Ten Years Ago

 

A Weekend In Fanad

I went to the Fanad peninsula in Donegal over the weekend with Miss Martha, Miss Evie, their parents and Judy. We stayed in a caravan just beside Ballyhiernan Bay. It is next to a big beautiful beach which the girls loved.

I was very agitated and worried before I went but returned in a far calmer frame of mind. The only snag was the usual one, Martha will wake up at around 6 a.m. and will be very loud and noisy. Judy was not impressed. I had to tell Martha stories. My favourite was the story of a girl who lives in an empty house and each morning there is a box outside her door with something she needs. At first, Martha was sensible. The girl had some basic clothing, a dog basket, a blanket and porridge.

So all the girl had to eat was porridge and every night she had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket but when she woke up in the morning there was a box outside her door. What do you think was in it?

A beautiful yellow dress.

So the next night the girl had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket and she had nothing to eat all day but porridge. The next morning she woke up cold and hungry and outside her door was a box. What do you think was in it?

A lovely pink skirt.

 A fashionista in the making for sure.

15 Years Ago - Rosie & Pearlie Got Sore Paws

Between one thing and another Bert has had a tough week. There has been a lot going on with Pearlie (she broke her wrist) and we’ve been trying to get more help from social services. On Friday, between arranging to take Pearlie to A&E and meeting with her social worker, those dirty, rotten, scunging devil-dogs gave him the slip for the first time in a fortnight. We do try to keep them from running off but they know when we’re distracted and pick their moment well.

About three hours into his hospital sit, Bert got a phone call from Alber’,

Your Paddy is running about the Lisnahuncheon Road and he’s that black with glaar you’d hardly know it was him!

There was nothing Bert could do until he got home. He went out as soon as he’d eaten and managed to gather Paddy up but Rosie was nowhere to be seen.

Paddy was in a really funny mood. He didn’t want to get into the van and when I got a hold of him he pissed himself.

We waited patiently for Rosie to return. Bert had to go out and at 8pm I set off to look for her. Up the Loan Hill, Killyless Road, Lisnahuncheon – I called for her until I was hoarse but no Rosie.

When Bert got back he went out too but wasn’t able to find her either. I was really worried thinking that she might have been hurt, or shot, maybe put her shoulder out again – something must have happened to her.

Next morning I was out again, mainly checking the roads in case she’d been hit by a car. I brought an old towel with me to wrap her in if I found her body.

At 8.30am Bert went out. Fifteen minutes later I heard him coming back. I knew he’d found her but whether dead or alive I didn’t know. But as soon as I saw him get out of the car and head for the boot I knew she was alive. His body language told me.

The poor bedraggled thing had caught her front paw in a snare and had lay in a hedge the entire night. Bert returned to the place where he’d found Paddy, walked into a field and went straight to her. He said she wagged her wet, scraggy tail when she saw him. In took a while to get the snare off but amazingly her leg wasn’t too badly hurt at all. It was swollen but started going down within an hour. She had a feed, a big drink of water and jumped on to the sofa for a serious wound-licking session. Then she slept for the rest of the day.

She’s still resting today and has only chased the cat a couple of times.

And what of Pearlie? She’s enjoying a week’s stay in residential care. She could only get a week, and so far she says it’s not too bad. She says the food is ‘alright’, the other women are ‘a bit odd’ and there’s a man she’s got her eye on. She asked Bert if he’d mind her taking up with a boy and he said he wouldn’t as long as he was a decent sort of a boy.

Ten Years Ago

 Sometimes, when I cannot think of a single thing to blog about, I go to the archives. This one is for Ben - the time he broke my greenhouse.

 

Saturday, June 02, 2012

People In Glass Houses

Bert, like myself, comes from a farming background but farming was never where his heart lay. From an early age, he was drawn to horticulture. His father Johnny would have liked Bert to follow in his footsteps and encouraged him to take an interest in livestock. He gave Bert lambs and calves to rear and when market time came Bert pocketed the profits. He did not reinvest this money in livestock. Instead, he bought a greenhouse and grew salad vegetables in the wintertime and tomatoes in the summer. In time he went to Greenmount College where he studied partying, drinking and horticulture. That greenhouse must have been a good one because it has stood in the same spot for more than 40 years. Now that Bert has 6400 square feet of polytunnel to play with, the greenhouse is all for me to potter around in. Most years I've used it to grow bedding plants but this year I'm growing tomatoes.

