Boiled Beetroot and Buttermilk

Pops was otherwise engaged when Matty and I went to visit him the other morning. So until he was ready we sat ourselves down for a chat with Francie.

Francie, you're looking well. How are things?

Och not too bad I suppose.

You've a bit of weight off you. Are you eating OK?

Aye, but the food's not great in here. It's not what I was used to eating.

So what did you eat before you came in then?

A big pot of Arran Victors boilt in their skin. And soup. That's what I ate.

But you get potatoes here.

Aye, but they're no good. They don't boil them in their skin and that's where all the goodness is. And you don't get enough of them. I used to eat eight or nine of them when I was in my own place.

What else did you like?

Beetroot. I don't know what they do with the beetroot in here. I don't think they boil it.

So you liked boiled beetroot then?

Aye. Boiled beetroot and buttermilk.

Poor man. No wonder he's failing. He's practically on the Atkins' diet.

Disrespect

Disrespect
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I was showing Mel & Mikey where Danny (the Wonder Dog, Champion of the World, Best Dog Ever) was buried when Paddy decided to coil one down on top of it. Maybe he thought Danny's grave needed a marker.

Mel & MikeyBoy

Mel & MikeyBoy
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

These two paid us a visit yesterday. Unfortunately I was heading out for the Clematis Reunion so only had a couple of hours with them. I took them up to see the new/old house and Mikey was quite impressed with the garden/field. Afterwards they shopped for Bert, made him his tea and kept him company all evening and helped him to forget about his wrinkly forehead for a few hours.

The Clematis Reunion

I had a lovely surprise on Monday evening. My old friend Gillian Blades phoned me to say that another old friend, Julia Correvon, was in Norn Iron for a few days and wanted us all to meet. Gillian was asking us all over for drinks and an Indian meal at her house. And of course Barbara Jackman would be there too. Barbara and Julia are the only two of us who keep in regular touch. We all went to the same school but it was the Second Sister who was in Julia and Gillian's year. Barbara is from the same village as Gillian and we've all been friends forever with never a cross word. Or if there was it's all lost in the mists of time by now. When Julia and Gillian went to uni (the swots are both teachers now) Barbara and I stayed at home and got up to all sorts of rascally behaviour. We were once jointly sacked from a waitressing job at the Bridge in Dunloy for being drunk in charge of a drinks tray and a cash float. I was a bit humiliated but Barbara thought it was a great laugh.

These are three wonderful women who I should have kept in touch with, but - hey - it's great to get another go. There was a lot of catching up to do and we had a great night but I couldn't help noticing that Barbara and Gillian can't hold their drink as well as they used to.

This is for my beloved ex-husband to read. Gillian Blades said she knew our marriage would never last and that you were far too good for me. She claims to have told me so at the time but I disremember. Probably blocked it out. Nah-nah-nah I can't hear you! They were all asking about you and are delighted that you've found yourself a good one at last.

Nivea or Ponds?

In Kill
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

This afternoon Bert is mostly suffering from a huge angst attack over the corrugated appearance of his forehead.

"Never mind," says I. "There's always Botox."
"Then I'll have a big fat forehead!" he wailed.
"Don't worry," said I. "You still look like Chris Ecclestone to me."
"Humph!" says he. "I look more like Abe Simpson!"

That picture was taken about ten years ago and illustrates how the frowns and grimaces of yesterday are the deep lines and wrinkles of today. Be warned young fellas. And don't forget to moisturise.

Nelly Gets A New Boyfriend. In Her Dreams

I've just heard the thud of a big bass drum and was contemplating going upstairs and telling the resident who lives above the office to turn her bloody music down. I'm feeling crabbit as I didn't get enough sleep last night due to their shenanigans. But the thudding got louder and it turns out it's an effing band marching through Spidesville. Have I missed something here? Why is there a band marching through Spidesville on Easter Monday? Everybody knows that the Orange Lily won't bloom until June at the earliest and that now is Easter Lily time. Personally I blame the Parades Commission for mixing everything up.

