oQ/s320/P1110251.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Chico is Hannah's puppy. This is his sixth day living here and he is well settled. Nothing fazes him, not even fighting badgers. But wait until he meets the pigs!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-70060542233332436632024-01-29T18:46:00.000+00:002024-01-29T18:46:02.507+00:00A Tale of Two Bullfinches<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2LBcPEqstKzqJRDNQzfDK9xCIa2GDP2jTvrezedGiPT6WozuMYc0b4x6womKxv1miCm6uPJaXqKwhRUp8QQHRN6McY3nLpt5NugRJ6hmOLfM2IOZSNJHjAYgE3oUqGYuLR8UblcqTUX6PP83feCB3QwHWe1Ehslf902uj4VkVh5gd1ggSYKfFQ/s3456/P1050011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2LBcPEqstKzqJRDNQzfDK9xCIa2GDP2jTvrezedGiPT6WozuMYc0b4x6womKxv1miCm6uPJaXqKwhRUp8QQHRN6McY3nLpt5NugRJ6hmOLfM2IOZSNJHjAYgE3oUqGYuLR8UblcqTUX6PP83feCB3QwHWe1Ehslf902uj4VkVh5gd1ggSYKfFQ/s320/P1050011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Possibly the same female taken a couple of years ago</div><p></p><p><br /></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
First thing this morning I was out looking for survivors from the fox
attack but there were none to be seen, just another area filled with
feathers from a kill. That is at least two hen’s worth of feathers
so far.*
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We had another avian
incident today. Bert and I were in the sun room when we heard a thud
on the window and I saw a small bird falling to the ground. When I
looked out, the bird, a female bullfinch, was standing on the ground,
looking stunned. I wondered if I should just leave it there but,
spotting Hannah coming back from her walk in the woods, with three
dogs and two cats in tow, I thought it would be better to take the
little bird out of harm’s way. I set it in the middle of the
rhododendron hedge and went to make sure that the cats were kept
indoors. When I got back, there was Cleo, trotting along with the
bullfinch in her mouth. She gave it up willingly and her soft mouth
had done the bird no harm. For its own safety I placed it in a
cardboard box with a cooling rack on top.
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then after fifteen
minutes or so Bert took it outside where it flew up into a hawthorn
tree. A male bullfinch was perched further up the tree as if keeping
guard. The female stayed for around 20 minutes and then was gone. I
checked the bottom of the tree for signs of its fall but no
bullfinch.
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">What a day for that
wee bird.
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Flies into a window
and brains itself.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Is gathered up by a
human and placed in a hedge that it doesn’t normally frequent.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Is carried off in a
dog’s mouth.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Is imprisoned.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">All being well she
will survive this experience and go on to raise a brood or two. Maybe
even three.
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">*The third killing
site was discovered just outside the hen run. My lovely Jacqueline.</p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1FSy7T8o6zonu9U3zCyjkjfiCoHgKhyphenhyphen3XLKi0vcuVprX7K-hwYUOJUzHqmJalBrfNyeR2Jrp5ER0p3yKYHh7bdk5kijmgcckOxTmcSu5Kqdg0R-31V_KqlTPp5BetTor7WsWpOGKW_9FG6hdIyBnc0wmgNAYUk4xjzbOUay9j2aGlo4ILhn4rA/s3456/P1050015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1FSy7T8o6zonu9U3zCyjkjfiCoHgKhyphenhyphen3XLKi0vcuVprX7K-hwYUOJUzHqmJalBrfNyeR2Jrp5ER0p3yKYHh7bdk5kijmgcckOxTmcSu5Kqdg0R-31V_KqlTPp5BetTor7WsWpOGKW_9FG6hdIyBnc0wmgNAYUk4xjzbOUay9j2aGlo4ILhn4rA/s320/P1050015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">This may well be the same male bullfinch who waited for her today. Apparently bullfinches pair for life.</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-90558235890154157972024-01-28T19:34:00.006+00:002024-01-28T19:37:38.539+00:00And Then There Were... None? <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEp_rzrkRICQy3YEYbxr_WSq38VCAlQ2mLJEaQttOOSb5hGPT30uGLpdu6UjCGAkhw0O89thrBuCdTM8E14lp2iVmyOvRijjkz3wTVLnC9EFn9UjhO-s1ZCQ4HkjPqPy_a8jxYMc83ArU_hVqpwDBDP1ziBmwVWX-YFNthlI3wRFm453JxjCsUOw/s4267/P1050285.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1288" data-original-width="4267" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEp_rzrkRICQy3YEYbxr_WSq38VCAlQ2mLJEaQttOOSb5hGPT30uGLpdu6UjCGAkhw0O89thrBuCdTM8E14lp2iVmyOvRijjkz3wTVLnC9EFn9UjhO-s1ZCQ4HkjPqPy_a8jxYMc83ArU_hVqpwDBDP1ziBmwVWX-YFNthlI3wRFm453JxjCsUOw/w591-h179/P1050285.JPG" width="591" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We were already down to four chickens. Then our new rooster (not pictured) was nabbed by Foxy at the beginning of the week. I kept the remaining three hens inside for a couple of days then, feeling sorry for them, I decided to open the hen run and let them run around the yard and garden. My logic was that Foxy would be unlikely to get them if they were running wild and free. At dusk they would return to the hen house and I'd close them in for the night. </p><p>This evening it was past dusk when I went out to do that. It was dark and I took a lamp. The first thing I saw was a scattering of feathers, far too many to be normal. I shone the light into their house. No hens. I went in, feathers everywhere, especially at the trap door. I looked around the run. Not all around it as it is overgrown, but there was no sign of hens either living or dead.