New Year's Eve

 

Wow! New Year’s Eve already. Where did this last week go?

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.

Christmas Day. Just Nellybert, Howard and the five dogs.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thursday we had Lulu to stay as her people are going to Glasgow for Hogmanay.

Friday evening brought the young Haribos straight off the train from Derry.

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.

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.

This is the first day it hasn’t been raining for ages. It is almost worrying.

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.

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.

I

The Day Before Christmas Eve

I'll start with the night before the day before Christmas Eve when we had a visit from the smartest man I know. It is always good to see him and I always have considerations to lay before him. His main strengths are the management of domestic appliances, Irish politics and catering. He was here once when our cooker had stopped working and he just went into the kitchen and fixed it. Regarding Irish politics his most recent advice is to disengage from X/Twitter. Last night he gave me some great suggestions for good gravy and red cabbage. Sadly I don't totally remember the details except that both recipes involved the addition of port and I have two bottles of port - which is handy.

I seem to live in Tescos these days. Back again this morning (really early) and had some lovely interactions with staff and fellow shoppers. Lots of smiles and happy chats. I am so into Christmas this year mainly the goodwill to all men/people part. This is how I should spend the rest of my life. There was a really lovely conversation with a fellow oldie in the carpark about the craziness of Christmas food shopping. Her trolly, I couldn't help but notice, was full of bread. Then she told me, it was for the swans in Broughshane. How lovely. I asked her if the black swans were still around. They are. Thanks be. Then she started on a rant about the crows who were also after the swan's bread. I was slightly disappointed in her. But that's me - woke as fuck. The swans are lovely but I also love and admire those much maligned corvids.

  

The Big Shop

The big shop begins with a list, a list carefully curated to the last ounce of caster sugar. But first I have the last Christmas present to buy, a task somewhat hindered by the future recipient of the last Christmas present being in my company. Never daunted, I give her a tenner to browse TK Maxx while I peruse H&M. Sadly, H&M has been cleared out of the best stuff but I buy something anyway. I meet Martha (for it is she) in TK Maxx to find that nothing has caught her fancy. She has other ideas. I am frogmarched to Superdrug where she spends her tenner on lip oil and other essential cosmetics that did not exist in my young day. 

On to Tescos where I discover that my carefully curated list has been left on the kitchen table. I panic slightly and call a crisis meeting with Martha. She reassures me that it will be OK and I bring forward the motion that no matter what happens we will HAVE FUN. 

So, caster sugar. I remembered that. Off to the home baking shelves where we were stopped by a young man carrying a tub of baking powder.

He asked,

Is this the same thing as baking soda?

Both of us,

No. It's not.

Me,

Is it for a recipe?

He,

Yes.

Me,

You'll definitely need baking soda then. It's in a similar tub.

Martha,

Look! There it is!

Talk about grateful. He couldn't thank us enough. Most gratifying.

On to the caster sugar.

Me,

Can you see any Martha?

Woman beside us,

I'm looking for caster sugar too.

Martha,

I can't see any. Would golden caster sugar do?

Me to woman,

Is it for a recipe?

Woman,

Yes. My friend and I are making a pavlova.

Me,

You'll definitely need ordinary caster sugar then. It will keep the meringue pale. Try Lidls. They always have caster sugar.

Me to Martha,

Get us. Baking consultants. Don't forget to tell your mother.

I bought the golden caster sugar and everything that was on the left-behind list except fruit and three kinds of cream. I can get that in the local Spar. The bit more I spend will be offset by fuel costs.

Yet I still need to go into town tomorrow. Pet supplies, dog treats, a new peanut feeder for the birds and another Kong. Bert lost one today. It was Cleo's favourite toy.

How did that happen?

They were annoying me with it so I threw it over the shed roof.

But over the shed roof means it always ends up in the midden*.

I forgot the midden was there.

*Midden - dunghill**

**Dunghill - big pile of cow shite

 

Babies Aren't Fluffy

When does Christmas begin?  Some would say when the deckos and tree go up. In that case, there will be no Christmas at Nellybert's for there is no tree, no deckos. I excused myself because of Woody, the new kitten who is far more fun than Christmas trees and who would demolish a tree just as he is destroying my chilli plant by breaking its branches and batting all its baubles (ripening chillis) to the ground. He has yet to bite into one. 