Yesterday The Paramilitary Arms held a Karaoke night. Some of the little darlings were going and appeared in the office beforehand so that I could admire them in their finery. They'd all made a huge effort with their hair which, thanks to the wizardry of straighteners, hung long and poker straight. Some of them had even washed it. The big one was wearing white Yeti boots with three quarter length hipsters and a vest top from which her belly protruded large and pale. The sensible one wore clean jeans, a shirt and a touch of make up. The wee one wore a short baby pink Mac with mottled bare legs in knee boots. It was a strange look. She had clarried on so much slap she looked like she was suffering from radiation burns. I gave her a wee touch about that and she started on a huff. I reminded her that I hadn't done the cleaning rota yet and if she got stroppy with me I'd put her on cleaning the toilets. An instant mood improver that though I don't know why she'd worry as she never does any cleaning anyway.

I must have been asleep for an hour when I heard what sounded like a party taking place just under my bedroom window. I got up to investigate. I found that the revellers had just come in - well some of them were in - some were still partying out on the pavement. I brought the stragglers in and shouted a surly "Away to hell !" to the non-homeless standing about outside. Then they all started telling me about the great night they'd had.

"Hey Nelly! The police are after me."
"Well if they come in here to arrest you don't be getting me up. And make sure the doors are all locked up tight after you when they take you away."
"I took a swing at some doll! Pulled her down by the hair and put the fut in her."

(This fut would be encased in a huge hairy boot. Scary! )

"That's nothing to be proud of. What did she do to annoy you?"
"Give me cheek. And she was foreign."
"Huh! That's no reason to attack someone."
"Well. It was great crack anyway."

So with stern admonishments to behave themselves I stomped off back to bed only to get up again 30 minutes later as it sounded as if it had all kicked off again. Downstairs I found them all sitting like angels with wings. I returned to bed now so thoroughly rattled that I needed something, anything to help me sleep. I then had the bright idea that a bowl of muesli and some cheese would be just the thing. Bad idea! When I finally got to sleep I dreamed I was in London with my new boyfriend Paul. He was quite a looker with his brillo pad hair and a pitted face that looked like he was suffering from radiation burns. He was delicately built and about three inches shorter than me and that's small. We were walking through London Town with Ganching. She was striding ahead and we were tootling behind holding hands. We found ourselves outside the Tate Modern and Ganching says, "Are you coming in to see the new Rachel Whitereads?"
Paul made a petulant little face and for a moment I hesitated. Then I said to him, "Paul, I didn't come to London to get a new boyfriend y'know. I came to visit Ganching. Maybe we can meet up later?" He stomped off in a huff and I knew I'd never see him again. I felt relief. Ganching said "What. A. Prat."
I was so pleased when I woke up and realised I hadn't been unfaithful to Bert. Not even in my dreams.

Scots Pine

Scots Pine
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Taken from the back porch at the beginning of March. I've had it with Picasa and now I'm trying out Flickr which I found via Marc

.

White Van Man

....Bert's one of those but he's not typical.

He doesn't drive with one elbow sticking out of the window.
He doesn't use a mobile whilst driving.
His average driving speed is 45mph.
He is unagressive and extremely polite & considerate to fellow road-users.

This morning I asked him if he'd care to help me with the housework. He said no as he would be busy 'pimping up his ride.'

• This will involve sweeping all the compost and dog hairs out of the back.
• Screwing on the bumper that he knocked off last night on Gorgeous Gage's gate post.
• Removing the green slime from the top of the van.

So far I have loaded the washing machine, the dishwasher and made a mercy dash to the garage for chocolate milk for Bert. Needless to say I belted up.

At the garage Nelly waves choccy milk at Hans.

"Guess who was on the stout last night?"
"That's not right talking about Bert behind his back."
"Won't you be slagging him then?"
"Oh no."
"Too scared?"
"Yeah. He might let the dogs out of the van. Or worse, go and tell his mother on me."

Clint came round when Bert was pimping the ride. Bert says "when I get this finished I might hit the Port later on. Clint replied. "Ye might as well. Sure ye've hit everything else."

Guess What, Bert?

Hey, guess what Bert? Lawyer Guy has put links on his new blog and I'm on it!

Yeah.

On his last blog he didn't link to anyone but he wound that one up and now I'm linked to his new one.

Oh.

That means I'll probably get lots more hits from America.

Right.

You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?

Not really.

Well - people with blogs link to other people with blogs and they all read each other, then other people start reading them, then...

It's not making you any money though is it?

