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.