Ben is very enamoured of Woody which is as it should be as it was him and his beloved who rescued the tiny kitty from the main street in Portglenone and brought him to us. He was cuddling Woody on Sunday, cradling the kitten like an infant, and Woody was loving it. I said,

Just think Ben. In a few years you might just be cuddling a real live baby.

He said,

I don't think so. Babies aren't as good as kittens. They're not fluffy.

Meanwhile, in homes from Dingle to Norfolk, people of all ages, kittenless people are putting up their Christmas trees and wreathes, real trees, vintage trees, arty trees, with hand-crafted ornaments, heirloom baubles, felted mice, stars, fairies, coloured lights, white lights and tinsel strands. I'm slightly envious. Next year, definitely next year - unless Ben and Sara find me another kitten.   

Trees and wreathes from the fam whatsapp. At least one of those trees was grown from seed by one of us. It wasn't me.

Fred: How It Began

 

Posted on 16th November, 2015

Holly is not a happy cat...   but Bonnie is pleased with her new kitten.

Sharing the scoff

On Friday I was walking on the Ballymena-Doagh road when I heard a tinkling and a squeaking. I looked around and there was a little ginger kitten following me. The tinkling was coming from a bell on its collar. There were no houses nearby and I could not understand why such a young cat was out on the road. There had been a woman driver behaving oddly about five minutes before I encountered the kitten. She had went to pull in, spotted me and drove on. I looked behind me and she'd pulled to the side again. I thought she might have noticed a flat tire and wondered if I should offer to help but she drove off again. Did she dump that kitten? I think she did. I couldn't leave it - the road was far too busy and dangerous. Maybe it was someone's lost pet but little cats do not tend to stray far from home and this one was at least a quarter of a mile from the nearest house. Nevermind. He lives here now and Holly de Cat is not best pleased. But Bonnie is delighted with her new kitten.

Resting up a spell

Goodbye To Fred

 

Fred died today after a short illness. He was just over fifteen years old.

After we said goodbye to Fred, Bert said,

It's been a tough year for ginger boys.

Get Me To The Church On Time

 Wellington Street back in the day when Bert knew what was what and where things were.

So yesterday we went to see the EAMS Christmas Concert to support Evie who would be playing the cello in the Junior Orchestra.

As always, I wanted to be early so asked Bert how long to drive to Wellington Church. He replied,

About 15 minutes.

Oh good, thought I. No more cutting it fine.

Where shall we park?, says he.

It's a big church, says I. Should be plenty of parking spaces.

We set off. Bert did not take the road I expected him to. He drove right through the village and past the end of the Fenaghy Road, I asked him

What way are you going?

Into town. Obviously.

I thought you’d go by Galgorm.

Why?

Because that’s the way to the church.

Wellington Church? That’s on Wellington Street.

It’s not. It’s on the Sourhill Road.

Since when?

About fourteen years. Haven’t you noticed it? The church on Wellington Street was demolished around seven years ago. Surely you noticed that?

When am I ever on Wellington Street?

Every time you drive through the centre of Ballymena.

We still managed to make the Sourhill Road in good time and the concert was beyond excellent. Evie and all the young musicians put on an accomplished show. Their teachers and mentors should be very proud of themselves. 

Walking and Sleeping

Since I started wearing my I Can't Believe It's Not A Fitbit I've been obsessed with my sleeping patterns. My average sleeping time is 7hr and 40m which is good and if I find, on waking up, that I've slept 6 hours or less I return to bed to catch an extra hour. This will be after going outside with Cleo for at least ten minutes (rain or hail) to supervise her morning pees and poos for, if I don't, she shamelessly does it in the house. 

Back to sleeping. I started reading Paul Lynch's Prophet Song a couple of days ago and even though I've barely got into it I had a vivid dream about living in a police state. There were two factions, Tories and Nazis and we ordinary people were living in fear. My dream featured a long urban street, lots of people around, uniformed Police/soldiers dotted in every other doorway and all the people were white. All the black and brown people had disappeared. It was scary and I was glad to wake up from it.