Bert! Everything can't be about making money! If you go out there and watch a beautiful sunset God doesn't reach down to you and say "Hey! Thanks for watching the sunset. Here's a fiver."

Yeah, but it's a bit different watching a sunset and sitting at an ould computer.

But it's not just about sitting at a computer. It's interacting with real human beings and having a laugh and....

Yeah.

I need a laptop.

Fuckety-Fuck Fuck!

...to borrow an expression from Ed.

About 20 minutes ago I got nabbed for £30 worth of Fixed Penalty Fine just because I'm such a bloody free spirit (see below) that I rarely belt up on the short dash from home to garage. That'll learn me. And in case you're wondering I didn't plead for leniency although it was obvious he was expecting me to. Instead I said "It's a fair cop, Guv'nor."

I won't go into his macho posturing in his leather strides but underneath the tough traffic cop gear he was a wee skinny specky wanker. But that's just sour grapes. Another thing that pisses me off is that when I gave him my date of birth he didn't even say "God! You'd never think it. You don't look a day over 40."

When I Was Sweet 16

I found this via Bliss.
He was checking out his Porn name.
I checked mine too but it was a cringer so I thought I would share this Quiz instead. It dates me to a T!

You Belong in 1969

1969 If you scored... 1950 - 1959: You're fun loving, romantic, and more than a little innocent. See you at the drive in! 1960 - 1969: You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too. 1970 - 1979: Bold and brash, you take life by the horns. Whether you're partying or protesting, you give it your all! 1980 - 1989: Wild, over the top, and just a little bit cheesy. You're colorful at night - and successful during the day. 1990 - 1999: With you anything goes! You're grunge one day, ghetto fabulous the next. It's all good!

The Naming of Children and Other Creatures

This from Stray-Toaster has got me thinking about the naming of children.

...when I was born, Metal Guru was number one. (Which might explain some things, as my mother went from hippy to glam...)

Marc got off lightly as his Momma could have preferred Bowie and called him Ziggy. It has happened but not to anyone I know and obviously Marc's Momma loved him too much to impose that rarity on him.

I've often thought that it's a strange thing that something as personal as the name by which we are known is almost always chosen by another. Hopefully the namer thinks enough of us not to choose a name that is too outlandish. Like the silly young mum I came across who named her newborn Chardonnay. Beauteous Colleague enquired "How will you spell it? " Young Mum obviously hadn't a clue and shot back "The way it's spelt. How would you spell it?" Beauteous Colleague obliged as after all the Registrar might be a teetotaller but afterwards she commented "I should have told her it was spelt J-A-N-E and saved that child a lifetime of misery."

Now I got called for my maternal grandmother and the patron saint of childbirth who is, according to my mother, St Gerard Majella. My given name is Mary and when I were a lass all Catholics had a Mary of some hue in the family even when it was an all boy family. Irish tradition did not permit the familiarity of calling a sprog Jesus although the Spanish and Mexicans are cool with it. I had a short-term boyf called Jesus once upon a century ago. His best mate was called Jesus too but mine was the cutest Jesus in town.

I could write forever about names and I may come back to it sometime but here I'll make do with a short list of my likes and dislikes in names.

I like lots of names from the Bible, especially the Old Testament. Now daughters consider yourselves spared for I liked the names Job chose for his girls: Jemima, Kezia and Keren-happuch.

You could hardly go wrong with the OT for a damn, fine name. At random I found:

• Moses
• Bezaleel
• Aaron
• Zelophehad
• Levi
• Joash
• Eli
• David

Hmmm. well 5 out of 8 ain't bad. Girls didn't get many name checks in the OT, did they? I suppose it was a bit of a patriarchal society.

Now let's try the NT.

• Jude
• Zenas
• Abraham
• Jesus
• Benjamin
• John
• Paul
• Mark

That's 6 good ones. I'm not counting Abraham because I dislike that name ever since the Smurfs ruined it for me.

Now despite my great interest in things horticultural I'm not too keen on plant names. My blogname Nelly Moser is a notable exception. But then Nelly wasn't actually a plant but a lady who gave her title to a very popular clematis.

Rose isn't a bad name but Primrose? Daisy, Holly and Poppy are all a bit Jamie Oliverish and are also very popular names for babes born in the Portland Hospital. Pansy is vile but I like Violet and Viola. And Olive is awful with all its Popeye connotations.