</p><p>I went into the house feeling awfully sad. The hens had such a lovely time today. Every time I looked out the window or went outside there they were, scrabbling and pecking, enjoying the mild dry day. If only I'd gone out earlier maybe I could have got them shut in safely before Foxy got there.</p><p>I said to Bert,</p><p><i>I think our chicken-keeping days may be over.</i></p><p>And told him what I'd found.</p><p>He said,</p><p><i>You never know. One or two of them might turn up in the morning.</i></p><p>They were all old girls and we'd been planning to let them live out their lives then stop keeping chickens, get the run cleared and maybe, maybe start again at a later date. Part of me hopes that they are all gone because then I can stop worrying about them. Another part...</p><p>We shall see what tomorrow brings. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTVytCwAIhJfEobAKRo1PcOHDub9TNYOrWby44KLO4xVciadTMS1Ct07uE-1huRAdhvvkZzwAZYV0TItbruIUo6S50rz4T1-dLFv2swBBxOYvzOGYa3ckdg9mByKxNJPeAxUcbQwsaTYvfRsrdI7Q9Sd08e6c8W4i3UhVVU8y_6EW5mMTaKglXg/s3199/P1040661.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2450" data-original-width="3199" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTVytCwAIhJfEobAKRo1PcOHDub9TNYOrWby44KLO4xVciadTMS1Ct07uE-1huRAdhvvkZzwAZYV0TItbruIUo6S50rz4T1-dLFv2swBBxOYvzOGYa3ckdg9mByKxNJPeAxUcbQwsaTYvfRsrdI7Q9Sd08e6c8W4i3UhVVU8y_6EW5mMTaKglXg/s320/P1040661.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Jacqueline. She was my favourite. The feathers that I found did not belong to her.</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-518907507201080032024-01-24T20:57:00.002+00:002024-01-24T20:58:34.258+00:00Cabin Fever<p> Since Saturday I’ve hardly been out of the house. There was a quick
and early run to the Spar for our weekly print journalism treat, the
Weekend Guardian for people like us, people with log-burning stoves
need something to help light our fires. Sorry, re our carbon
footprint - I’m not going to be embarrassed about that as I rarely
use aeroplanes and Bert never flies anywhere.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Sunday I was
completely confined to quarters. Never put my nose outside the door.
Did a lot of housework. Took my daily exercise in the polytunnel as
it was really wet and windy.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Monday had me taking
a quick run to the Spar for milk and to Boots for my medicine. It’s
something I take for arthritis, been taking it for years, even before
I fell out of the tree-house, maybe started around the time I was
cowped by the pig. I don’t know if it helps but I’d rather not
stop just in case it does.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The sore stomach
started around lunch-time and got worse and worse. I couldn’t eat,
I couldn’t throw up and I couldn’t poo. The pain went into my
back. If someone had offered me heroin I would have accepted it
gladly – even though I was pretty sure it was just trapped wind. I
slept a lot when I could. No-one offered me heroin so I took two dissoluble paracetamol at around 10pm and slept all night. The smart watch recorded a total sleep of 11
hours and 45 minutes for that period. Crazy dreams.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The bad pain was
gone next morning and I did the natural thing. Tummy still felt
tender and I had little appetite and I was so tired. Spent the day
reading – mainly Jan Carson.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Today I had the
cabin fever. I went to Antrim, took Jazzer shopping. Just a few
things she said. We breakfasted in Alfie’s, my only concession to
my delicate tum was cappuccino rather than an Americano. Afterwards I
checked out the charity shop, nice sweater, two mugs and a book with
change from a fiver. Then it was Asda, Lidl and Islandbawn Stores.
Jazzer’s idea of a few things is very different from mine. In
between Lidl and Islandbawn we stopped at Belmont Cemetery for a bit
of a walk and to call with friends. Jazzer said hello to her mum and
dad, her sister, her brother, her niece and nephew and many friends
and neighbours. I said hello to a great-niece, a cousin, an uncle, an
old friend and some neighbours from home. There was a funeral taking
place while we were there but we kept a respectful distance.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Being nosy, I
checked out the funeral when I got home. I had supposed it was for
someone who had lived a long life. But it wasn’t. It was for an
infant.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-CgL08tDpiBmY9DnuuaJJ8Pf6cK9ZfLRcEPx-WpgijFLZAFcy-eHw8DEwazRMmiUfg1wyw6E70IVpYGaQXql5MnOAlTzi2KVLTwoFC6Bcte8SOgCXVYfyg6b_WhRXQ2dVQZfHwMoSN2RlheEtAuE7N7gzjx6kAtJ8x6hh-V-L1pgKivOqPVgFQ/s3009/unforgettable.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3009" data-original-width="2205" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-CgL08tDpiBmY9DnuuaJJ8Pf6cK9ZfLRcEPx-WpgijFLZAFcy-eHw8DEwazRMmiUfg1wyw6E70IVpYGaQXql5MnOAlTzi2KVLTwoFC6Bcte8SOgCXVYfyg6b_WhRXQ2dVQZfHwMoSN2RlheEtAuE7N7gzjx6kAtJ8x6hh-V-L1pgKivOqPVgFQ/s320/unforgettable.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>The Unforgettable Geoff Kerr</b></span></div><p></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-51185946293427687582024-01-21T19:00:00.000+00:002024-01-21T19:00:08.472+00:00In which Bert takes up literary criticism<p>Sunday morning, and Bert stays in bed with his book.