In better news since I got the ICBINAF I have been walking every day without fail and feel much better for it. Walks usually find me in the woods but if I have errands in town I might walk there. Yesterday it was Belfast and I expected to clock up plenty of steps. We were meeting friends for lunch and left the choice of venue to them. It was five minutes from Great Victoria Street Station. But, despite lack of walking opportunities the place was great, food was good and the company enjoyable. Drink was nice too. We decided to do it again soon. In Barcelona. I need a new passport. An Irish one this time. 

On White Goods

Our washing machine packed up and no-one could remember how long we'd had it. Hannah said it was at least six years but I thought it might be slightly longer than that. I decided to check the old blog to see if there was any mention of it but no. Whilst checking I found an entry from seventeen time ago and I had absolutely no memory of ever having had that conversation.  

We've had two more dishwashers since then. Stuff just doesn't last any more. Hopefully the current one will go for a good few years more seeing as I only use it about once a week. Like the guy said, I usually wash them in the sink now, just like our grandmothers did.

Martha washing dishes in the sink assisted by Auntie Hannah. Those were the days when she thought washing dishes was fun and raincoat and wellies were essential. I call that picture The Girls Who Never Take Their Coats Off.

The Honest Sales Assistant (2006)

Bert and I went to Ballymena yesterday to buy a replacement dishwasher. While Bert trotted off to the bank to pay in some cheques I went to a local shop where they always provide good service. I have to say that I found the price of their dishwashers a bit breath taking at first. There were machines costing in excess of £300 and I’d told Bert we’d be paying less than £200. So when the sales assistant approached me to ask if he could help I asked him if he had any less expensive dishwashers. He led me over to another part of the shop and showed me a much cheaper machine. I’d never heard of the make but it looked all right to me.

So why is this machine so much cheaper than the others?

Because it’s manufactured in the third world using cheap materials from China.

Oh.

This machine was made by people who aren’t getting a proper wage for their work. People who work in unsafe conditions. People who are, in fact, children!

So is it any good?

There’s not a thing wrong with it.

Even so you’ve put me off a bit. I don’t like the idea of buying a dishwasher that was made by badly treated children. Should you be telling me this?

I’ll not be telling you lies. I have the man above to answer to when I die!

Would you buy this dishwasher?

A dishwasher! I don’t think so. People have no need of dishwashers at all. After all how did our grandmothers manage? What’s wrong with washing dishes in the sink? People have no need of half the stuff they have these days! When Armageddon comes….

Thankfully at this point Bert joined us and I managed to change the subject. We did not buy the very unethical dishwasher. We bought another one instead. Ten pounds more but at least I can sleep at night. ;)

A Pair Of Brown Eyes

Very many years ago I went to see the Pogues some place in Belfast. Whitla Hall? Hard to remember. What I do remember is that I found my 30-something self in the midst of a frenzied crowd of much younger people (mostly male) jumping up and down in such a way that I was in danger of losing my footing and being pogoed to death. My ex-husband pulled me out of the melee and (I suppose) saved my life. Thanks Mick. He and his beloved were supposed to be staying with us for a few days but were forced to cancel due to health concerns. We will see them at Easter.

So we spent an hour or so this evening watching Crock of Gold: A Few Rounds with Shane MacGowan. I liked it. Seemed fitting. I was neither shocked nor sad to hear that Shane had died. Surprised, considering his health issues, that he'd lasted this long.

Way back, probably during some summer in the 80s, living in Ballykeel 2, I'd listen to the first two Pogues albums, windows open, daring my Loyalist neighbours to be offended by the trad Irish-ish. If they'd come to my door, I imagined myself saying, for fucks sake, they've been on The Old Grey Whistle Test. That is part of MacGowan's legacy for, to some extent, he gave us back our music.

Portballintrae and Bushmills

 

Today was a lovely day. I had a trip out with my first-born daughter. She drove, such a treat! First we went for a walk on the beach at Portballintrae which was a delight but weird because we had no dogs. The first time ever I've been to that beach without at least two dogs. Incidentally, my records inform me that the last time I walked that beach was February 2021. Far too long ago.