Funnily enough I'm not that keen on 'Irish' names especially the ones that are drawn from Celtic mythology. Maybe it's because Matty put me off naming my first-born 'Aoife' but I think the reason I don't like them is that in a sectarian society they'll define you before you've even had the chance to say 'haitch'. I don't like any name that's got an M followed by a H.

Now cast your mind back to the glam rock era. Nelly is sitting up in the maternity ward informing Matty of her choice of name for the first born.

"Aoife Mary. Aoife is Irish for Eve"
"Oh I don't like Aoife. How is it spelt?"
"A-O-I-F-E"
"Oh no. There's too many vowels. Nobody'll be able to spell that. Can't you call her Peggy. It's our Peggy's anniversary."

Next night

"I'm going to call her Zoe. Zoe Margaret because Zoe Mary sounds stupid and I'm calling her after your Peggy."
"Oh I don't like that. How is it spelt?"
"Z-O-E"
"Nobody'll be able to spell that. Why don't you call her Margaret?"

Grrr! I didn't listen and kept Mary for Katkin's second name. And as far as I know Zoe likes her name. She's very insistent about the wee dots over the E.

One last thing - When Bert was in Australia the people he met there wouldn't call him Bert. They said it was an old man's name. Everybody who knew him in Oz called him Rob, which I actually like better than Bert. But the name Bert has grown on me now and it does lend itself to so many pet names - like Bertie, Bertram, Bertiekins and my favourite Bertie Boy. I asked him once if he didn't hate me calling him by those silly names but he said he didn't as it meant I was in a good mood.

And this is the very, very last thing - if there is some daft name that you like, don't give it to your kid. Give it to your cat, your dog, your fish, your horse or your teddy-bear. Actually I'm taking that back. It doesn't matter about the rest of that menagerie because they don't give a damn what they're called but you must give your horse or your dog a decent name. Unless of course you race them for money then anything goes.

Do You Know...?

I used to know a wee girl who started nearly every sentence with "Do you know...". It was often some nugget of information that Teach had told her and so mad for knowledge was she that she had to pass it all on to her Mammy (and anybody else who would listen) in case we hadn't heard. This wee girl had dyslexia and could hardly read for ages. As for her spelling - wos atroshus. But she worked really, really hard and got first a HND then a rather good degree and she's now a young executive in deepest, flattest Norfolk.

So in the spirit of Kate's questing, knowledge-hungry mind I'm asking - Do you know how I can fix up alerts for new comments on this blog?

A Dead Skunk Or Perhaps It Was A Cat

I definitely deserved the damn fine weekend I've just enjoyed - for I had a tough week before it. There was the odd weepy moment. My tears fell for the passing of Christopher Reeve, a severely delayed reaction that, and some dead skunk in the middle of the road. The only person who got a new handbag was Bert's Aunt Liz-Ard - she thought my purple suede one the business so I allowed her to copy me. As well as shopping for handbags, Lizzer and I also shopped for alcohol. Chardonnay for me, rum for Bertie Boy and Bacardi Breezers for Lizzer*. She'd never tried it but I told her she'd love it what with her sweet tooth.

The rest of Saturday was socialising with Swisser and others. It was a pity that John the Hat dented the side of Bert's van while moving the PA stuff to Ghillie's. A pity for him as Bert didn't give a flying fuck what with all the scrapes and dents I've added to it over the years. Later we went down to Ghillie's to hear the lad's play and I for one had a damned good evening.

Perhaps just feeling the tiniest bit fragile on Sunday morning but no matter. It didn't stop the First Daughter and I heading to the Farmer's Market in Templepatrick. Also there were Matty, the Second Sister, the Baby Brother and his beloved. He's a tough looking mother for a Baby Brother is J. Got a big thick doorman's neck (for that is his other job) and doesn't look unlike Johnny Adair but with a sweeter expression. There was a slightly embarrassing incident at the Market for which Z has claimed copyright as she was the one who got traumatised. Afterwards Z and I went for coffee and some light shopping. I only bought a pizza wheel, so light I could carry it in one hand.

*Liz-Ard - she's the one with the dog and without the grim expresion in Boho Chic.

