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.

  

Mrs Librarian Woman

 A commenter on this blog asserted that I led an 'interesting life'. I beg to differ as my life is mundane, even a bit dull. I hardly go anywhere, rarely do anything, just sort of exist really. I should break out a little, get on a train now and again, wear things from the very back of the wardrobe, spend more money, cook with apricots, book a trip to Manaus.*

Yet I do find life interesting most of the time. It's all out there, even just outside the front door or, if it's wet, the front room. Outside the front door there are snails and owls and moths and in the front room there are dogs, and people, all-the-time people. People with dogs.

And even when there aren't people in the front room, Bert's room, there are dogs and Bert who gets bored much more easily than I do.

He was channel-hopping on his giant TV, said that even though there are hundreds of channels there is nothing worth watching. I was watching a programme about David Beckham in my private secret sitting-room and thought it well worth watching. Amazingly, some of the best bits were scenes from football matches. I don't even like football but the film-maker was good at the job and made it interesting.

So, when I was done with that I went to see Bert who was watching something horribly gory about vampires. He told me he had nothing to read as he had finished his book this morning. Somehow this has become my responsibility. I gave off to him.  

Why do you always tell me you need something to read at quarter to eleven at night?

I told you I finished my book this morning.

And you don't have at least four books in your to-read pile? Don't you be coming into my room at midnight looking for a book.

You have all the good books in your room.

That is balls. I have all the P-S books in my room. There are four other bookcases throughout the house containing books A-O and T-Z. Is it not enough that I source all the books, buy all the books, shelve all the books that I have to choose all your reading matter too? 

I secretly enjoy doing this but not late in the evening. So before climbing into bed I threw him in Strumpet City and a David Sedaris. I don't think he'll like the Sedaris.  

*I'm reading Eva Ibbotson.

Slither Night

This is what I have become...

Sometime between ten and eleven o'clock at night I'll be out with the dogs and the big torch, ostensibly to keep an eye on Cleo, to make sure she actually pees instead of crashing through the back door in search of a high-value treat. She hasn't that many accomplishments but being able to open every bloody door in the house is one of them.

But what I am actually keenest on doing is counting and observing garden snails. They are such fascinating creatures. The snails range in size from tiny translucent babies whose delicate shells might be broken by a breath to the big lads with shells as large as walnuts. I say lads, but snails are hermaphroditic. A couple of times I have spotted a pair of them closely entwined and suppose that they are having snail sex although I'm not sure how they do it. Philip Watson explained it all to me about thirty years ago but I was phobic about slugs and snails then and couldn't bear to listen to him. There was something about knives maybe? 

My slugs and snails phobia originated in that ghastly nursery rhyme, which I took literally. It was horrible thinking of dismembered puppy tails mixed up with slugs. My fear and dislike of slimy things was not helped by having Cousin Patrick pelt me with those huge black slugs found on the shores of Lough Neagh some sixty years ago.

Soft rainy nights are best for snail-watching and I know all their favourite spots. Near stone walls, tiled paths, Bert's hostas, the sunflowers, around the windows. I have to be very careful where I walk. I try not to tread on them. Most nights I count around eighty.  Tonight it was 14 slugs, 84 snails and two accidentally crunched.

This is what I have become. 

Woody

Martha wanted to know today how many pets Bert and I have had and although I couldn't tell her straight away I showed her my Pet Records spreadsheet. She spotted immediately that Cleo had not been added so I suggested she remedy that. Her mother thinks she might become a fan of spreadsheets. I do hope so as she can give me tips.

Not counting the pigs, Bert and I have had seventeen pets since we've been together.

Six of these are cats, and eleven are dogs.

Eight were rescues, six dogs and two cats. The two cats and three of the dogs came directly from the streets, either lost or abandoned.

Six are still with us, and eleven are buried in the garden.

After Martha had finished updating Cleo I had a little updating of my own to complete.

Meet Woody. Found straying on a busy street in a nearby village. Ben and Sara were his rescuers.