We have our godson staying with us this weekend and we get him involved in our projects. This evening he helped me plant leeks and he also mowed the lawn. He loves the lawnmower. I have to admit I had a few concerns about safety and discussed these with Bert who assured me he could come to no harm. I decided to let Bert have his way in this. After all Ben will be thirteen in a couple of weeks. I watched Ben on the mower and I even took a little film of him. He showed a lot of confidence. Maybe too much confidence?

Still from my mini-movie. Does Charlie look a little wary?

Perhaps half an hour passed. Ben announced that he was going out to gather up the grass and said that he just loved mowing the lawn. A little while later I heard a crashing noise but did not take it under my notice as Bert is always making crashing noises. I was just getting myself into the mood for staking my tomato plants when I realised I'd been listening to clinking noises for quite a while. It sounded like someone throwing broken glass around. I went outside. And there was Bert, stoically removing broken glass from my very bent greenhouse. And there was Ben looking white and worried as he collected the glass in the wheelbarrow. He told me straight away what had happened. He'd meant to reverse but had gone forward and the front of the greenhouse had got bashed in.

Afterwards, Bert told me that Ben was very afraid that I'd be mad. I'm glad to say that I wasn't. Instead, I told him that he'd just learned that he'd have to be more careful when using machines and then I got on with staking my tomato plants.

I did tick him off later on for drinking coke whilst on the trampoline.

"Ben," says I. "I'm prepared to forgive you for bending my greenhouse but I draw the line at you spilling disgusting, sticky coke on the trampoline." And that was that.

More Posting Please

This Sunday, 22/8/2011

I've been having a think. I need to begin using this blog as an aide-memoire and if I only post a few times a month then that's not going to be very helpful. I'll start with today, a Sunday - it started dull and has finished pleasantly sunny, blue-skyed and mild. Very nice. We'll have more of that if you don't mind.

Mick and Linda have been staying with us since Friday but they're not here right now. They've spent the day at Mount Stewart with the Haribos and I hope the weather is as pleasant in Down as it is in Antrim because Miss Evie forgot her coat. Yes. Martha and Evie have been staying too.

A while back when I told Martha that her Granda would be staying here this time instead of at her house she was taken aback. But not for long.

I know Granny! Evie and I can stay with you too!

Well - we do have two spare rooms and the Haribos have none since Martha got a room of her own. So I agreed, for two of the four nights.

The first night (Friday) was hectic. The girls were very excited and stayed up way past their bedtime.  We did have a lot of fun though and we were all quizzed on what it's like being so old and then made to play a thankfully tame game of Truth or Dare.

Yesterday they went out with the Norfolk Grands and Hannah and got very spoiled. I had a plan for the evening as everyone was tired. We watched a movie,  Martha's choice, Mr Peabody and Sherman which was thoroughly enjoyed by both the children and three of the adults. Granda Mick took the opportunity to take a nap.

For my archive

On this day a week ago* I was delighted to receive a message from an old friend who lives in Devon. I hadn't seen her for about 12 years and before that another 20 or so. We made plans to meet on Tuesday for such are the joys of social media. To be continued...

*15th August 2021.

    

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Looking Back Because I'm Too Tired To Do Anything Else

Around this time last year, I was worrying about the rise of racist attitudes that were becoming more prevalent, even among people that I know. And I was also falling in love with wrens.

The sweet, brown, sneaky wrens that live in the polytunnels. Impossible to photograph so I just watch them. They delight me. Here's someone else's picture.

Five years ago I was writing about my late onset allergies. Thankfully that seems to trouble me less than it did.