Clint Gets Droll With Nelly

Clint was hanging about the polytunnel with Bert this morning. When I brought them out coffee
and hot-cross buns Bert says

"Where were you off to there in such a hurry?"
"Just down to get the paper."
"Aye," says Clint "We heared ye all right, roaring down the lane, music blaring like a young boy!"
"Did ye?" says I.
"Aye," says he. "I reckon they heared ye at the Diamond."
"Well, lucky old them." says I.

Humph! Young boy indeed. I don't know any young boys who'd be listening to Robert Randolph and the Family Band. Do you?

I've been listening to those fellows for a while now but I did go to HMV yesterday where I bought a load of new stuff (some of it was old new stuff) and yes I did take a chance on Bright Eyes. Bert was very impressed with it and said I've a great ear for new music. I p00h-poohed that and gave all the credit where it belongs. Thanks Perdito-Tostadora and Mikeyboy.

Drowning the Shamrock

My thanks are due to Zoe for the advice that got me back on top blogging form. She is to be nominated for a Nelly Award in the category 'Serpent's Tooth'.

So yesterday was St Paddy's Day. I spent most of it at work. It was also the first anniversary of Paddy Dog being sprung from Crosskennan Dog Jail and a year and two days since I last smoked a 'feg'.

As everyone Irish knows it is a tradition among the drinking classes to 'drown the shamrock' but as I was collecting Ganching from the airport that night I had to postpone my shamrock drowning until later. When I returned I got caught up chatting to Bert and the muso fellows so when I actually poured my glass of Bushmills and looked at the clock it was two minutes past midnight. Rats! Missed it. Still the whiskey was good (one glass) and I slept like a log.

Bonnie & Spide

Q. What the hell am I doing up at 2am?
A. I'm ready to repel all boarders.
Q. Who needs repelled?
A. Bonnie & Spide are on the loose, lurking outside. There is no way they're getting in here to trash the place like they did last weekend.

Reasons To Be Cheerful Part 2

My three beautiful, intelligent, sensitive daughters

St Bertram who has put up with me for nearly 19 years

Dogs present and poultry future

The beautiful home we're building that will soon be ready

My family also including really great in-laws

My lovely ex-husband who has been a good father to my girls

A few, maybe not so few, loyal and supportive friends

Some great people I only know through blogging (you know who you are, you're on my links page)

Who needs drugs?

Did I mention the mood swings?

When I Find I'm Feeling Crappy, I Take A Pill To Make Me Happy

I've 'suffered' from depression for almost all my life. It comes and goes. Sometimes years pass without it - then years with it. It's never been bad enough for me to completely lose it, but sometimes it's got close.

Up until about five years ago I'd always refused medication. As far as I was concerned there was no acceptable medication available. There was only stuff that doped you and wrapped you in a fluffy cloud of unfeelingness. I'd rather feel pain than feel nothing.

I've had periods of counseling/therapy which I've mostly hated. All that delving into the past. I thought they were so nosy and so intrusive. I remember telling my mother about why I was not going to go back to one psychiatrist. "She wants me to hate you Mammy." How naive I was.

For years I self-medicated with recreational drugs. I was seriously psychologically addicted to cannabis and I used ecstasy on a regular basis for several years. After a very traumatic period at work I was offered counseling. It was classic - if I didn't talk, he didn't talk. There were no intrusive questions. This was the first time I ever opened up and told about my drug use. It was he who recommended seeing my GP and starting on the new generation of anti-depressants.

I'd heard about Prozac - both the good and the bad. But I hadn't heard about Seroxat which was what the GP suggested. I started taking it. And it was good. There were no more mood swings, no more deep, deep lows - no rages. Just a nice even way of getting on with your life. During this period I stopped taking ecstasy.

The first time I stopped the medication was because I was so happy. I stopped it very abruptly and a week later I turned into a she-devil, a very depressed she-devil. So straight back on to Seroxat for a couple of years. Then I stopped again because I was so contented and life was sweet. But I didn't do it as abruptly this time. Still a couple of weeks later - she-devil. But I persevered. I was happy as Larry for the best part of a year then the mood-swings, the weepiness and the depression returned. So back on Seroxat.

It's been two years this time and after a year I gave up smoking tobacco and cannabis. I went back to the Doc and told her I was ready to come off. I followed her advice to the letter and here I am again with the mood swings and weepiness. So now I'm wondering, what with the years of ecstasy and as many again on Seroxat, am I incapable of living without some little white tablet to keep me happy?