After the walk we went to Mike's Coffee Shop in Bushmills for Thai food and it was delicious. Had I been at home I would have licked my plate. The food was great, the service was great and I will definitely return. I have been inspired and must go soon to Asia Supermarket to source the necessary ingredients for a Thai Panang Curry.

I left my phone behind so Zoe took the photographs which is why there are none of her. A pity as she was looking really fine.

The First Judy

This picture of Jess was taken the first day she went to live with my parents. She looks a bit unsure of herself.

I were looking through a box of old photographs, mostly of dogs. I turned up a snap of Mum’s dog Jess from when she was a puppy and asked Bert,

Do you remember Jess?

Jess? The Pup that came from Sammy Grey’s. How long was she around?

At least ten years. Mum got up one morning and found her dead. She was their last dog. They never had another.

Your dad wasn’t that keen on dogs, was he?

I don’t know about that.

So I told him about the second Danny and the first Judy.

Both dogs came from the same mother, a wee spaniel that belonged to a friend of a friend. Danny was the first of them. At that time I had little need of a dog but allowed myself to be persuaded. He was such a gorgeous pup and I named him Danny after a dog we’d had at home. He was probably only about six weeks old when I got him, far too young to be separated from his mother but that was common then to take a pup away at that age. I’d been advised by a neighbour to get him his inoculation soon as distemper was rife in our area. But I’d little spare money then and didn’t get round to it.

It’s a horrible thing to watch a tiny puppy die of distemper. Thanks be it is almost a thing of the past now. He became ill and declined fast. After one horrible night of fitting I took him to the vet but it was too late. Allowing little Danny to die is a huge regret.

About a year later Beryl’s friend’s bitch had a second litter. At first I was reluctant to have another pup but went to see them. Always a mistake. I chose a sweet little bitch and named her Judy. This time I made sure she got her inoculations. That done I could pat myself on the back and consider myself a good dog mum. But I wasn’t.

Judy spent a lot of time in the street outside our house. Drumtara was a newly built estate and there were a lot of children and dogs around. When Zoe was outdoors playing with her group of friends Judy was always with them. There was one young boy who tormented the girls and he had been kicking Judy. Understandably, Judy snapped at him and this caused a big problem. His mother came to my door and threatened to call the police. I asked my parents if they would take her off my hands and, slightly reluctantly, they agreed.

Judy adapted well to country life. She decided that my father was her hero and followed him everywhere. If he was at the farmyard she would be with him. If he went to the moss (which he often did) she’d go too, trotting beside his tractor until they arrived at the turf banks.

She was always well-behaved when she was with Daddy until the day when one of the fellow turf cutters brought his dog along and which excited Judy so much that she did not mind herself around Daddy’s tractor and was killed under its wheels. He buried her there and then in the bog that she and my father loved so much then returned home alone. Mammy knew the moment he came in that something was wrong. He went to his customary place at the kitchen table, sat down, folded his arms in front of him, laid down his head and wept.

Not long after these photographs were taken Judy and Katy set off on an adventure. Whether it was Judy's idea or Katy's we'll never know but they both left my mother's house and turned up at the next door neighbour's house which was a good fifteen minute walk for a toddler and a terrier. Both were returned safely and we were advised that one of them might need a nappy change.

A Post From Fifteen Years Ago

 

Oh How I Wish That Skippy Was Here

The hole what I fell in

I’ve never got into the habit of carrying a phone with me. After yesterday I think perhaps I should. After leaving Hannah in to work I took Paddy and Bonnie for walks in Currell’s Avenue. I was wearing my Hunters so decided to go off piste. We were in this boggy field between the river and the Ballygarvey Road and I went to cross an old wooden bridge over a sheugh. Next thing I’m sitting on my ass on a whole heap of mud and my left leg is stuck in a hole in the bridge, damn and blast it to hell. Of course my first thought was,

Am I going to lose my welly here?

No thought a-tall for my leg, just my welly for a damned expensive welly it was too. Then I thought,

Am I going to get my leg out or am I going to be stuck here for hours?

Then I thought,

Will I have to chew my leg off?

Then I thought,

If I had a big rock I could smash the wood around my leg and get it out.