Any exposure to trees, wind or rain and I'm all blotchy and itchy with hives. My recent trip to Fanad really brought it to a head. I got wet a few times and any skin that came in contact with damp clothes was itchy and covered in hives. My face was a sight and so were my hands. Guess it is time to visit the GP.

Ten years ago I was writing about the time that Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand got suspended from the BBC for being horrid to Andrew Sachs. I don't think I could be bothered writing about celebrities nowadays.

This blog has been going for fourteen years now. Back then I was feeling sad about the death of John Peel. What a lot of water has gone under the bridge since then. Peel must have been fourteen years older than me for he died at the age I am now. Need to get on with things then. One never knows the minute.

Anyway, going by that brief foray into Octobers past it seems that I was always feeling a bit flat about this time of the year. No wonder, it's getting colder, the nights are darker and I absolutely loathe the return to GMT. Did I ever mention before how much I HATE the clocks going back? 

2006. The clocks go back at midnight tonight. I hate this. It will take weeks before I acclimatise and it means longer, darker nights and the onset of winter.

I wish they'd leave the clocks alone. Give me BST all the year round and I'll be happy. Who cares if it is dark in the morning. Is it not preferable to have a bit of extra light in the evening?

The Joy of Chickens Revisited

A look back at the early days of keeping hens in Springhill. The day the reporter called. Summer 2006.

The Hen House

The hens of Springhill talk to our reporter about their life in Cullybackey.

Reporter: So how long have you been living here ladies?

Attracta: Well Patsy and I have been here for yonks. Maybe three months now. Dympna came later and wee Bernie has been here a lifetime.

Reporter: And are you happy here at Springhill?

Dympna: Happy? Happy is not the word for it. Living with Nellybert here in Springhill is sheer, utter ecstasy. I was down with Clint for a while but to tell you the truth that crowd of fowl that he has there are a complete shower. They would have ate the arse of you as soon as look at you. And I mean ate the arse of you literally. I hadn't a tail feather to my name when I came here. But Attracta and the girls are lovely and made me very welcome. Plus the grub's better here.

Reporter: If you don't mind me saying you have a lovely set of tail feathers on you now.

Dympna: I have, haven't I? I'll admit I'm rather proud of my booty. Nelly calls me Dympna Fluffybum.

Reporter: Bernie you were here all along. What do you think of your new companions?

Bernie: Oh they're not bad. I'd been lonely for a long time ever since my sister Bianca died. Mind you they've short memories because when they first came I totally took them under my wing. They looked up to me. They had to because I was the only one able to roost in the rafters. But now they're more settled they forget that I'm the senior hen around here. But still what can you expect of hens brought up in a battery cage. No real refinement.

Reporter: So what is your typical day like?

Attracta: Nelly lets us out of the house in the morning.

Dympna: And feeds us. Yummy corn and stuff.

Patsy: Then we head off to the lawn.

Bernie: They call it a lawn. It's more like a rough field. 

Dympna: But we like rough fields. We potter around the compost heap as well. We like our five portions of fruit and veg too y'know.

Attracta: Dympna or Patsy might lay an egg. I'm not laying at the moment. Bernie might lay one as well but she's very sleekit and you'd never find it.

Bernie: It's no business of yours whether I lay an egg or not!

Attracta: Well all I'm saying is it's not very loyal to Nellybert after all they do for us.

Bernie: Shut your beak!

Nelly's reward - a new laid egg

Reporter: Girls, girls! Calm down. Now, Patsy you're very quiet. How have you found living with Nelly and Bert?

Patsy: I adore Nelly.

Dympna: She's Nelly's wee pet.

Reporter: Are you Patsy?

Patsy: I don't know. She is always picking me up and stroking me.

Attracta: That's because she can catch you easiest what with your gammy leg and all.

Patsy: Nelly was very kind to me at the start. When my leg was really bad just after I came out of the cages she'd hand feed me when youse ones wouldn't let me near the food.

Dympna: You soon learned to hold your own in that department you gorb!

Patsy: I need to keep my strength up.

