More Apple Dumpling

I am finding it hard to settle to fresh blogging. So back to the trusty stopgap - a recycled post. This one is almost 20 years old. Some things have changed since I wrote it, some things haven't. Swisser is still annoying me, and I have not gotten any fatter. The big change is that Matty's not here any more. She will be gone thirteen years tomorrow.

Apple Dumpling

Mother and I went to the Hospice shop in Magherafelt yesterday where I picked up a denim skirt and pink stripy cheesecloth blouse both size 20. That shop is damn good as there is little competition in the area and there are lots of rich people (good quality cast offs) about. There are also loads of large well-fed people too as there were plenty of XL sizes. I am building up an extensive wardrobe of size 20 (and above) garments since getting amazingly fat. Sometimes I console myself that I’ve only gone up one dress size and that I was only kidding myself I was size 16 anyway.

Whilst putting on the denim skirt this morning I noticed that my waist appears to have risen. Let me explain. You know ladies that a huge amount of us wear the wrong bra size and that the starting point of measuring up for the proper size is underneath the bosom. Well that is where my waist has crept up to. My under-bust measurement and my waist are the same and in the same place. Nelly is now the shape of an apple with little arms and legs sticking out – and is that a cherry on the top?

A wise woman once told me that I shouldn’t worry about putting on weight as a result of stopping smoking. She said that after about a year the weight would go down again. Oh God I hope she is right.

Then another wise woman told me that a menopausal woman turns into an apple with little arms and legs sticking out, and then she gets diabetes. Thanks for that Swisser.

On Reading & Cooking

I finished two books this morning. The first was In the Castle of My Skin by George Lamming which I immediately wanted to reread. That is a rare feeling for me but I felt as if there was something there that I really needed to understand better. I will read it again.

The second book was Elisabeth Strout's Amy & Isabelle, a recommendation from London Sister. This one I didn't feel inclined to reread it but it did make me want to read another Strout. World Books on eBay here I come.

And speaking of World Books - I recently bought a pre-owned copy of Bee Wison's The Secret of Cooking. I paid top dollar for it, only a few quid less than a new copy and was very disappointed to discover that the previous owner had left some cooking splodges on it, in the form of stuck-together pages.  Of course, this meant that the book obviously encouraged cooking and if it had cost me a fiver I wouldn't have cared.  World Books were great about it and gave me a full refund which I have already spent on buying even more books from them. 

Tonight I made Mushroom Noodles with Peanut Dressing from Bee Wilson's book and it was superb. Probably the best salad dressing I've ever made in my life. It was the very definition of umami. Cannot wait to make it again. 

The Jeep has been in for a service this past day and a half. I've missed it. This must be how Vee feels all the time. No wheels. The car came back today and I was straight into town to buy all the special ingredients for the Mushroom Noodles etc. It was pension day yesterday and I longed to spend but had no wheels. I cracked around nine pm and replenished my spices from my online spice supplier. And I bought a book from World Books, The Trees by Percival Everett recommended by The Guardian and Ganching. I will probably buy Everett's James tomorrow if I can persuade Vee to Waterstone's.

PS This post should be more accurately be titled On Reading & Cooking & Drinking Wine for there was a really good offer in Tescos this evening.

Watching Blue Lights and Baby Reindeer. Gardening? Afraid not. It's far too cold and wet. Worst Spring in 70 years.

Catching Up

 

Who is that fellow sitting (some time ago) with all those young women? These days he is a retired solicitor, and two of the women are his sisters. I'm the one in the middle wearing a red dressing gown, my favourite outfit back in the day. I'm sitting next to my youngest sister who was always up for a night out. One girl I don't remember but the friend who took the original photograph will know for she knows everybody and everything.

These past couple of months have found me reconnecting with old friends.  First, it was Vee who I've been taking out a bit for she had to give up driving for a while. We get our goods in, go visit garden centres, cemeteries and coffee shops. We even went to Ikea! Just like regular old ladies. I'm finding it all most enjoyable. There was a lot of catching up and lots of stories to be told. 