</p><p>When he comes down I ask him,</p><p><i>What are you reading now?</i></p><p><i>J.M. Coetzee. Dusklands.</i></p><p><i>Is it good?</i></p><p><i>It's shite.</i></p><p><i>Why read it then?</i></p><p><i>It's really two novellas and it shouldn't take long.</i></p><p><i>But why is it shite?</i></p><p><i>Because of how he writes. Never says what he means, just fliff-flaffing about. It's esoteric. What does esoteric mean anyway?</i></p><p><i>I don't actually know for sure. Look it up and while you're at it check out what's being said about Dusklands online.</i></p><p><i>Is that not cheating?</i></p><p><i>No. It's a really good thing to do. Helps you to understand the book, maybe get more out of it.</i></p><p>A little time passes. </p><p>Bert has just found out about the world of books online. He says,</p><p><i>Ha! I'm not the only one then. It says here that those that find fault with Dusklands concentrate on the obliquity of the book's method.</i></p><p>He goes back online. Doing his research. Some minutes later he waves his phone in front of my face. I am looking at a picture of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKvC5MQxOjlmQ-l2Z8OqGvbbKiA1VHhtl2gAfM1kHz6gINUFzdVpxYvYWeOh0AzClORZiGhlDhHcJwxFe_ljn0NkJR71WtA9tHDfbDsgDTZ8QvvRqd3N9doGb_XexxEB2_rUM_72sjlTqEcylz8duaJZIfFWOVuG1xiWhr9_f6Pm_cFv7B0oRrw/s1600/s-l1600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKvC5MQxOjlmQ-l2Z8OqGvbbKiA1VHhtl2gAfM1kHz6gINUFzdVpxYvYWeOh0AzClORZiGhlDhHcJwxFe_ljn0NkJR71WtA9tHDfbDsgDTZ8QvvRqd3N9doGb_XexxEB2_rUM_72sjlTqEcylz8duaJZIfFWOVuG1xiWhr9_f6Pm_cFv7B0oRrw/s320/s-l1600.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Bert says,</p><p><i>Look at that! The state of it! Spine's hanging off it! And they're looking £40 for it.</i></p><p>I say,</p><p><i>It's probably a first edition. But I wouldn't want it in that state.</i></p><p>I look up our paperback copy to see what that is worth. Seventeen pounds.</p><p>Bert says,</p><p><i>You should sell it. It's a load of shite anyway.</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-83996139373323528512024-01-19T22:11:00.002+00:002024-01-19T22:25:03.492+00:00Snow Time Like The Present<p>Our two oldest grandchildren, Martha and Evie live in town which is very convenient for them. Handy for the shops, the cafes, friends, school, the station and wider access to city life. But... not much use for snow. For snow they need Granny and Granda Nellybert. We're a bit elevated and a lot less trodden and have the best snow. That mattered more when they were wee childer but still... snow is snow. Still snow, it's special.</p><p>Yesterday was the third day of the snow, every night bringing fresh falls, every morning a pristine vista, then yesterday a province-wide strike (which we supported despite being completely unaffected by it) and a day off school for the girls. </p><p>Hannah collected them. Solicitous and caring daughter that she is, she does not like me to walk, never mind drive in wintry conditions. Lord love her she had three days of the snow to brush and scrape off her vehicle before she could set off.</p><p>These days the girls do not expect me to entertain them as in days of old. No cries of, we're bored! what can we do now? No dressing up, no let's do the show right here, no can we bake buns, make slime? Nowadays all that is needed is a Netflix subscription and food every three hours. I accept that, they do have busy lives, they need to relax, to chill and Granny's house seems like a good place to do that.</p><p>Then snow happens.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzgdG-c9Hg1SSz-EoTXM1C9jfUu06hOPAdHXhI7YuUN9KWtJbzdd307LSbavhHJWS_SoJVxbHA_eTmJos-LS3HmZES8BJWEEC6SL6CXXA6Unl66G3FDu97HPQ8hkZKQkW1bGlM5zGaWnWCHiuhY44xgg7YRy1Vtw74LpqwixRP76hW_HrMUsZIg/s4608/P1110223.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzgdG-c9Hg1SSz-EoTXM1C9jfUu06hOPAdHXhI7YuUN9KWtJbzdd307LSbavhHJWS_SoJVxbHA_eTmJos-LS3HmZES8BJWEEC6SL6CXXA6Unl66G3FDu97HPQ8hkZKQkW1bGlM5zGaWnWCHiuhY44xgg7YRy1Vtw74LpqwixRP76hW_HrMUsZIg/s320/P1110223.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNHx6pcvPXu2FW7_t0RqpNa_z36ReaTCo1_pNpFUYeowCrJ9dVBIVVz4sBQNufJKPOAzd9ULyMMskjXBLswgMyTPfCRy2Ny6JLIMtydueXs7-VPPb1gvEPOxTF-dfvUsqJwPHNRA6qWymJ41dsRasMEw0cvncDZ_70PJ3G_Li4h3_n-bIMY5PKA/s3196/P1110226.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1811" data-original-width="3196" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNHx6pcvPXu2FW7_t0RqpNa_z36ReaTCo1_pNpFUYeowCrJ9dVBIVVz4sBQNufJKPOAzd9ULyMMskjXBLswgMyTPfCRy2Ny6JLIMtydueXs7-VPPb1gvEPOxTF-dfvUsqJwPHNRA6qWymJ41dsRasMEw0cvncDZ_70PJ3G_Li4h3_n-bIMY5PKA/s320/P1110226.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH7JJdsyuMyeSQitvNEC-QSbLYGMh5WTqSul73zVMbCPN_pNMgDJGnDpKkRYKd_fMiqZPWJCVcnbYJ1j955JLjil_1bus9Nvjz8JTthiLFf75AGN0jr7ouA-KjIpnnB2nZ-GaXNsSytQai1tdhryJE3IAo-SW0tqy620oG1IYl8KyDLnZFbdQ1w/s1549/Martha%20and%20dogs%20in%20the%20snow.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1541" data-original-width="1549" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH7JJdsyuMyeSQitvNEC-QSbLYGMh5WTqSul73zVMbCPN_pNMgDJGnDpKkRYKd_fMiqZPWJCVcnbYJ1j955JLjil_1bus9Nvjz8JTthiLFf75AGN0jr7ouA-KjIpnnB2nZ-GaXNsSytQai1tdhryJE3IAo-SW0tqy620oG1IYl8KyDLnZFbdQ1w/s320/Martha%20and%20dogs%20in%20the%20snow.