Still Freezing

 

First, to establish, that is not Bert - it was his late Uncle Paddy who kept sheep. Bert hasn't bothered with sheep, except for a time when he was a boy. He tells me that it was selling the lambs that got him the money for his first greenhouse and set him off on a different career.

Here at Springhill, it is just one degree above freezing and it's been foggy all day. I have to go out later to pick Hannah up (taxi cabs are rare as hen's teeth) and I've just watched a YouTube tutorial on locating the foglights on a Toyota Hiace van. It's been a while.

In other news, Pippin has been spayed and will be allowed out again when she has completely recovered. Personally, I think her vet is a bit of a fusspot for she's been out already. She doesn't stay long. Two months as a house cat has softened her up.

Out buying my Guardian this morning and another interesting man caught my eye. Curly hair, bearded, fiftyish - had that bodhran player vibe going on. He bought The Times. I was sad for him.

Like A Bottle

Hannah was up early this morning and warned me that I was not, under any circumstances, to set one foot outdoors as the yard was like a bottle*.

But what about my paper? And I need milk.

Don't worry. I'll get your paper and milk. Anything else?

Nothing else.

The yard stayed iced over all day and like a good obedient person I remained indoors the entire day. It wasn't that much of a hardship. I could get used to having my paper and milk delivered.

Saturday is the one day I buy a newspaper - the Guardian. It's my weekly treat. I didn't get it last week as I was in Leitrim and Yer Man has it anyway.

The last time I bought the Guardian myself was two weeks ago in the local Spar. I picked it up and went to pay. There was a very nice-looking gentleman in the queue before me. Trim, neat white beard, clever-looking. He must have spotted my Guardian and started muttering to himself, 

Oh yes. Paper, paper, paper...

And left the queue.

And came back. With the Daily Mail. I was so disappointed in him.

As I drove home I told myself this story. The Mail wasn't even for him. It was probably for his ancient, racist mother.

*Like a bottle - covered in ice

Saturday Routines

 I don't buy newspapers except on Saturday when I treat myself to the Guardian. Bert and I have our routines, we compete on the Quizword. I make a spare photocopy and do it separately. This morning I informed him,

I'm going to thrash you today. It's a Steinbeck theme.

When it comes to literature I have the advantage. He is much better at geographical and geo-political clues.

But - when I started the crossword I realised that quite a few of the clues were favouring Bert's expertise and as I admitted to him the ones I'd hoped would give me the advantage were actually Steinbeck-lite, meaning that most Boomers would have come across them in English class. He beat me by four answers. Admission - neither of us has ever completed a Quizword. 

To make things worse he finished his Wordle in three while I went to the wire with six.

A little later he came to me saying,

I suppose you know who Theon Greyjoy's sister is?

I said,

Depends on which one you mean. His sister in Game of Thrones or the actor's actual sister?

The actual actor's sister.

Lily Allen. Everybody knows that. Everybody knew who Lily Allen was before anybody heard of Alfie Allen. In fact, she had to write a song about him before anybody even knew about him.

We take our victories where we can. I also had to talk him through the Martin Rowson.

 

Talking Dogs

Swisser called in yesterday and the conversation moved along predictable lines, our health and the health of other people. She said,

Listen to us going on about our maladies and the medication we take. We sound so old!

I answered,

We are old.

The chat moved on to the Guardian.

So what do you think of the new Saturday layout?

I don't like it! I had different places to put it all. The TV guide went beside the TV.

She continued.

Food section went in the kitchen, the magazine to my bedroom and the Review in the bathroom.

But it turns out she read the review whilst actually on the toilet. I would never do that. I read mine in the bath - it was the perfect size for it.  

Bert and Locky came in so the conversation changed. One thing we all have in common is an attachment to dogs so Swisser (not reading the room) started telling a tale of the abuses some dog breeders commit. I won't repeat it. Too horrid.

We moved on to the current fad for designer dogs and pedigree pooches. Swisser lamented the scarcity of 'proper dogs'. She meant the sort of mixed breed dogs of our childhoods when neutering was unheard of and dogs mostly roamed at will chasing cars, biting children and having sex with each other.

In those days dogs were rarely pedigree unless they were working dogs or belonged to people from the posher classes. Our sort of dogs would have been collies, terriers or other crossbreeds. Those pedigrees liked to have their fun too. A common type of dog would have been a little stiff-legged terrier, usually sandy coloured with one droopy ear and another pointing skywards.

Swisser told the tale of a colleague who acquired a dog during the lockdown, a pedigree that cost her friend a small fortune. Apparently, things are not going well and despite a further fortune being paid at dog-training classes this dog is still crazy. Swisser says it has a pointy head and is possibly brain-damaged. I have my own thoughts about this.