Then I thought,

If these dogs were any good a-tall like Lassie or Black Bob, or if they were even as smart as Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, then they could go and fetch help but they’re not, they’re crap dogs and they’re not even looking at me, they’re running ahead regardless as if Nelly with her leg stuck in a bridge is a really normal thing to be happening.

Then I thought,

If I imagine my leg is really skinny like Kate Moss’s leg then I could wiggle it out or die trying.

So I did. I imagined my leg was totally skinny and wiggled it out and it hurt like hell and it came out with Hunter still attached.

And I jumped up and walked about and everything still worked so I thought I’d better take myself and my two useless dogs homewards but before I went I took a photo of the hole in the bridge and I wished that I could have had a picture of me with my leg stuck in the bridge and if Skippy the Bush Kangaroo had been there (s)he would definitely have gotten that picture.

What's that Skip? An old lady's got her leg trapped in the old wooden bridge?

Places in Books: 19 Eldon Road, Kensington

 

Number 19, Eldon Road, where the art critic Brian Sewell and his dog Susie lived in 1972. Susie was the first to sense that they were not alone, trembling and howling on many occasions. Sewell himself became aware of a presence.

"...something disagreeable - a chill and a stench through which I could pass in a single stride, of much the same height and volume as a human being" (Sleeping With Dogs, Brian Sewell, p30)

It is to be hoped that the current residents are untroubled by hauntings and, if this is so, they can thank Sewell for it, because it was he on meeting the ghost on the stairs, sat down, talked to it and somehow persuaded it to leave, much to Susie's relief.

I am reading this book for the second time. Zoe loaned it to Hannah after Ziggy died and when she had finished I decided to read it again. By all accounts the author was a complicated man who held controversial views but I read him as a fellow lover of dogs and that will do.  

 

Diana and Dodi Are Dead

I don't exactly remember what I was doing the night Diana died but I think there might have been some sort of a party for the next day had a bit of a hangover vibe. And it had been  a Saturday night. What I do remember was Katy coming in after an all-nighter. She'd been clubbing in Belfast. And she said,

Hey Ma, did ya hear? Diana and Dodi are dead!

I thought it was crazy talk. Some kind of post-party-drug fantasy. She said, turn on the TV. It's all over the news.

So I did, and it was. Was the newscaster wearing a black tie? I don't remember. But he had that black tie kind of voice going on and it was true. Diana and Dodi were dead and nobody hardly mentioned the driver who was also dead.

Yep! I've just watched the first episode of The Crown on Netflix and it is all coming back to me. 

Union Street

 

This morning I finished reading Union Street by Pat Barker. It doesn't happen often but as I read the last paragraph I immediately wanted to re-read the entire book.

The book is unflinching in describing the reality of working-class women's lives. And no bodily excretion or fluid goes unmentioned. At first, I found that off-putting but not as much as the long-ago Guardian reviewer who wrote that it was all "far too gynaecological".

It was Bert who was the first to read Pat Barker. He began with the Regeneration Trilogy then moved to the Women of Troy novels and finally Union Street. I always gave him first dibs at the Barkers. Not any longer for I ordered three more today and I'll be reading them first. Bert will just have to wait.

*The last book I re-read straight away was Claire Keegan's Small Things Like These. 

Camera Shy

Our recently-wed niece Naoise sent us all a link to the official photographs taken at the wedding and I immediately spent 40 minutes or so perusing them. The happy couple were beautiful and handsome. (Apply adjectives in the usual way.) Their parents were joyful and proud and the child attendants looked cute as buttons. And all the guests looked jolly happy to be there. (As they should.)

I'll admit to some slight trepidation as I scrolled through the later pictures. I have form in wedding photographs and never seem to look my best. That's probably why I was careful to avoid cameras. But not careful enough. She got me at the dinner table.

Wreck The House

 

Having young animals in the house is wonderful fun but it also makes for a lot of work and expense as their idea of having a good time is wrecking the place.

This is Cleo's work. And that is the spare room. The GOOD spare room. A new duvet is needed. She chewed through my Ikea cotton duvet cover to get at the foamy stuff but I think I can mend it as it is only a small hole. I will be able to use another Ikea cover to patch it. The hole she made in that one was big enough to fit the round head of a bull elephant so I'll use it for another sewing project. Though it's a pity about my fabric scissors. Someone (Bert?) got hold of those while I was away and used them for some plant-related purpose. It seems that Cleo and Woody aren't the only ones wrecking the place.