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Cleo found out about snowballs from Locky. He made her a few and threw them and now she is convinced that there are millions of white balls hiding in the snow if only she could find them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRt7UmchoLdTYETHjD94Zworq7bQaQSkt0vsNsRYmYPPUVxCw3erem1OS99esBJCJHjADu5LsrI3RrbRd2hjPhO6h576GAWUKC-CHKxaP3SIHUIcBhvt1B9oS6EBsFbg3nSjhVdCBXxNjSec7eakk4v4OAAiKtqAfeq2k1js1c_dbtAp0PhQ3TQ/s4000/where%20are%20the%20snowballs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRt7UmchoLdTYETHjD94Zworq7bQaQSkt0vsNsRYmYPPUVxCw3erem1OS99esBJCJHjADu5LsrI3RrbRd2hjPhO6h576GAWUKC-CHKxaP3SIHUIcBhvt1B9oS6EBsFbg3nSjhVdCBXxNjSec7eakk4v4OAAiKtqAfeq2k1js1c_dbtAp0PhQ3TQ/s320/where%20are%20the%20snowballs.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlapXRRcS_RPMtoTFW7xZf7bmiZdQj0Oa2DOquwXMkLq8cYkcNf-7uOCys2v8vXwUtToz6511I61QebLfV0G6NHMmPiW3Umc5rA6AYJJ0h-y6tb2GMK0o6oZB66gFwvdkMI9Ct5TEwovp8E1cBj1gH9BnMNw_Be97wF4zUwkpa71XyUITRkS5RlA/s4000/down.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlapXRRcS_RPMtoTFW7xZf7bmiZdQj0Oa2DOquwXMkLq8cYkcNf-7uOCys2v8vXwUtToz6511I61QebLfV0G6NHMmPiW3Umc5rA6AYJJ0h-y6tb2GMK0o6oZB66gFwvdkMI9Ct5TEwovp8E1cBj1gH9BnMNw_Be97wF4zUwkpa71XyUITRkS5RlA/s320/down.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Martha got snow in her wellies and a wet bum and she was ready for the warm house, and Netflix and the dry but Evie and Cleo needed more so we went to the woods. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqk9HB5Y8cAHEdtsmayySVq9J8e1pqvtX15auGZSziMgwVHp4ueNJfdWFdmML_9e4z3z7g2-Ae0oCTbFYlP75eqY0b60QmB9SnX6R9jAoNmIGp3rohgXVN2-83gQ5AuwPW-xzuqlmtxRkJugzlUVu9EzrORhVRsbGw-r3tpnCrdgRT6FbeRYTiQ/s4000/IMG_20240118_140230.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqk9HB5Y8cAHEdtsmayySVq9J8e1pqvtX15auGZSziMgwVHp4ueNJfdWFdmML_9e4z3z7g2-Ae0oCTbFYlP75eqY0b60QmB9SnX6R9jAoNmIGp3rohgXVN2-83gQ5AuwPW-xzuqlmtxRkJugzlUVu9EzrORhVRsbGw-r3tpnCrdgRT6FbeRYTiQ/s320/IMG_20240118_140230.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>While we were there she gave me a massive compliment. Said she doesn't think of me as 'old', says that as far as she's concerned I'm only about fifty-eight which, funnily enough, is the age I was when she was born. I can live with that. Fifty-eight forever.</p><p>I haven't enjoyed the beauty of snow so much in ages which is one of the delights of old age. Enjoy stuff because it's all coming to an end. Later on, while we were all enjoying the warmth of a cosy warm house, I noticed that Martha was missing. She was outside taking close-up pictures of the snow to send to her cousin in Australia. The same cousin who was in Ireland only a week ago, who longed to see snow and missed it by days.</p><p>Another time Miss O.</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-10046221028656673502024-01-17T21:49:00.004+00:002024-01-17T21:49:40.606+00:00New Jess On The Road<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRiE30rXBzIvSAg371eVAwHTBEFHqqm6y-M7Bh1lDljHPSF3YK2jLgQbmua7ywzUa1iKggPPVCBctpT6fBaFp_e0mwMNxMrF4lOhOKSHsOeSq2emqhnEMnHHeIPPPtQFGkoTc6ip8HVWhNlJUw17HJ3zKsiCQbwA71ltBUzxdki4gRwiAmRI9Zg/s2961/Jess%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2961" data-original-width="2803" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRiE30rXBzIvSAg371eVAwHTBEFHqqm6y-M7Bh1lDljHPSF3YK2jLgQbmua7ywzUa1iKggPPVCBctpT6fBaFp_e0mwMNxMrF4lOhOKSHsOeSq2emqhnEMnHHeIPPPtQFGkoTc6ip8HVWhNlJUw17HJ3zKsiCQbwA71ltBUzxdki4gRwiAmRI9Zg/s320/Jess%202.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>There are now at least two collie type dogs living on our road that are called Jess, our Jess and Clint's Jess. Clint's Jess has a story. During Clint's time as a milk-tanker driver he frequented farms all around the country and on one of these farms he came across some people, good enough people in their own way, who acquired collie pups which they kept confined to a cage. That's how he got Bob. He'd seen him in the cage for far too long and eventually asked for him and got him. It does something to dogs if they don't have a modicum of freedom but Bob has been with Clint a long time now and although he's a bit crazy he is happy and well cared for.</p><p>Clint's retired from the milk collection trade now but around Christmas time he had business on the yard where he'd previously got Bob and there was another dog in the cage. Jess. She'd been there a good few years, a dog bought in the hopes she'd work out as a cattle dog and that hadn't happened. She is Clint's dog now, and she'll have a far better life with him for he cares about the animals in his life.</p><p>Still don't agree with his politics though. We just don't talk about that.</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-87428050219849497212024-01-14T12:26:00.001+00:002024-01-14T12:27:44.403+00:00An seid prátaí<p>I was making soup and needed a large onion so, outside to find Bert who is clearing the middle bay of the polytunnel. He is going to make an obstacle course for Cleo. It was Hannah's idea, a way to burn off some of the pup's excess energy and take her mind off the Kong.</p><p><i>Where are the onions?</i></p><p>Scratches head. Thinks. Says,</p><p><i>Big ones or wee ones?</i></p><p><i>Big ones.</i></p><p><i>They're in the pruta shed.</i></p><p><i>Pruta shed? Which one is that?</i></p><p><i>You know! The pruta shed. </i></p><p><i>Never once in my life have I ever heard you calling any of the sheds a pruta shed.</i></p><p><i>It's always been called the pruta shed. Ask Clint.</i></p><p><i>I'm sure Clint would be too embarrassed to call a shed for something it hasn't had in for forty years. Now which one is it again? Give me a clue. What do you keep in it?</i></p><p><i>Onions.</i></p><p><i>What else?</i></p><p><i>Tools, kindlers, stuff!