Attracta: Then there's you sitting like a lady in the crook of Nelly's arm while she goes about the place lifting pots and stones to find you slugs to eat.

Patsy: Mmmmmm... slugs. So yummy.

Reporter: It sounds like you're all pretty spoiled here.

Patsy: Mmmm. Maybe. I heard Nellybert's friend Swisser saying that Nelly won't be happy until we're all roosting at the end of her bed. I'd like that.

Dympna: There's one thing I'd like.

Reporter: What's that?

Dympna: A Cock.

Attracta: Honestly Dympna!

Dympna: Pity to waste the best bit of booty in Cullybackey.

Reporter: Ahem! Well, we'll finish here I think. Thank you. ladies. I've enjoyed talking to you and I'm sure the readers will too.

Paddy supervises the chicken's breakfast

Bernie sneaks off

THE COMMENTS (Nine! That never happens nowadays)

 Ronni said...

My mom was just the same with her hens. She had one whose toes curled inward. Mom called her "Pidgy" and hand-fed her blackberries. Lhe ws a black hen, and laid brown eggs. Her eggs had purple spots during blackberry season. She had four hens that were pets rather than livestock.

There were some hens that she didn't get attached to. We had maybe a couple of dozen. After they quit laying, they were soup candidates, one and all.

My dad, having been sent out to kill a hen, killed Pidgy by mistake.

He almost lost his happy home!

9:02 pm

 

 Sandra said...

If that interviewer doesn't get a Pulitzer, there's no justice in the world.

9:55 pm

 

 Ganching said...

A very nice wee story that maybe you could send into the Ireland's Own. Is it normal now in your part of the world to feed hens foxgloves?

10:17 pm

 

 Nelly said...

Aye Ronni I love those hens and I don't care if they are the most expensive free range eggs in the world.

Sandra I thought the interviewer went pretty easy on them. There wasn't one question about politics and what it's like living as Catholic hens in a Protestant stronghold.

10:18 pm

 

 Nelly said...

Ganching the hens don't eat foxgloves. Sure that would stop their wee hearts clean dead. You know how it is when photographers from Hello and the like come to see your lovely home - you tart it up a bit. That foxglove was borrowed from Pearlie to brighten up the exterior of their house. I'm sure you don't eat the decor in your lovely home.

10:22 pm

 

 Sandra said...

Maybe the hens are all on for the Peace Process?

D'you know I once saw an advert in the lonely farmers section of "Ireland's Own," inserted by a worthy chap who was looking for a lady 30-35, non-smoker etc.. However his specific tastes came last: "Must be comfortable in Wellingtons."

He wasn't looking for a pig in a poke.

1:24 am

 

 Nelly said...

Or what about the Lonely Heart who specified that his desired companion 'must have own tractor. Please enclose photo of tractor'

7:57 am

 

 Sandra said...

That's the kind of man I want - straightforward. At least you would know where you stood with a man like that.

10:02 am

 

 EveMaryBD said...

Nelly,

I get their clawprints on a Managerial Contract right away if I were you otherwise Max Clifford will be sniffing round...I'd say there's a reality tv show in them for sure [if things got a bit boring you could introduce the cock!]. Think of the "spin-offs": books accompanying the series, Jonathan Ross, Parky, their own line of chicken-care products, maybe even a Hollywood "filim"...the possibilities are endless.

Get in there quick tho' My farmer friend Bumpy has a couple of real stars in his yard [I had a lovely poached egg from them this morning] together with a wayward Goose or two thrown in for good measure and I'm sure I saw that reporter mooching round the sheds..

11:48 am

A Tight Tidy Theory

Happy Birthday To You,

Happy Birthday To You,

Happy Birthday Dear Katkin,

Happy Birthday To You!

Of course, Katy is a little older these days and, if you want to know how old, you must work out the anagram contained in the title. Go on! It's easy.

And keeping on the birthday girl theme, I discovered this drawing among Matty's things. An early work  by Katy dating from September 1989.

I can assure you that it is Seamus' spitting image.

Looking Forward

Even though the turkey legs were a little overdone, as Boxing Day Disasters go 2013 wasn't that bad a year.