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 7

 My last full day in London and it’s another rainy one. Nevertheless, London Sister and I head out for a trip to Green Lanes. Our primary destination was the Dusty Knuckle bakery and coffee shop and it did not disappoint.

Of course, we didn’t traverse the entire length of Green Lanes. For a start the weather was inclement and secondly, it is one of the longest roads in London at slightly over 6 miles. The road’s origins are uncertain. What is known is that it originated as one of the old drover’s roads used to walk cattle and other livestock from the country to London’s markets.

No cattle or geese today. The part we went to was full of Turkish and Greek Cypriot shops and restaurants, bakeries shops displaying colourful cakes and pastries, lashings of honey and pistachios, windows full of bridal dresses and everything that could possibly be needed for the biggest, fattest wedding ever.

Then, it's time to return to Muswell Hill. We were damp but happy, looking forward to an evening of movies, quiz shows and yet another delicious dinner.

London Sister helped me make a meticulous travel plan for the next day then I packed my case for the morning and went off to bed with a Hilary Mantel.

The next day, I said a fond farewell to Mr S and LS and went for breakfast in Muswell Hill. Always going the extra mile and then some, my lovely sister accompanied me to Tottenham Hale for the Stansted Express. And that was London redd up for another while.

Of course, me being me, I spent most of that journey fretting that I might need to be farther up in the train because we airport passengers were supposed to be in the first 5 carriages. How glad I was when we arrived at the airport to find that the train door opened onto the platform and not some weedy waste ground, necessitating a big jump and a long, dangerous trudge to the airport. Yes - I know. Ridiculous.

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 6

 

 

London Sister kindly met me at King's Cross which was a good thing as it is a big and busy station. On the way to our prearranged meeting place, I passed a very long queue which I hoped was not for the toilet. It was, in fact, the queue to Platform 9¾ and consisted of excited Harry Potter fans, most of whom were accompanied by parents or other grown-ups. An expensive day out for the adults I guess.

From King's Cross to Muswell Hill where we passed a pleasant evening then an early night for me. Saturday was going to be a busy day.

We were going from Muswell Hill to have lunch with Ganching. Having set out in good time we found we were a tad early for our train connection so went for a wander in the direction of the Roupell Street Conservation Area consisting of several streets of housing dating from the early 19th century, built by a wealthy gold refiner, John Palmer Roupell. If the streets should look familiar that's because the area is often used on location shoots for films and television.

Ganching gave us a delicious lunch and after coffee, we set off for Greenwich. I think I was there about 50 years ago but I don't remember much about it. This time we visited The Queen's House which was lovely and despite giving myself a crick in my neck I did not manage a decent photograph of the famous Tulip Stairs. Never mind. I can always look at Ganching's.

Back to Muswell Hill to catch the end of my brother-in-law's Americana GMT show on Mad Wasp Radio. Then we were off and out again to a lovely Italian restaurant near Finsbury Park. All of us, Ganching too. I don't know how Londoners keep up the pace.

What I Did On My Holidays, Days 4 and 5

The fourth day brought mixed feelings for it was on that day that my beloved middle daughter had decreed would be for her and me alone. I had been looking forward to it for I rarely have Katy to myself. Yet there was a tiny guilt to be leaving grandchildren behind.

Reader, it was bliss. 

We went to Houghton Hall. Katy volunteered in the gardens for a time so she had a complimentary pass and we felt pretty special. It was a damp and drizzly day but we cared not a jot. 

I never thought I'd be so enthralled to scrutinise the 6th Marquess of Cholmondeley's model soldiers apparently the world's largest private collection. Small quibble, The British Grenadiers played on a loop was wearisome. Katy could not help noticing that the models of 'the enemy' such as the kilted Scots at the Battle of Culloden were far more likely to be corpsed than those plucky Brits. 

Next the house. The Sean Scully exhibition was only slightly jarring. For me, Scully's art was far more elevating than Walpole's ostentatious trappings. Miss Emily's previous take on the house was 'so many beds'.