</i></p><p><i>Oh - you mean the workshop. Righto.</i></p><p>The naming of places has always been an issue with Bert and I have blogged about it before. And as I'd told him the pruta shed was a new one on me I thought I'd refer back to <a href="https://nellysgarden.blogspot.com/2009/09/come-into-my-parlour.html" target="_blank">this post.</a></p><p>It seems that back then he called it the potato shed, and that's another thing, as Bert gets older he uses much more Ulster-Scots dialect. I have been known to accuse him of <a href="https://nellysgarden.blogspot.com/2023/01/cattered.html" target="_blank">making words up</a> and he'll say,</p><p><i>Get the book* out!</i></p><p>The book always proves him correct. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4AJyBcCeTRMXIu7BrDuTaJYGprIfTt6piBCRo2-jE7fBc8hMof_r0N5i4-xK0Gw6rSq9JCDuPpwg7qFq8sGN9U0KG2qokgWuM3jloo40f1t6jhOKFNC8q9C6PhDZhUSiO8B_aC6eo_VCTV6WvWvUL_dzbT1q0FVTlKmIXaQNgUUXqoOeTqSYDxQ/s3243/cud.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3243" data-original-width="2784" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4AJyBcCeTRMXIu7BrDuTaJYGprIfTt6piBCRo2-jE7fBc8hMof_r0N5i4-xK0Gw6rSq9JCDuPpwg7qFq8sGN9U0KG2qokgWuM3jloo40f1t6jhOKFNC8q9C6PhDZhUSiO8B_aC6eo_VCTV6WvWvUL_dzbT1q0FVTlKmIXaQNgUUXqoOeTqSYDxQ/s320/cud.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwbuCmSlf_RD1wSAcrXyJvJ45g0mXJUQ70bgBf8PkmDmJsK_k6L1jRwRf0q-TkHB51jT6_LepJrx3rveyuBTliJkf03YCTY0j3IdDW04O0C5X8D5B5JCqx169WdfVZXDZ6JdIoXvgoSUX3sIrSCqioBp4jgMNeHM6yWuCtZR9vdEp1kkGeF4eBQ/s2185/pruta.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2185" data-original-width="1958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwbuCmSlf_RD1wSAcrXyJvJ45g0mXJUQ70bgBf8PkmDmJsK_k6L1jRwRf0q-TkHB51jT6_LepJrx3rveyuBTliJkf03YCTY0j3IdDW04O0C5X8D5B5JCqx169WdfVZXDZ6JdIoXvgoSUX3sIrSCqioBp4jgMNeHM6yWuCtZR9vdEp1kkGeF4eBQ/s320/pruta.jpg" width="287" /></a></div><br /><p>*The Concise Ulster Dictionary was a gift from Ganching 28 years ago. She paid £9.99 for it. Today you'd be lucky to pick up a second-hand copy for under £100. I'll not be selling mine. Far too useful.</p><p>Those of you that have Irish will see that most of Ulster's old words for the spud are derived from our native tongue. I wish I had more of it myself so that I could take my turn at confusing Bert.</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-4673482440286156472024-01-10T21:45:00.002+00:002024-01-10T21:52:07.534+00:00This Is My Life: Shopping & Animals (and books)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvOCn8mIubTHIJugD2zOzwAIAfqEl14RDL-lGkvSCArAyZLi8UDmOOquymeNDemlbjvqnJJIOOaRluZncnQnX3h_BrWXOS7Y22iwnAup4VtCB5b-fHELVzZtNCy_Fo3gSWyXVy4cQby3escZC1mR4ybR0djXCfioYFsKA6WaInEje0xQhulPTYA/s3564/IMG_20240110_083848.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2673" data-original-width="3564" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvOCn8mIubTHIJugD2zOzwAIAfqEl14RDL-lGkvSCArAyZLi8UDmOOquymeNDemlbjvqnJJIOOaRluZncnQnX3h_BrWXOS7Y22iwnAup4VtCB5b-fHELVzZtNCy_Fo3gSWyXVy4cQby3escZC1mR4ybR0djXCfioYFsKA6WaInEje0xQhulPTYA/s320/IMG_20240110_083848.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>First thing in the morning I let Cleo out for morning pees and poos. Delighted to say that it is more than 50 hours since she has performed either of those actions indoors. The Kong obsession has not been entirely helpful as her desire to collect it in the morning has often led to a big piss on the kitchen floor. Every day is a learning day (for both of us) and I have learned to pitch the Kong out the bedroom window so she just cannot wait to get outside to fetch it.</p><p>The picture above is post morning evacuations and back to bed with coffee, Kong and Woody the kitten. Woody has breakfasted, no need for outside as he is still a litter tray user. I have my coffee and my books, not easy to manage with a largish kitten sitting on my throat. Cleo has her Kong and all is right with her world. This morning's books are something about Hurricane Katrina and euthanasia which depite being ploughed through for months, the name escapes me at the moment. The other two books are Wally Lamb's This Much I Know (excellent) and Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye (even more excellent).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAztqw8zzlifDTOmNzlIZi42UZaRsjt25oTrKU1c1WAWtppegpc56zE9yTv2UpjhgsA-bQyHmtcsTiMQjYGo22mTcSEecXLUCRUd3Uru65ElgyGjMGUYdrrwqpBM0OMc2kL_xffFCxM64g19PS4yTWuSjNzQ_G99c45a0PuGk7PY974GTx2kgoJQ/s2279/IMG_20240110_084140.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2279" data-original-width="2245" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAztqw8zzlifDTOmNzlIZi42UZaRsjt25oTrKU1c1WAWtppegpc56zE9yTv2UpjhgsA-bQyHmtcsTiMQjYGo22mTcSEecXLUCRUd3Uru65ElgyGjMGUYdrrwqpBM0OMc2kL_xffFCxM64g19PS4yTWuSjNzQ_G99c45a0PuGk7PY974GTx2kgoJQ/s320/IMG_20240110_084140.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><br /><p>Woody has removed himself from my throat and is amusing himself playing with Cleo's tail. It will soon be time to get up as I am taking Jazzer to the shops. Asda to be exact. She is post-surgery for a shoulder injury and I am helping her out just as she helped me out when I injured my hip last year.</p><p>I have a perfunctory wash for which I am not ashamed as I showered yesterday and I dress myself in Snag tights, raspberry coloured, Nordic socks, shades of raspberry, Blundstone boots, a polka dot denim Toast skirt, a grey M&S long-sleeved vest, a burgundy coloured jumper and a pink hand-knitted (by Ganching) scarf. My outer garment being a black M&S burberry. I am, in my own opinion, looking well for 70 years old.