Things they don't tell you about re-uptake inhibitors :-

1. They make you fat
2. They impair the orgasmic response

Getting Out More

Bert's oldest friend Clint has returned to his old job of wagon driving after a period spent running a retail business from home. Driving is a job that is mentally exhausting but it doesn't burn off many calories. And while Clint is a big man he doesn't want a big belly so he's decided to get out from behind the wheel and walk. And who better to get out more with than his old mate Bert.

Now Clint doesn't feel that comfortable in urban areas unless he is encased in a HGV. And when he's in rural areas he likes the protection of a Massey Ferguson, which for preference, will be embellished with a bushwhacker or some other useful attachment.

So Bert decided that Clint on foot would need breaking in gently. Their first outing was to the nearby town of Portgenone. Bert reported that Clint wandered the street of Portglenone like a tourist. He gazed the length and breadth of the street marvelling at its many shops and attractions. He just couldn't get over the bustling metropolis the town had become.

The other Friday night when Nelly was at work and Bert was having a cosy night in with his girlfriend Swisser (and their chaperon Ian) the talk came round to Bert and Ian's plans for the folowing day. Ian informed Swisser that Bert and himself would be having a big day shopping in Portglenone. "Ooh," says she, "That sounds fun. What's it like for shoppng then?" Ian answered "Fantastic." and went on to tell her what a great day Bert had had with Clint and how impressed Clint had been with it all. "I'd love to come too," she said. "What's there?"

So Ian described Portglenone's many attractions.

1. Shopping for work boots in Logan's
2. Pies from Portglenone Meats
3. Costcutters for the weekly shop
4. Dessie Dayfresh
5. Admiring the guns in the gun shop
6. Watching Anthony fall off his boat into the Bann
7. Glow-in-the-dark Virgin Marys in the Monastery shop
8. Lunch in the Wild Duck

And still she wanted to come!

And what of Clint and getting out more? The outings have continued. Recently Bert and he had a stroll round the Sallagh Braes followed by a brief sojourn into Larne. They are working their way up to Carnlough but they'll have to get there soon as it will be a bit too frenetic for Clint when the warmer weather comes.

Bye Bye Shitface

Car crime hasn’t affected me much and if you’d asked me I would have said that I wouldn’t have been that concerned if someone nicked my car. After all it’s only an old Astra and I’m not exactly car proud.

But it does make a difference when it’s personal. A few weeks ago someone stole a car that belonged to a disabled resident who really relies on her motor to keep her independence. The police recovered it and everyone knows who stole it but hearsay is one thing and hard convictable evidence is another. A couple of nights ago I decanted a little 17 year old piece of shit, from under a bed in my place of work. I’m ever so nice when I do things like that – no point in riling them as they’re young, fit and nasty and I’m an old lady. So it’s – you may a well come out of there, I can see you, Shitface isn’t it? You know you shouldn’t be in here. You’re only getting [insert girlfriend’s name] into trouble. Now off you go. Don’t let me see you in here again or I’ll be calling the police. By this time we’re at the front door and it’s bye-bye Shitface. Because. you see, I know that Shitface was there the night that other car was stolen. Everyone knows, including the police but there's no proof and his accomplice has been charged with it.

It’s also bye-bye girlfriend the next day for persistent couldn’t give a fuckness about the rules. So that night she’s got nowhere to lay her head because instead of being nice she gives those people who are in a position to help her a mouthful of abuse instead.

Then it’s break into previous abode to do hundreds of pounds worth of damage then try to make the great escape in Nelly’s Astra. This attempt ends in abject failure, as his tools of trade are a teaspoon and coat hanger. Surprisingly, considering his stupidity, Shitface was careful not to leave fingerprints. The worst part is if the PSNI do catch the little tosser and send him to a YOC he’ll come out a lot better versed in how to commit the perfect crime.

The thing that surprised me was just how outraged I was by his clumsy attempts to steal my car. But I wasn’t surprised at my relief that he hadn’t managed to get to my new Loudon Wainwright and White Stripes CDs. Mind you he’d have been more than welcome to the Bessie Smith.

Handbags A Go Go!