It was far too rainy to take in Scully's outdoor installations so we headed for the gardens instead. Despite it being the tail-end of October there was still a lot to see. 

Where have dahlias been in my life? I want them - all of them.

Lunch was leisurely and enjoyable. The last time I ate at the Houghton Hall cafe we did it in shifts. One adult lunched while the other tried to prevent James from climbing into the courtyard water feature. Apparently, lunch is always onion tart but I enjoyed it immensely. 

Then home and a run out with the children to Sue Ryder and my co-grandmother, home again and my last evening in Norfolk where I am already looking forward to my next visit.

Day 5 dawns and I am leaving my Norfolk family and going to the London sisters. I leave them all at Kings Lynn station, always a sad feeling knowing I'll not see them again until next year. 

I've finished my Beryl Bainbridge and have a book I bought at Sue Ryder but I don't open it. Instead, I look out the window of the train at the dull English countryside. It does not inspire me. I look anyway. At pheasants, horses, and just once some deer. I look forward to London.

What I Did On My Holidays, Days 2 and 3

 

Norfolk was wetter than I've ever seen it but we didn't let that deter us. On Tuesday we went bowling. It's been decades since I last entered a bowling alley. In fact, I believe the last time I was in one all the folk I was with have since died. Except one.

Bowling started well. James was first on and immediately got a strike. After that things deteriorated somewhat and at the last Katy was playing on her own. She managed three strikes but no one was there to cheer her on. I'd have been delighted for her but was on Granny duty. The next stop was Pensthorpe. It was much too wet to appreciate the garden although the wildfowl were enjoying the weather. We went straight to Hootz House, the indoor play area. We didn't stay long as James wasn't feeling it - mid-term break, far too crowded and noisy.

Wednesday's weather was slightly better but still rather damp. We went to Holkham Beach. There were lots of people there but because it's so big it didn't feel crowded. Perfect for James.

 

He loves the water. Despite his wet weather clothing and Wellington boots, he managed to get completely saturated. Which he barely noticed until he returned to the car where, sensibly, Katy had dry clothes waiting for him.

Emily is more of a sand and beach girl and would have stayed dry if it hadn't been for the fast tide. A channel we were able to wade through ankle-deep was, around an hour later, thigh-high. I got soaked on the return as did Katy who needed to carry Emily over.  James just splashed through it all completely unconcerned.

I read that Holkham Beach was a favoured spot for Queen Elizabeth to walk her corgis. She could do so relatively unnoticed as she had the use of a private entrance to the beach thanks to the local landowner, Lord Leicester. 

So, next time I'm in Norfolk I will return to Holkham Beach and hopefully, in finer weather. I'll go to Pensthorpe too but not Hootz House.

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 1

Miss Emily (as Wednesday Adams) and Katkin

Monday, 23^rd October - It was London Sister’s birthday. I sent her a message on the family WhatsApp and would be seeing her on Friday. Left the house early to catch my Stansted flight. Bert drove me to the airport and foolishly did not bring the necessary coins to get out of it afterwards. There was a big hold and he was helped by a kind woman who gave him the money he needed. She refused his five-pound note and told him he could pay it forward. I will need to remind him about that.

Katy and Emily met me at the airport. It’s a long enough journey from Stansted to Fakenham so we stopped off for lunch which Emily was very pleased about. Unfortunately, James was less pleased about the time we spent getting there. I met the most recent members of my Norfolk family, Otie the spaniel and Houdini the big tabby cat.

My son-in-law made us a delicious chicken and roast veggie dinner and after telly, family time and retiring I finished my Eva Ibbotson and began my Beryl Bainbridge. Somehow I managed to lock myself (and Otie) into the bedroom and had to bang the door to be let out. Most embarrassing.

Travel Anxiety

I'm not much of a traveller and when I do get around to it I am filled with anxiety. For a start, I'm never sure I'll even be allowed on the plane. So what if the plane falls out of the sky. If I get to board I will be as happy as Larry.

So, all being well I will get on a plane tomorrow and I will visit with my Norfolk family for four days. Then I will take a train to London and visit London Sister and Ganching for three days.

Actually this time I'm not that anxious at all. Oh dear! Hope that's not a bad omen. It's OK. I'm anxious again.