Swisser said,

She'd have been far better off going to a shelter and getting a mongrel or if she must have a pedigree, something small like a Lapsang Souchong.

I pointed out that that was a tea but she ignored me.

Despite all the extolling of mongrel dogs, Locky remained unabashed even though he is the only one of us with a pedigree pooch. We forgive Phoenix her papers as she is a lovely and darling husky. I've already forgiven her for killing two of my hens - murders which were committed years ago. We think she might be getting too old now for that sort of thing.

Me and my very first mongrel dog.

 

Quiet Saturday

 Crocus in the garden, with monkey puzzle in the background

I was awakened by the dogs at ten past six, then waited until seven before going to get my Saturday Guardian. I buy it once a week at my local garage, and the rest of the week I read it online. There were more people around than usual, one man doing a fairly big shop. I filled a basket too, milk, 4-pack of toilet roll, bleach, cheese, chocolate. Life's neccessities. I sidestepped the other customers as much as I could and kept a very decent distance from Hans.

The tightening of restrictions in the sensible part of Ireland was mentioned and it was said that it might be time for a proper lockdown here too. There are a lot of people who are flouting the advice/rules, whatever it is.

Bert has been ever so slightly getting on my nerves these past few days and I'm sure I've been getting on his. But I had a thought, this...

If I have to be closed up at home with one other human being, Bert is a good one. He is patient, kind, funny and so what if he doesn't put the milk back in the fridge or the lid on the tea caddy? To show my gratitude I baked him a cake and didn't use a recipe. I put apricot jam in it and plain yogurt and it was lovely.

 A patch of wood anemone in Bert's wood

The first few days of staying at home were unsettling. I spent far too much time online, scrolling through news sites, coronavirus updating and Twitter. I exhausted myself so much that I could barely read for pleasure. These past few days I've been spending less time online and more time gardening, walking and reading. And weird tasks like degunking the shower outlet.

And I've pulled a chair over to the window in my bedroom and sometimes I sit there, reading, or just watching the chickens. It's very peaceful especially as there are far fewer vehicles on our road.

Bert has just called me to watch the final episode of  This Country. Stay safe everyone.

The Gruesome News

In today's Guardian. A leave voter from Crewe.

The 73-year-old former builder and engineer said he had been lied to by the leave campaign. “They didn’t tell us the true facts. They kept us in the dark like mushrooms and fed us bullshit,” he said. “We voted because of immigration and we didn’t realise how poor we would be. It will be terrible but I still want it, because of immigration.”

Also in today's Guardian, from George Monbiot.

The UK is exporting scrap tyres to India where they are used as a particularly polluting and toxic fuel. This, despite an existing market in this country for used tyres which can be pressed into blocks and used in road-building and other projects. This use, though not ideal, is much better than poisoning the citizens of other countries.  I was disgusted when I read this but not shocked. After all, our governments have long turned a blind eye to the illegal burning of tyres in many parts of Northern Ireland during the Twelfth of July celebrations. 

And all this while we are still part of the European Union. I shudder when I think of what will become of this place when the UK marches to the beat of its own drum. It's looking like a really nasty future.

That old racist from Crewe won't have to suffer it too long though. I wonder if he has grandchildren?

Now I've really depressed myself. Perhaps this picture will cheer me up.

My Little Life

I don't buy newspapers as often as I used to but I do get the Guardian on a Saturday. At £2.70 I consider it a small luxury. It will take me most of the week to finish it. The magazine is the first part I'll tackle, then the main paper followed by the family section and finally, the review. The sports, travel, cookery and finance sections are usually ignored although last Saturday I did read the AP McCoy interview. He's a local lad who started his career over at Billy Rock's yard. McCoy went to the same school as my brother and sister though I'm told he wasn't there that often. Too busy riding horses.

So it must have been Wednesday before I got round to the Toni Morrison piece in the Review section. That was a good and interesting read. I haven't kept up with Morrison. There are a few of her most recent books to read and that article reminded me that I still want to read them and I'm encouraged to go back to some of her earlier novels which are still on the shelves. Somewhere. Song of Solomon and The Bluest Eye. I really haven't kept up.

I was struck by this statement from Morrison which stung a little and I've been pondering it ever since.

 “So much contemporary fiction, even when it’s well written is sort of … self-referential. I used to teach creative writing at Princeton and I would say ‘Don’t do that. Don’t write about your little life’.” 

Because isn't that what a personal blog is all about, and I know it is not considered creative writing, it is just writing about one's little life. My self-set task for the month of May will be to try and do it better. Perhaps with just a little more creativity.