I hope it’s not tempting fate to say so but this year I am really looking forward to Christmas. There are several reasons for this happy state of affairs. The first is, that when we had our recent family celebration in Sligo, I had the opportunity to give Christmas gifts to family members who live in far-away places. No stressing about getting things into the post! Another reason is that we have decided not to do the Boxing Day dinner for it had become a serious source of seasonal stress and I had stopped enjoying it. Then, of course there is the fact that our responsibilities have diminished as there is no elderly, bed-ridden, Christmas-hating person and no carers coming in on top of us on our family day.

The following is a throwback post written nearly five years ago. It tells the tale of the worst Boxing Day dinner ever. I still get shivers when I think of it.

It has taken me a while to be able to share this story. I must warn you in advance that it is a very sad story and that you will probably cry. This is the story of Nelly's Boxing Day Dinner Disaster.

My day began at 6am Why so early? I wanted to get a handle on my day and a start made on my enormous 22 pound Black Norfolk Turkey, a gift from Clint.

By 10:30am the turkey was thoroughly cooked, in fact, it was a tad over-cooked. I was a little dismayed but Bert said, never to worry, sliced in gravy, nobody would notice a thing. Still, I was embarrassed to see it sitting there all black skin and singed legs so I got Bert to slice it up and I tucked it away out of sight.

All was under control – desserts ready, most vegetables prepped, a nice pork roast sizzling away in the slow cooker. I just had some stuffing to prepare. At 2pm the pork was succulent and only needed a quick blast in the oven to make the crackling. This was a method I was quite confident about as I'd cooked pork in the slow cooker at least a dozen times.

I put the oven on to high and left it for thirty minutes. To tell the truth, I got involved with other tasks. Suddenly I remembered I needed to put the pork in for a blast of heat so transferred it to a roasting tin. Over to the oven, door open....

Oh dear God! There were my turkey slices, burned, dried out, totally fucked. I was so distraught I dropped the pork whereupon it fell on the floor and disintegrated. See! I said you would cry. I certainly did.

What Happened Next?

I saw Bert coming across the yard carrying a bucket of logs. I ran to the door. I sobbed,

Bert! Come in! Something terrible has happened!

He took one look at my anguished face, dropped the logs and ran in. I believe he thought I had discovered his mother lying dead. Little did he know it was far worse than that.

Then What Happened?

I had hysterics.

Then What Happened?

I stopped crying and went to collect Hannah and her friends. On the way in I started howling again thinking of that noble turkey who had lived and died in vain. I gathered up my guests who. I believe, were rather apprehensive about their evening's entertainment.

Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

Zoe and family arrived and measures were discussed as to how dinner could be salvaged. With the help of my lovely guests, we saved the day. There was enough meat underneath the burned turkey and above the splattered pork to feed us all. Second helpings were in short supply but thankfully there were lots of desserts.

Last Year's Boxing Day Dinner

I seem to remember that there was also some sort of disaster at the 2010 Boxing Day dinner. I don't recall what it was about but it culminated in me running out and sobbing in the polytunnel and when I allowed myself to be persuaded back into the house the guests had eaten all the food. Ah well. I dare say it served me right for being such a hysterical bitch.

Sleepy Boy Bert

The Chronicles of Bert: Part 1- Bert Van Winkle

Those who know Bert well also know that he is very fond of sleeping.


This is Bert enjoying 40 winks in County Sligo. We were on holiday with the Banjos and Bert took full advantage of all the extra sleeping opportunities that vacationing affords.


Bert often enjoys a power nap during the working day. He has no difficulty sleeping under a dog. In fact the dog serves a very useful purpose in that it will alert Bert to the arrival of a vehicle in the yard. This saves Bert from the embarrassment of being caught napping.

It is a pity there was no Scruff around that time the two elderly ladies discovered him curled up asleep in his poly tunnel cosily wrapped in a length of horticultural fleece. He says he never heard them come in and the first he knew of their presence was a gentle poke with a sensible shoe and hearing one matron say to the other,

D'ye think he's dead, Aggie?