</p><p>On the way to Antrim - I'm travelling slow as the roads might be icy, I notice strange clouds in the sky. They are disk shaped, one on top of the other. I make a note to myself to Google them later.</p><p>To Jazzer, still in pyjamas, but despite her shoulder difficulties she is soon ready. All I had to do to help her was adjust her surgical support sling. Last week I had to fasten her bra so - progress. We leave the house, breakfast at Alfies's, collect supplies at the pet shop and peruse the charity shops. I buy nothing, Jazzer buys pyjamas. A theme going on? At our house we call pyjamas drinking trousers - someone call AA.</p><p>On to Asda. Asda, once Antrim's flagship grocery shopping destination has become hugely disappointing. OK - so I picked up an incredibly cheap and fleecy duvet set that will replace the one that Cleo ate, but that does not make up for one, just <b>one</b> till being open while we, the actual customers were expected to check out our own shopping whilst being overseen by the grumpiest shop assistant in the world. Honestly Asda, I'm not coming back anytime soon. Also, the Kenco coffee was overpriced although to be fair the cheap and cheerful Spanish Rioja I just took my last swallow of, wasn't bad at all.</p><p>After having deposited Jazzer and her groceries I headed home whilst listening to an incredibly interesting programme on Radio 4 about bacteria. I felt vindicated having had just the perfunctory wash as apparently bacteria ain't all bad. I am also encouraged to wear my clothes for longer between washes. But, that said, it seems it is still a very good idea to wash one's hands regularly and thoroughly.</p><p>Home again, and in a good mood, having had a brisk 20 minute walk through Ballee Cemetery. It is very cheering to pass the graves of one's former neighbours and work colleagues knowing that one is still here. Bert was also in a good mood having chopped down a disease-stricken ash tree that was annoying a horse chestnut and that will keep us warm for at least a month.</p><p>Then that bloody internet. Far too easy to go shopping there. That bloody Rioja too. I bought another pair of Blundstone boots. Still haven't figured out those clouds. Lenticular? Where are the mountains? The Mournes are miles away. Belfast hills?</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-10455936515259130242024-01-08T20:23:00.004+00:002024-01-08T20:47:44.520+00:00Walking in the Woods<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqq46_mgbci9yP-hoOkJNCLaS9aXeiWXsI0JfF8HHxtWXsN5EIKHGtWs_t8Q8U8GJk9QQ9GRRb3SWPmgND9DGTutEuCTAm1y8QYy7868gcxpHDCc3412fSz5XAFbg4vWQzHMbylnbCNomuHkCZ2tRF2G5-9sDwdW3mQmRkjT4gklELg9_mUJGeQ/s562/Screenshot%20(3423).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="408" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqq46_mgbci9yP-hoOkJNCLaS9aXeiWXsI0JfF8HHxtWXsN5EIKHGtWs_t8Q8U8GJk9QQ9GRRb3SWPmgND9DGTutEuCTAm1y8QYy7868gcxpHDCc3412fSz5XAFbg4vWQzHMbylnbCNomuHkCZ2tRF2G5-9sDwdW3mQmRkjT4gklELg9_mUJGeQ/s320/Screenshot%20(3423).png" width="232" /></a></div><br />Over Christmas and the New Year I got out of the way of walking in the woods. Too busy. Busy cooking, busy eating, busy entertaining. Hannah was much more diligent. Unless she has an all-day work commitment she takes Cleo walking. Rain, snow or shine. Cleo doesn't mind. Pippin does mind and she'll only go out if it's dry underfoot.<p></p><p>Pippin is a walking cat just as Caps, Harry and Holly were before her. Fred didn't care for walks and we wondered whether Woody would be up for it. Today we found out. Hannah got the Dunlop wellies on, Cleo's cue to get very excited. It has been so soggy lately that Pippin has been avoiding the wood but today it was frosty, the mud was hard and she decided to go with them as did Woody, for the first time ever. Pippin showed him the ropes, which paths to take, which trees to climb. He had a great adventure, came back ravenous and ready for a good long nap. </p><p>These past two frosty days I've been back in the woods too. Today I met Bert and the dogs on the lane returning from a walk. Jess went on home with Bert but Cleo came with me for another walk, her third of the day.</p><p>When we returned I said to Bert,</p><p><i>Y'know if we'd met a stranger on the lane, maybe some devil, horns, cloven hooves the works, I'm sure she'd have went walking in the woods with him too.</i></p><p><br /></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-68750287104620508462024-01-04T22:53:00.003+00:002024-01-05T08:47:05.232+00:00The Sweet Waters of Europe and Some Other Places<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9luK1wb8d684UxyJPcrgY74TU0n3nZdalbqP7Er8FcYpPMqmer7NuCVyk-zOLGblWuxmVl70DNY7opEZD4lqosf99NxUWzqFd3xnljsqGUVm-HBLk2QvJxppILa7i4E-F9tYhad58Ee7UIWiD_1d5c5MomJyDfKLi9ZN1cfY7HrR6Vt-rQezKkA/s735/2008BU4669.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="735" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9luK1wb8d684UxyJPcrgY74TU0n3nZdalbqP7Er8FcYpPMqmer7NuCVyk-zOLGblWuxmVl70DNY7opEZD4lqosf99NxUWzqFd3xnljsqGUVm-HBLk2QvJxppILa7i4E-F9tYhad58Ee7UIWiD_1d5c5MomJyDfKLi9ZN1cfY7HrR6Vt-rQezKkA/s320/2008BU4669.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Sweet Waters of Europe</span></b></span></div></span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just as Bert finished reading Dutch Interior I'd completed Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge. I handed it over,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I think you'll like this. It's about a surgeon in the Crimean War, and it's written by a woman.