I was on leave there for a while and I believe I'd forgotten what work was. Right now I'm in the middle of seven days on. This is a rare occurence as I'm a part-timer but She Who Must Be Obeyed is on annual leave and Beauteous Colleague thinks she's got the mumps... again! So it's just me and Flossie carrying the place. But oh.... the handbags I'll be able to afford when pay day comes.

Meanwhile back at the ranch Bertie is a-partying. With Swisser.. and Ian. Many thanks Ian for carrying out those very necessary chaperoning duties.

Searching For Nelly

The majority of searches that end up here are looking for info on Nelly the singer. Other referrals from search engines to this blog have also included ‘Nelly's Tree Company’ I wonder if that one was really looking for one of Bert’s fine trees? Then there was someone looking for ‘Gardens in Ballymena for wedding photos to be taken’. Certainly. Come on down. We offer the keenest rates in the county. Someone searching from the BBC found me by keying in ‘st.patrick hobby/driving snakes’. But by far the most worrying was a Googler who turned me up by searching for ‘Nelly old men’ and in a continuation of this frightening trend some pervert on Technorati found me by keying in ‘granny sex photo’.

Boho Chic 

The Great Leaderene

I was up at the site this morning – Bernie and Bianca were trotting along behind the Great Leaderene. She was sporting a stocking tied round her neck at a jaunty angle. It was one of those stockings favoured by older girls, i.e. about 50 denier and a sort of brown-grey colour. I enquired of the Great Leaderene –

“Why are you wearing a stocking around your neck?”
She answered –
“I’ve got a sore throat.”

I did not enquire further as the explanation would either have been extremely long-winded or a short and bad-tempered “Humph!” She is not to be trifled with these days as she recently pulverised a crow with her bare hands. I’m wondering if the stocking might be some sort of folk remedy that only she and her kin are privy to.

I realise that many who chance upon this blog may find the above slightly baffling. Those of you who do know about the Great Leaderene will not be the least surprised to hear what she’s been up to. I have consulted with Bert and he has given me his permission to mention her occasionally. We both think that a person so gloriously eccentric ought to be shared.

Bianca and Bernie

Bianca and Bernie Bantam are standing at their kitchen sink discussing the building work going on next-door and the imminent arrival of new neighbours.
Bernie: “Who is this Nelly anyway?”
Bianca: “Some class of a rapper I’m told.”
Bernie: “Holy fuck! That’s all we need! Anyway it’s not what I heard.”
Bianca: “So what did you hear then?”
Bernie: “Well it’s probably shite, God I hope it’s shite.”
Bianca: “Tell me. Tell me right now.”
Bernie: “I heard it was a dragon.”
Bianca: “Go to hell! Sure we wouldn’t last five minutes with a dragon!”
Bernie: “Apparently she likes a dog and she likes a garden.”
Bianca: “Well I suppose there’s more eating in a dog compared to a bantie.”
Bernie: “I really don’t fancy a dragon as a neighbour. We’d be better off with a rapper. At least he’ll not eat us. Though I suppose he'll be black?”
Bianca: “I heard he was.”
Bernie: “There’ll be drive by shootings for sure.”
Bianca: “It would hardly be handy for them. They’d have to come up the lane, then they’d have that big pile of blocks to get round, then back down the lane again. Anyway it’s racist of you to assume that just because Nelly’s a black rapper that there’d be guns involved”
Bernie: “I don’t see how you can say I’m racist. We’re probably every bit as black as him if not blacker.”

Nelly Moser would like to apologise for the 'fowl' language, profanities and breaches of PC code that have appeared in this post.

Two banties look out from their all mod cons henhouse at a pile of blocks that will become Nellybert's New Home 

To My Daughters

Thanks girls for all the cards & gifts & hugs. I'm all of a glow.

Breaking news - arriving in County Antrim around about St Paddy's Day, from sunny Canada, yer man below.

Return of the Prodigy Son 

The Political Compass 

Show & Tell

How right-wing are you?

Where do you stand?

And what about you?

Can you be bothered – or are you ‘too tired’.

Go on, I dare yez. Take the TEST

I decided to get off the fence and this was my result. But on a different day, in a different mood, it could be a different result. Let’s stand up and be counted. I need at least two people to rise to my challenge or I’m giving up blogging.

The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries

Nelly’s work often brings her into contact with the spide sub-culture.

Now one thing about this particular sub- culture that I have noticed is that many of them are the very bestest chums with The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries.

