First posted in December 2005

 

Dressed: One from nearly twenty years ago

Pearlie, Lizzie and Pepe

In the olden days, farming people had two sorts of clothes: their ‘good’ clothes and their ‘wearing’ clothes. Good clothes were for outings — high days, holidays and Sundays — while ‘wearing’ clothes were for working in. In our house, my father used to talk about ‘good’ clothes and ‘ould’ clothes. Usually, ‘wearing’ or ‘working’ clothes had once been good clothes. A farmer’s outfit would most likely have consisted of a pair of old tweed or heavy cloth trousers worn with an old suit jacket. These need not necessarily have matched, as trousers would wear out more quickly than jackets. Belts were uncommon, and trousers were held up with galluses. If the elastic in these wore out, the trousers could be secured with a length of baler twine — and no one would think any less of the wearer. The look would be finished off with a cloth ‘kep’, as there was no such thing as a heated tractor cab in those days.

Women who worked at home would wear an old skirt that had once been a good, church-going skirt, along with layers of jumpers and cardigans and a flowered apron. When outdoors, she would add a headscarf, an old coat and a pair of wellington boots. Trousers were never worn, as they were not considered ladylike.

Bert’s mother still adheres to these traditional dress codes. While at home, she wanders around in an assortment of mismatched garments, often including layers of polyester and acrylic skirts. She always wears a flowered apron and a pair of Bert’s old deck shoes. Many of her clothes date from the early acrylic years and are virtually indestructible — as long as they’re kept away from naked flames. Being both canny and from Cully, she sees no need to replace these vintage garments. Her better clothes are kept for special outings, Church and the like.

Last week, Pearlie asked Bert to take her to visit her sister Lizzie. Since it was only Lizzie she was going to see, she decided against changing out of her ‘wearing’ clothes. On the way, she asked Bert to stop at the local garage to stock up on wild bird seed. She gave him £10 and instructed him to spend £5. Meanwhile, she waited in the van. But then she changed her mind. Bert said he was gathering up her purchases when she suddenly appeared in the shop foyer, shouting:

‘Bertie! Bertie! Ye may spend the whole ten poond on the wee birds!’

This is what he told me.

God, it was strange to see her standing there in her old ‘wearing’ clothes. You know, I never give her clothes a thought when she’s at home, because I’m so used to the odd way she dresses. But to see her standing there among normal folk — it looked so strange. Back in the van, I was having a wee giggle to myself about it, and she said, ‘What are you laughing at?’ I said, ‘You! And the cut of you, standing in the shop with your apron and all the rest of it.’ And do you know what she said back?

‘Those that knows me, knows I hae better; and those that disnae, disnae matter!’

Off to a wedding in her best clothes

Family Time

 Last week, Katy and her family came over from Norfolk for a short Easter break. was lovely to see them, even though the weather wasn’t great—wet and cold for the most part.

Still, we all managed to enjoy ourselves.

Unlike in previous years, I didn’t stock the freezer in advance. Instead, I kept things simple and cooked meals from scratch—which, in the end, turned out to be less of a faff.

This time they didn’t bother with a car so I drove them where they needed to go. The young ones were just as happy knocking around here as they would have been getting out and about.

Thursday was the only day with halfway decent weather, so they took the train to Belfast for a visit to the Ulster Museum in Botanic Gardens. James, however, couldn’t quite settle at either the gardens or the museum, so the outing ended up being a brief half-day trip. Still, he thoroughly enjoyed the train journey and even managed to inform his parents about the type of rolling stock they were travelling on. They were surprised to learn that, unlike the rest of the UK—England, Scotland, and Wales - Northern Ireland does not use standard gauge railway tracks. Instead, it operates on the wider Irish gauge, in line with the rest of the island. James does know a lot about trains.

Evie, James, Emily, and I managed to squeeze in a quick jaunt to Portglenone Forest. Unfortunately, we were without Martha’s company, as she was at home revising for her upcoming GCSEs. James, in a moment of curiosity, decided to test the depth of a puddle by stepping straight into it—and promptly got a very wet foot. I suggested that next time, he might consider using a stick.

Friday was the best day of all. I had the pleasure of spending most of it with all my daughters and all four grandchildren. The younger ones threw themselves into an art project, their main focus being the design and painting of a stone for Ziggy’s grave. When that was completed, the house erupted into a raucous game of hide and seek, with Zoe and Hannah joining in as well. It was loud, chaotic, and full of laughter. The best hiding spots were claimed by Evie, who disappeared into a cluttered corner of the attic, and Emily, who managed to curl up inside a storage box. Being small certainly offers advantages in a game like that - but Evie, despite her height, managed to baffle everyone for quite some time.

And that was our last night. Everyone (except Bert of course) was up really early the next day and off to the airport for eight o’clock. I was sad to see them all leave but glad that we’d had the time together. The house was so quiet when I got home but that was good too.

Until the next time! 

It's All Over Now

 

I feel a bit churlish for ranting in my previous post about my jury service - especially since, from that day forward, I was never called again.

Of course, there were several more days that I had to go online at 5pm to check but as time went on I became more relaxed about it. Then came the best 5pm call-in. 

You have completed your jury service.

And y'know the next thing I thought of?

This calls for a celebratory glass (or three) of wine.

Which was odd as I had been on the dry for over 10 weeks. See! I'm still counting.

Needless to say the urge for wine quickly passed and it has now been 11 weeks since I last had an alcoholic drink.

And I've lost 15 pounds because I'm off the sweeties too.  Losing weight in one's later years is not all it is cracked up to be. I have turkey neck!

 

Jury Service

Monday marks the beginning of my fourth week of tedious, dreary jury service. I don’t like it. I wish I had played the age card and got out of it. 

Why so?

Most of us aren’t needed. They call in about sixty people per group, but only around one in five might end up on a jury panel.

And – even if the panel is chosen and sworn in, a trial might not go ahead.

While we wait – for hours, sometimes – we’re in a grim room, sitting in rows on hard, unforgiving chairs. After about thirty minutes, I start getting cramps. We can be stuck there for three hours or more, doing nothing, waiting for something that may never take place.

Then in comes the Clerk of Court.

‘Thank you for your patience, everyone. You’re not needed today. Don’t forget to check the Juryline at 5 p.m.’

Ah yes, the other major inconvenience. We never know until 5 p.m. whether we’re required the next day, which means we can’t make plans – only tentative ones.

I use the dead time to catch up on my reading. I can’t be bothered chatting with my neighbours. I feel out of place. I’m fairly certain I’m the oldest person in the room – bound to be, really. Any sensible seventy-something would have played the age card and bowed out.

So why didn’t I? Bert says it’s fear of missing out. Maybe he’s right. But believe me, fellow oldies – it’s not worth it.