Gossip

During a conversation with a friend, I mentioned that someone from our townland had suffered a serious financial setback many years ago. She was shocked to hear this and asked how I knew. I replied that I had heard it at home—local gossip.

"I never gossip," she said. "Nor does my family." I took this with a pinch of salt; everyone gossips.

The original person who had shared that information about another's finances was in our house again this morning. He told us that a house on our road had been bought by a lord. According to our friend, this ennobled and putative neighbour wished to be addressed by his proper title at all times.

Bert queried,

"And what would his proper title be? Your Lordship? Lordy?"

I replied,

"No! We'll call him Ballbeg. That's his proper title. But if he's a Scottish lord, we must call him Bawbag."

Crossing the Lagan

I crossed the River Lagan six times today, four times on the train, twice on foot.

The book I brought—because I never travel without one—was Transit by Rachel Cusk. Chosen as much for its weight as its content. I was further along than I had realised and finished it long before the journey’s end. That left me with nothing to do but look at the scenery.

I alighted at Botanic Station as I wanted to peruse the local charity shops. I was looking for an ecru sweater, something loose, to wear over the two forgotten Boden dresses I found in the attic. They had been there long enough to be practically vintage. I did not find a sweater. I bought books instead.

From there, the Asia Supermarket. A wok, some spices. Kimchi for Bert. It was a 35-minute walk via the Ormeau Bridge, or meant to be. Closer to 45 minutes in my case. So many woks, so many spices. I have a wok already, a large one, bought here years ago. It has served me well and will continue to do so. The new one is smaller, and useful when cooking for two.

It was disappointing that the cafe at Asia Supermarket was closed. I had been looking forward to a sit-down and something interesting to eat and drink.

My next destination was Lanyon Place Station, via the Ravenhill Road and Albert Bridge. Roughly 25 minutes. I was tired, thirsty and looking forward to some rest and refreshments at the station. And there it was. And all it had was Starbucks. I got an indifferent cappuccino and a truly bad cheese and ham ciabatta thing. Plastic ham and cheese and bread like sawdust. Never again.

Though I will return to Belfast. I will walk across bridges, along the Ravenhill Road. But I will never eat in Starbucks again. The coffee perhaps, in an emergency.

Having finished Transit (so good) I began another book, one I had bought on Botanic Avenue - I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O'Farrell. I have read it before, but a long time ago. It's worth another read. 

Valentine's Day

Nellybert doesn’t do Valentine’s Day, Halloween, Easter, or Anniversaries. Sure we barely do Christmas. But that didn’t stop me from teasing Bert about my absent flowers and chocolates when I returned from the town. I even claimed that the pineapple I’d bought was his Valentine's gift. It’s a good choice for it’s sweet and lasts longer than flowers.

If it hadn’t been for Bert’s recent diabetes diagnosis I would have used the occasion to buy wine and chocolates (for us both) but he’s cutting down hard on confectionery and alcohol and so am I. The shop was packed, with lots of solitary males buying flowers, chocolate and even one with an air fryer in his arms. My kind of fellow.

Then they all decided to leave at once. The queues for getting out of the car park were horrendous. If it hadn’t been for three separate drivers, two male, and one female, waving me through at bottlenecks I’d be sitting there still. Today, I observed that the drivers least likely to give way to another motorist were young women. Still, lucky there was an interesting programme on Radio 4 on Snowdrops which helped pass the time for me.

So folks, another time to avoid Tesco – the afternoon of St Valentine’s Day. Trust me on this.

Bog standard snowdrops, of no interest to a galanthophile.

One From 20 Years Ago: Clint Has Left The Room

 

The first person I knew with Internet access at home was Bert’s oldest friend Clint. All we knew of the Internet in those days was that there was a vast amount of information and access to free porn. Oh yes … and chat rooms. So for a while, Clint was the Internet expert. When he first used a search engine he typed the word ‘potato’ and was so excited by the results that he surfed the web for four hours steady. By the end of the week, there wasn’t anyone else in Kells who knew more about spuds than Clint. So this night Bert went over to visit him and to view this new-fangled surfing the web. Clint showed him how to log on to the Internet and look at the huge amount of information on potatoes that was there for the asking. Bert marvelled at all this. Then he asked –

“D’jever luck at the porn Clint?”

“I wudnae waste ma time." 

“What about the chat rooms?”

“D’ye wantae see the chat rooms?”

“Aye. I wudn’t mine seein’ them.”

So with that Clint started tapping away at the keyboard. He found a chat room and logged on. Within a moment Debby was requesting Clint join her in a private room. He, shocked, hit the back button, logged off, switched off the computer and pulled out the plugs at the socket. “That’s enough o’ that nonsense. D’ja want tay?”