The media would have us believe that the Paramilitaries’ main concerns are protection rackets, drug dealing, cigarettes and diesel rackets not to mention giving disaffected youth a sense of identity. Nelly knows better. Their main business is actually acting as Agony Aunts and conflict management response to young female spides.

In my line of work I have found that when a difference of opinion arises between two female spides at least one of them will claim a close friendship with The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries. He will be called upon to sort out the problem that has arisen between these two females. The problem is usually extremely grave. One female will have chatted up/shagged another female’s boyfriend or may have stolen her carry-out/make-up, dissed her family or given her a smack. Thereupon The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries will be called upon. That poor man has his work cut out I can tell you. Time without number the Head Man Of The Paramilitaries has been winging his way to Harryville to settle a dispute but somehow never manages to arrive. I wonder why?

Sex Your Brain!

Your Brain is 60.00% Female, 40.00% Male

Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female You are both sensitive and savvy Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve

I saw this quiz over at Acidman's blog.
I note that I'm nearly as much of a man than he is. There is only 6.67% difference.

And this is a message for Ed. I dreamt about you last night. It was very civilised. You were still alive when I woke up.

Shite Or Right?

When I was in my late thirties I resumed my education. For a year I attended the local FE College to take A levels in English and Sociology. There was only one other student who wasn’t a teenager and as I was a fellow oldie she latched on to me like a cleg. She was 20.

At first I found the whole process very difficult. My first attempts at essays were dire, simply because they were all over the place. One of the lecturers gave me this piece of advice, which I intend to apply to the remainder of this post. Then I invite comments on how shite the advice was – or not.

The advice was this

Tell them what you are going to tell them.
Tell them it.
Tell them what you have told them.

So here goes –

I am going to tell .you about a weird dream I had last night.

I didn’t realise quite how anxious I was about returning to work today until the dreaming started. There were several dreams which were all work related but this one was the weirdest. I was out on the razz with three work colleagues and we were having a hell of a night. My only difficulty was keeping up with them and worrying about what crazy situations they were going to drag me into. I managed to slip into the ladies at one point to chill but whilst there I gave birth to an infant. My main concern was that my colleagues would think I was a party pooper for having done this and I was wondering how I could keep it from them. It was obvious that it was not going to be easy as the infant was a cross between a large foetus and a monkey and was very active. In fact it kept climbing up the curtains, perching there and glaring malevolently at me. I realised that I did not like it very much then immediately felt guilty about this, as after all I had given birth to it. So I decided to knit it a cardigan in an effort to bond with it. But it kept coming down off the curtains and unravelling my knitting. The third time it did this I strangled it with a piece of yarn.

That was the best dream I have had in ages and I know I will remember it forever.

Think Twice Before Eating Dumplings

When I wake up in the morning
I hop up right out of bed
Unless, of course, I am hung over
Then I pretend that I am dead

Loudon Wainwright III (Dump The Dog)

I like that title very much. I remember feeling like that – last Sunday morning I think it was.

Another of Loudon’s numbers that resonates with me at the moment is ‘The Acid Song’, which is, if you don’t know it, all about a bunch of folks, who are well old enough to know better, taking acid in a bar. It is obvious that Loudon knew what he was on about. Now it wasn’t acid that I ingested on Saturday but a natural herb that taken in quantity can have a hallucinogenic effect. It can also induce paranoia; and a deep, deep nausea. All in all a very unpleasant experience and one that you’d think a woman of my years would have grown out of long ago. I think I’ll take the advice Loudon offers at the end of The Acid Song’.

So the next time you wanna go out there.
When you feel like feeding your head
Think twice before dropping acid.
Hold out for mushrooms instead.

A Dull Tale

This past two weeks I have been using up what remains of my holiday time. Today I am mostly arseing about and starting to think I’ll be glad to get back to work on Thursday.

Today I took the dogs to Cushendall in an effort both to entertain and exhaust them. Fetching sticks out of the water saved the bother of having to bath them. That digging carry-on leaves their undercarriages in a pretty filthy condition. Pictured below are the two feckers fighting over a stick.

We managed to keep them about us today but while Paddy seems content enough the bitcher is itching to be off. She has no mission tonight.

Tussling

Cushendall Bay

The First Daughter and a Bitcher