</i> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">These days Bert seems to prefer female novelists, his current faves being Hilary Mantel and Pat Barker. Sure enough he came downstairs next day saying,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>That's more like it. Says what she means, no shilly-shallying around.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the novel Master Georgie and his camp followers take a leisurely route to the battlefield. They set sail from Liverpool to Constantinople and on arrival spend some time taking in the sights including a trip to the Sweet Waters of Europe, which was a fashionable resort at that time. The area, now known as <span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">Kâğıthane,</span> is urbanised and the wealthy must have found new playgrounds.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now I know very little of the Crimean War for it never came up in my school history lessons. That was all Plantagenets, Tudors, The Flight of the Earls and the English Civil War. There was Florence Nightingale of course and references to limbless soldiers in Victorian novels. Yet when George and his camp followers get to where the action is I realised that many of the geographical place names were already familiar. Belfast, like hundreds of other towns and cities in these islands, had streets named Crimea, Inkerman, Alma, Sevastapol, Plevna and Varna. Most of these are part of old Belfast and no longer exist. However, Sevastapol Street, off the Falls Road still stands and that is where the famous mural of Bobby Sands is situated. Balaclava Street, also on the Falls Road, has disappeared. Its claim to fame was being named 'Balaclava' at one end and 'Balaklava' on the other. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-YRi1T-XFKDb49VA88PHbydsZ_iJ7kw0pLhVETqDPdTMPLUnAo85uJruTCQyexVTiPWtnntQKmxAhyphenhyphenzxkE508tIHUK2hP32CC5OtDxRVqZFQ4jckeROf_A1CMVL-iH9QF1yHtXJ5aymuwDHnVxDrUrStGJR3HX-PlAwRkIw2E0aSiT_xp_LbEQ/s1132/Screenshot%20(3422).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1132" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-YRi1T-XFKDb49VA88PHbydsZ_iJ7kw0pLhVETqDPdTMPLUnAo85uJruTCQyexVTiPWtnntQKmxAhyphenhyphenzxkE508tIHUK2hP32CC5OtDxRVqZFQ4jckeROf_A1CMVL-iH9QF1yHtXJ5aymuwDHnVxDrUrStGJR3HX-PlAwRkIw2E0aSiT_xp_LbEQ/s320/Screenshot%20(3422).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nor was Lord Raglan, of Peninsular and Crimean War fame, been forgotten when it comes to Irish roads and pubs. Belfast had its Raglan Street, Dublin still has its Raglan Road made famous by Patrick Kavanagh and Luke Kelly. And Ballymena? We had the Raglan Bar in Harryville which I entered on one occasion for about five minutes. Strong Straw Dogs vibe. It's a Credit Union now. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-43308512725406440692024-01-01T22:04:00.004+00:002024-01-02T09:31:03.601+00:00New Years Day<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_dj5RFd_SEqz79fJ2euLGaeyyYuCv-UeqgSHzWvw4-LXVFeLIJk_-X70eV0eNgrXpMDmtnLYqV66IG6vEPtGuGi4xjzsFZFXQWGmr-nsW14_x9rHBu3-oIaxhOna5FkS8qz0XWtzh-oj84b5ugHu5RJ7cHRsjrWx9Oh0JsZ79Juw18h4F9hM_Q/s736/0a4a3b95aaff7b51f685b6b7e54b79c9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="606" data-original-width="736" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_dj5RFd_SEqz79fJ2euLGaeyyYuCv-UeqgSHzWvw4-LXVFeLIJk_-X70eV0eNgrXpMDmtnLYqV66IG6vEPtGuGi4xjzsFZFXQWGmr-nsW14_x9rHBu3-oIaxhOna5FkS8qz0XWtzh-oj84b5ugHu5RJ7cHRsjrWx9Oh0JsZ79Juw18h4F9hM_Q/s320/0a4a3b95aaff7b51f685b6b7e54b79c9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>The day did not get off to a good start. Bert came downstairs waving a copy of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior and giving off about it being the worst book he'd ever read.</p><p><i>Why did you read it then?</i></p><p><i>Because I kept thinking something would happen.</i></p><p><i>And did it?</i></p><p><i>No. Nothing happened and there were far too many people in it and they did nothing and what had it all got to do with a Dutch Interior anyway?</i></p><p>I was intrigued. I've only ever read O'Connor's short stories so I'll be adding Dutch Interior to my to-read list. I suggested he might like to read First Confession as I consider it to be an excellent short story. I hoked it out for him and said,</p><p><i>That might be easier for you to understand. Or maybe not.</i></p><p>He said, </p><p><i>Are you saying that I'm stupid?</i></p><p><i>No. You're not stupid, you're Protestant.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_SUM3i0axBMWYOAwMYxvyjtvgii7VRtHjTsB8KrQG-xCTh2RNEkyUQ5MDWjuBSeCGfO7_iAGMW4jGu-ap2okxwD_FoLjZIg82jMAb1BqJifoNsaW4xioyufB-aQmlMniNxo2KnGG-UJ_rqO3UmIRDmbHJCVLbJD9zyaEoV5p7VzSW_51x9cgeA/s3253/di.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3247" data-original-width="3253" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_SUM3i0axBMWYOAwMYxvyjtvgii7VRtHjTsB8KrQG-xCTh2RNEkyUQ5MDWjuBSeCGfO7_iAGMW4jGu-ap2okxwD_FoLjZIg82jMAb1BqJifoNsaW4xioyufB-aQmlMniNxo2KnGG-UJ_rqO3UmIRDmbHJCVLbJD9zyaEoV5p7VzSW_51x9cgeA/s320/di.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p><i><br /></i></p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8102969.post-12332943254195443652023-12-31T20:03:00.004+00:002023-12-31T20:03:52.655+00:00New Year's Eve<p> </p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wow! New Year’s Eve already. Where did this last week go?</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">New tradition. I