Today, my last day at home for a week, I packed, cleaned the hen house, watered the plants and binge-watched Bodies on Netflix.

I cannot wait an entire week to see how it ends.

I wonder if Cleo will miss me? I know Woody will.

 

A Bit Of A Catch-Up

First of all, Woody has responded well to the magic juice provided by the vet. No more coughing and he's eating tremendous amounts of food and... he loves everybody. Especially Hannah, Evie and Martha, and even Nellybert.

Then there was the matter of Bert's book choices. Strumpet City was turned down because it was too big and he fell in love with David Sedaris. Bert never ceases to surprise me.

On the subject of books, First Daughter was laid low with COVID-19 for a week and has since made a full recovery. I asked her if she'd filled her downtime with books or streaming. She told me she'd just sourced a book, a dystopian novel set in Ireland that she'd hoped would fill the hours. But, because of current real-life events, the novel proved to be a tough read. If only I'd known I could have loaned her my small collection of Eva Ibbotson romances.

Speaking of which, it was Ganching who alerted me to Eva Ibbotson's adult fiction which, as Ganching informed us, Ibbotson wrote for 'very intelligent women with the flu'. It just so happened I'd already found three of those novels in a charity shop and hadn't got round to opening them as I thought they'd be a bit saccharine. I'm on the third one now and finding it and the previous two quite delightful. 

Zoe getting the Covid spurred me to book my free jabs, flu and the coronavirus. That happened this morning and straight after I was off to Antrim to breakfast with Jazzer. We had a quick look around the charity shops to see if we could find a particular kind of knee-length boot that Martha needed to complete the Buffy the Vampire Slayer costume she wanted to wear at Halloween. Unfortunately, we did not find them except we did but three sizes too small.

Then we went to Dobbies. I was quite excited about this as the last time I was in a Dobbies (somewhere near Lisburn) I got the most gorgeous crocus bulbs and some  Nasturtium 'Phoenix' seeds . Nothing appealed to me at Antrim Dobbies apart from a new pair of cuttings snips. The prices were sky-high. I discovered that the monster deliciosa I dismantled (because it got too big) and turned into six new plants would have cost me £120. We could not wait to get out of it. I won't be back. At least until the spring of 2024 if the world still exists then. 

Back at Jazzer's, I gathered nasturtium seeds from her plants. Mostly Phoenix. Funnily enough, she has a lot of them in her garden because I grew them from my collected seed and accidentally gave her all the seedlings because I'd neglected to label them. 

So that is my catch-up. I will try to get a few posts in over the weekend as I am going to Norfolk and London next week and Will Not Be Blogging.

And speaking of London, I heard the sad news this week that an old friend from Ballymena had died there at the start of the month. Kevin was one of the people that sent my life spinning in a new direction. And that's a story on its own. 

He was a good bloke. Too good for Ballymena.

A Visit to the Vet

 

Woody had a cough which turned into a gurgle so we took him to the vet. He means too much to Hannah, Sara and Ben for me to neglect his well-being. On the way there I found myself catastrophising. What if he has a tumour? Hundreds of pounds worth of tests needed and then he might have to be euthanised anyway and our last kitten cost us £1300 before she was even six months old. How can I  tell Ben, Sara and Hannah the sad news that we cannot afford to spend thousands of pounds curing Woody's cancer. 

At the vet's the waiting room was full of adorable dogs in their mid-teens that were obviously not long for this world. I was torn between feeling sympathy for their loving owners and a mild resentment that their dogs got four more years than Ziggy did.

Woody was a brave soldier. Vet said he had a viral infection, but we'd got him in on time, an antibiotic should sort him out. Relief all round. He got a thermometer up his bum, half a worm tablet, small bottle of the magic juice and a bill for seventy quid. And, as I said to Bert one time,

I wonder what people without animals spend their money on?

I also thought, Woody had litter mates and they probably all had that viral infection (cat flu). Could it be that he, who probably hitched a lift under a car, got dropped off in the middle of Portglenone, avoided being run over, was rescued by Ben and Sara, ended up with Hannah and Nellybert and he turns out to be the lucky one?

 

I really hope so.