Then about a week and a half ago I got a call from another old friend Cici. I'd bumped into her about a month before and we'd exchanged numbers. It was the usual thing. Must get together, the sort of thing that is often said and then not acted upon. But I was delighted to hear from her. She suggested meeting up with her and another friend two days hence. I was so excited. Thought about what I was going to wear even! Obviously not the red dressing gown for even though I still have it it doesn't fit too well these days. Our mutual friend, Ari - I've known her since she was twelve. She was London Sister's friend in first year at grammar school but after LS left town we became closer. 

As life goes on we take different paths, meet other friends, develop new interests and I hadn't seen Ari in nineteen years. I was nervous. I needn't have been. The craic was mighty, the catching up began. We had all changed so much yet it seemed we hadn't changed at all.  There will be a next time. I'm looking forward to it.

Cici took the original photograph and Ari is sitting next to me. It must have been taken in the latter half of the 1970s. Cici will know, she knows everything.  

Durty Danny

This past couple of years have seen us get two kittens and a pup. This has been cheering and has brought a bit of youthful high spirits to the house. This is all very well except that ten years from now they are going to catch up with us in decrepitude and it seems unfair, it's already unfair to foist our old selves on young animals. We might be wiser these days but we're nowhere near as much fun and Cleo hasn't had a tenth of the experiences that Danny and Rosie had being the beloved dogs of far younger people.

Danny travelled. He was never away from beaches, was all around Ireland, and even went to Manchester to visit Katy when she was at Uni. He loved the Dingle peninsula and had great times in Sligo and Galway. He was part of the County Antrim rave scene and attended many open-air music gatherings of an informal sort. We were party animals and so was he. Rosie might not have been as sociable or as far-travelled but she enjoyed her outings too as did Paddy. 

It helped that Nellybert were outrageously irresponsible. We let the dogs loose and assumed that all would be well. Once, at the Omagh Bluegrass Festival, we lost Danny and Rosie. We were staying (big crowd of us) in two holiday cottages. The two dogs were soon found, at a barbecue, to which they had not been invited. Danny was damnable for joining other people's picnics and barbecues and somehow he always got away with it. As did we.

One of Danny's more memorable trips was to Galway City. We had rooms somewhere and Danny was to sleep in the van. No bother to him as the van was his second home. Before we turned in for the night we took him for a walk. On a lead, but he was OK about it. A small van passed us with one of the back doors open. Something flew out. Partially cooked chicken pieces. Danny started to munch.  He ate as much as he could and then gathered in his mouth what he could carry back to the van. I told you we were irresponsible. We retired to our lodgings which were cheap but not cheerful. There is nothing cheerful about slugs crawling up the bathroom tiles. 

The next morning our darling dog was still alive, very much so but for the entirety of that day, the farts coming out of him were abominable. Served us right. 

And that was just one of Danny's many adventures. Poor Cleo is already over a year old and hasn't gone a step further than Waterfoot Beach. No off-lead adventures for her either as we are responsible pet-owners now. About time.

Cleo at Waterfoot

A Late Start

Blogging-wise April has got off to a slow start - all the usual excuses. Firstly, I was too busy, secondly, too tired. 

Katy and family arrived on the second day of the month, on a visit that was far too short yet very sweet. 

I managed to get a stinking cold which set in when the fam went back to Norfolk, so that's all I'm fit for tonight apart from posting the following pictures.

Mermez

There were no beans on toast this Easter. No chocolate either. I had a toasted cinnamon bagel for breakfast,  a soft-boiled egg for lunch and Tunisian mermez for dinner. Until today I'd never heard of mermez, which is a simple lamb and chick pea stew. A good friend gave me a middle-eastern cookbook and a selection of spices (best Easter present ever) and I selected mermez because I had all the ingredients already.The curly parsley and onions were our own, home-grown, the lamb was in the freezer and the rest was store cupboard. It was delicious. 

Despite the lack of chocolate I have had a very good Easter Sunday. There was also a lack of religiosity, no harm although I did have to argue some sense into a young friend who found himself perturbed by the Ramadan lights celebration in London. His argument, that we are a Christian country, why are they doing this at Easter?. Mine. Perhaps historically, we are a Christian society, but we celebrate diversity, we try to be an open-minded and inclusive people. Also my argument - why are you allowing right-wing, populist platforms telling you what to think? 

I tried and will keep on trying. 

 Looking forward very much to seeing my Katkin and her beloveds on Tuesday. Beyond excited.