opened my presents on Christmas Eve as I knew I was going to be
either awfully busy or perhaps incapacitated on the actual day.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Christmas Day. Just
Nellybert, Howard and the five dogs.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I managed to cook a
turkey to perfection and made some excellent gravy. We had chocolate
Pavlova with cherries and blackberries for dessert and, of course,
too much wine.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After dinner we sat
down to watch Nick Cave and Nat King Cole on YouTube. Howard left at
dark to see to his chickens and Bert and I settled down to a couple
of episodes of Fargo. We are all caught up now and now have to wait
for the weekly dole out.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I fed nine on Boxing
Day. We three, four Haribos Swisser and son. There was only one extra
dog, Rex, who was so chilled you’d hardly know he was there.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was a busy day as
I had desserts to complete and vegetable dishes to prepare. And…
new gravy to make. Secret ingredient – remains of old gravy. Gravy
was going to be important as the roast chicken dinner I’d made for
the Haribos a few weeks earlier had insufficient gravy and this was
very disappointing. They were fighting over the last teaspoonful. Not
Zoe, of course, as she was reared on disappointing dinners. However,
her stoicism must be wearing off for she was quite miffed to find a
plain, day-before Brussels sprout on her plate. I did serve sprouts,
sliced, braised with carrots and seasoned with soy sauce and they
were good. Even Hannah enjoyed them not realising that she was eating
the much-maligned and hateful sprout.
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">For dessert I served
a citrussy, almondy Italian cake (Papa Haribo’s favourite), a baked
cheesecake, a trifle and the leftover Pavlova. When the food settled
we played charades which was a lot of fun.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The day after Boxing
Day was a Wednesday. Ben and Sara called and that is all I remember
about that. We watched another episode of Fargo. Bert is obsessed
with The League of Gentlemen and is working his way through all the
series. He finds it unsettling and scary.
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Thursday we had Lulu
to stay as her people are going to Glasgow for Hogmanay.
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Friday evening
brought the young Haribos straight off the train from Derry.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Saturday the young
ones and Lulu Netflixed and chilled (in bed) for most of the day.
After I’d left them home and had a bit of supper we watched
Saltburn. There were bits were I had to cover my eyes. Unsettling. A
bit scary.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Today, Sunday, New
Year’s Eve has been quiet. Except for Lulu, upstairs yapping her
head off because nobody will keep her company in bed. She was in
heaven yesterday with Martha and Evie. Hannah is working and Woody
still hasn’t worked out how to use the cat flap.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">This is the first
day it hasn’t been raining for ages. It is almost worrying.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Just now, out
looking to see where Woody has got too. I see a flash of white in the
hen run and wait for him. He spends a lot of time in there. I hear
voices chattering on the road, in a language I don’t recognise and
being nosey I wait to see who it is. Three young men walk past the
end of the lane, each of them carrying bags of groceries. There are a
lot of people from SE Asia staying around here. They looked like they
might be planning a party. I do hope so. Somebody has to.</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">One of my Christmas
presents was a collection of short films from Martha and Evie’s
dad. The following pictures are screenshots from the films.</p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI_omOMr4iRI4E7WfbDuW_fpz915tjPNZnVi429Ox2_ZI_lm7-HcYqaKRwE5rWDcQde7U4EGvGG4ygFZBuzLUGXbJ3fU3mFX7xrb5SZq6Gt8pTFdW1Kndwmcneo0mVEH49K8eDkEvshFkKK6A9TJBazGRSIPgtIRtMdcfea65UxXKQBuTByVXTSg/s1331/Screenshot%20(3404).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="505" data-original-width="1331" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI_omOMr4iRI4E7WfbDuW_fpz915tjPNZnVi429Ox2_ZI_lm7-HcYqaKRwE5rWDcQde7U4EGvGG4ygFZBuzLUGXbJ3fU3mFX7xrb5SZq6Gt8pTFdW1Kndwmcneo0mVEH49K8eDkEvshFkKK6A9TJBazGRSIPgtIRtMdcfea65UxXKQBuTByVXTSg/s320/Screenshot%20(3404).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJjw-DICG45Dsq6c3ICiiBV3XTbzm4-DYfAWhCUyoZqntg2E9Mkod7PbgO80tpG5roxr5MdAvzhuSQ1Rr53ztxcYiMrCmOpmfqF86rrqmrRqy0B0HdtIGFggi0KfnMsHZNpEMmxPZGZg7SI5iD366JV7yV9Yc9F2c59Ccb-u3M5sF7F251T5cjQ/s777/EEH%202.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="777" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJjw-DICG45Dsq6c3ICiiBV3XTbzm4-DYfAWhCUyoZqntg2E9Mkod7PbgO80tpG5roxr5MdAvzhuSQ1Rr53ztxcYiMrCmOpmfqF86rrqmrRqy0B0HdtIGFggi0KfnMsHZNpEMmxPZGZg7SI5iD366JV7yV9Yc9F2c59Ccb-u3M5sF7F251T5cjQ/s320/EEH%202.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I</p>Nellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14527285652038975147noreply@blogger.com4