Busy Busy Busy

I've been getting ready for the visit of the Norfolkians - bedrooms to prepare, shopping to fetch, food to fix and general decluttering. I'll never get it finished. And now I've went and gone and broke my fire. Bang goes my dream of sitting with Katy in my cosy, private, secret sitting room sipping wine and watching Netflix. After the children have gone to bed of course.

The fire isn't irretrievably broken - it is just a bad crack in the glass door but it is a bank holiday weekend and the fire door shop will be closed, maybe for the entire week. 

Despite this I'm looking forward to seeing my Norfolk family and I have actually managed to prepare two evening meals in advance with another to go on Monday. One is a beef stew and the other a chicken curry. Monday's meal will be a vegetarian chilli.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. I don't know what we'll have for dinner - maybe beans on toast. I quite fancy that.

The Thompson Twins

 Pippin and Woody

A few days ago Woody had a big adventure. He returned to Portglenone, the town where he was first rescued by Ben and Sara. Busy shopping streets are no place for lost baby kittens. He was much safer at the vets. Except the part where she removed his testicles but I don't think he noticed. We collected him just after lunchtime and although he'd lunched at the vet's surgery he straight away had another large meal. After that he went outside to explore his favourite places and then had a wrestling match with Chico. His day continued as usual with play fights with Pippin and Cleo, a big supper and the usual bedtime.

Next day I was going into town and spotted a leaflet lying in the car, so picked it up and read it. 

Woody's Aftercare. Woody has had a big operation, the removal of both testicles. He has had anaesthesia and may be lethargic and sleepy. Small meals may be offered if he seems hungry. Rest and quiet times are important for Woody's recovery. The wound... etc. etc.

Oh dear. I forgot to read the after care leaflet. Bad cat carer. Still, he's OK. The operation didn't take a fizz out of him.

We call Pippin and Woody the Thompson Twins they both came to us from Sara T whose surname is... you guessed it.

And as Nellybert often say to each other, Sara does exceedingly good kittens.

 She's good with dogs as well.

A Man Who Loves Kittens

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.

I tried this and received the following message which I intend to put into practice.

Be Nicer To Bert

How could anyone not be nice to a man who loves kittens?

And cats.

And dogs.

Pig Dreaming Again

 

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.

The Reading List

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.

[checks blog]

Aha! I first mentioned it EXACTLY five years ago. This is why I blog.

On Friday, March 08, 2019, I posted this, 

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,

What are you reading currently?

Replied, 

Before I read digitally, I’d be reading perhaps 10 books simultaneously – but now I read as many as 50 at once...

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.

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. 

My current favourite reads are The Bee Sting and The Age of Innocence. 

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. 

The Rest of the Week

 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.

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,

That oven is overheating. Something must have gone wrong with the thermostat. I'm going to dump it.

He went to check it. Told me,

You know what? You had it turned to the grill option. 

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. 

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. Maybe the PSNI had it under investigation? 

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.

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. 

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.

I'll be back in Belfast tomorrow as I am taking an old friend (Vee) to Ikea. Wish me well. 

My Monday

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?

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.

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.

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.** 

At the Dark Hedges. Photo by Zoe

*Vancouver Brother's pronouns are he/him not they/them. He is travelling with his beloved.   

**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.

The Wooden Gate

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.

I have always liked these pictures...

...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.

Then there is this one.

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.

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.

And who made the gate?

In Which I Try Out AI

But let me be clear. I'm trying out Artificial Intelligence not Insemination.

"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."

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?

So I won't be doing that again.

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.

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.

One From 19 Years Ago

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.

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.

Here's some of the stuff I used to have to do for Zoe, Katy and Hannah when they were little ones.

• Hold on to them in town for fear they might run into the traffic.
• Monitor their unsuitable conversations with complete strangers.
• Encourage them to eat nourishing food.
• Leave them at home if I was going to do some serious shopping.

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.

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.

Conversations with Bert

The first thing Bert said to me when he came down this morning was,

How did Ivan Kroll die?

I say,

Who the fuck is Ivan Kroll?

I'm thinking, knowing his interests,

(a) some Nazi

(b) Eastern European politician 

(c) why is he asking me?

He elaborates,

You know, that show we watched - Boy Swallows Universe.

Oh that Ivan Kroll. He died horribly. How can you not know that? We only finished watching it two weeks ago.

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.

OK. Gus pushed him through a glass clock in a tower and he landed on a limousine. Totally dead.

So who's Gus?

Later on Jazzer called while I was making dinner. She begins,

I know you'll want an update on Dora since Ben was talking to Bert...

Bert never said anything to me about Dora. Or Ben.

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. 

We talk on, supportive on my side, relieved on hers, jointly agree on husbands never telling us anything important. Call finishes.

I go in to speak to Bert and I am filled with wickedness. I say,

That was Jazzer on the phone. 

I sigh and continue,

Poor old Dora.

His face drops. I relent.

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 forgot. You came in with the girls, they were fussing with Chico and Cleo. I just forgot. 

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.*

*Enzway - everybody knows it was Ricky Tomlinson.

One From 17 Years Ago

One of our regular guests. Chico is day care only, no overnight stays yet.

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?

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. .

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.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Farm Diversification

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,

You could rent out the ground.

Doing that. Money's crap.

You could plant trees.

Done that. Fifteen acres in trees already.

What about a garden centre? Bert could run it and you could do a tea shop. Sell your cheesecake.

We hate garden centres.

Lots of money to be made.

Huh!

Boarding kennels then?

Someone tried for boarding kennels before and the road put in against it.

Cattery?

Mmmm. Maybe.

Riding stables? Paintballing?

Nelly goes,

Paintballing? Lots of fit blokes running about? Mmm. Maybe.

Bert goes,

Riding stables? Lots of gorgeous lassies in jodphurs? Sounds OK. Far better than all those oul biddies that hang about garden centres.

Young Rooney goes,

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.

Nelly says,

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.

Bert says,

Sure that's you now...

The News From Cully

 

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.

*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.

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.

I'd recommend the seller. My book arrived promptly, beautifully wrapped and with a complimentary postcard. How did she know that I use literary postcards as bookmarks?

**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. 

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.

Red Coat

 

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.

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.*

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…

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.

A humiliation never to be forgotten. Although it didn’t put me off red coats. I’ve three hanging in my wardrobe right now.

I know that's just two but the corduroy one I have in two sizes, one that fits and one that doesn't.

A Tale of Two Badgers

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.

Last night Hannah came rushing into the house, Chico in her arms.

Where are the dogs? Are the cats here?

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. 

I was so jealous. I've never seen a living badger and now Chico has and he is only eleven weeks old.

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!

A Tale of Two Bullfinches

 

Possibly the same female taken a couple of years ago

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.*

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.

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.

What a day for that wee bird.

Flies into a window and brains itself.

Is gathered up by a human and placed in a hedge that it doesn’t normally frequent.

Is carried off in a dog’s mouth.

Is imprisoned.

All being well she will survive this experience and go on to raise a brood or two. Maybe even three.

*The third killing site was discovered just outside the hen run. My lovely Jacqueline.

This may well be the same male bullfinch who waited for her today. Apparently bullfinches pair for life.

And Then There Were... None?

 

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. 

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.

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.

I said to Bert,

I think our chicken-keeping days may be over.

And told him what I'd found.

He said,

You never know. One or two of them might turn up in the morning.

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...

We shall see what tomorrow brings. 

Jacqueline. She was my favourite. The feathers that I found did not belong to her.

Cabin Fever

 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Unforgettable Geoff Kerr

In which Bert takes up literary criticism

Sunday morning, and Bert stays in bed with his book.

When he comes down I ask him,

What are you reading now?

J.M. Coetzee. Dusklands.

Is it good?

It's shite.

Why read it then?

It's really two novellas and it shouldn't take long.

But why is it shite?

Because of how he writes. Never says what he means, just fliff-flaffing about. It's esoteric. What does esoteric mean anyway?

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.

Is that not cheating?

No. It's a really good thing to do. Helps you to understand the book, maybe get more out of it.

A little time passes. 

Bert has just found out about the world of books online. He says,

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.

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.

Bert says,

Look at that! The state of it! Spine's hanging off it! And they're looking £40 for it.

I say,

It's probably a first edition. But I wouldn't want it in that state.

I look up our paperback copy to see what that is worth. Seventeen pounds.

Bert says,

You should sell it. It's a load of shite anyway.

Snow Time Like The Present

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.

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. 

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.

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.

Then snow happens.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

Another time Miss O.