Bert's notorious love of shut-eye has been celebrated in this painting by Zoe. Most people who see this picture marvel at the likeness. Except Pearlie who thought it was 'damnable', looked nothing like her darling son and said Zoe could 'paint noan'.

The Chronicles of Bert: Part 2 - What Happens When You Stay In Bed Too Long

Then there was the time Bert slept for so long that he woke up with a beard.

Looking Back: This Day Ten Years Ago

The Role of Strong Drink in Alien Abductions

Young Loveheart called round tonight. He told us a very strange tale about a recent lad’s night out when his good friend, Young Rooney, was abducted and taken to Logan’s Fashions near Cloughmills. Young Rooney believes that at least one of the 20 plus measures of Smirnoff & Red Bull that he had consumed was spiked. I asked Young Loveheart why he hadn’t looked after his mate a little better and he explained that he was drunk himself and too busy ‘getting off’ with women. The fact remains that Young Rooney went missing for several hours and was eventually found wandering aimlessly along the Woodtown Road.

Young Rooney has no idea how he got from the Countryman’s Inn to Logan’s and back again to the Woodtown Road. I think he must have been abducted by aliens and that the aliens must have administered a hangover cure because he had no suffering the following day. Despite this stroke of fortune he is badly rattled by his experience and says he will never drink or go out ever again.

I had a similar experience myself many decades ago. Vodka was not involved. In my case it was gin. I have only the haziest recollection but I do remember I was rescued by a lovely couple in a Volkswagen Beetle.

Working For The Man

It has been ten years since Bert was under investigation by HM Revenue & Customs and I still break into a cold sweat when I recall it.

This is a post from September 2005. Incidentally, at the end of the year long process Bert was found to have done nothing wrong.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

"I'm not calling you a liar. We're not allowed to do that anymore."

“ The number of tax inspectors has increased twice as fast as the number of new doctors and nurses.” (Lord MacGregor of Pulham Market, Hansard, Jan 2005)

To add to the stew of stress that Bert and I have been experiencing this year Bert has had an impending Inland Revenue investigation hanging over him. The reason being (we think) that the IR cannot understand why Bert bothered in 2001, as he appears to have made no profits. And as far as we can recall he didn’t.

So why did Bert become self-employed? There are two reasons. The first is that he did not want to work for anyone else and the second is that he wanted to do something. And horticulture was what he was good at. He did not become self-employed because he wanted to be rich. Most self-employed people aren’t rich anyway

I was listening to the Today programme as I returned from work this morning and I heard this argument for a flat-rate tax. I also heard the Shadow Chancellor say that the number of people working in tax collection has increased by 64000 since 1999. I thought to myself that this might well be the reason why Bert has been called to account by the Inland Revenue. Too many tax inspectors needing something to do.

The following are some of the questions fired at him by the civil servant.

What are you driving? Why no car?
Where did you get the money to concrete that lane? If you say your elderly mother gave it to you from the box of fivers she keeps under her bed we’ll do her too.
If you cannot explain where you got the money from we’ll assume you’re working in a cash economy and have been doing so all along and will bill you accordingly.
Why have you not taken a holiday for four years?
Are Zoë, Katy and Hannah still living with you? Are they working? Are they students?
Why do you keep your dealings with M******* Garden Centre in a separate book? (1)
How much does Nelly earn?
Who buys the groceries?
How often do you go out for a meal? (2)
Where do you get the cash for birthday presents? (3)
That woodland you own. Do you sell Christmas trees of it? We can come and see for ourselves you know.
I’m not calling you a liar. We’re not allowed to do that any more.

And there was much more of the same. The civil servant cub was obviously one of the 64000 cutting his teeth on a man with a shoestring business and a cheap accountant.

Bert is wondering why he bothers. Why not just wrap it all up and go unemployed. The truth is that if you don’t fit into the Norman Normal box you are a suspect. Naughty Bert. Hardly ever uses a credit card, doesn’t have debt, lives within his means, doesn’t spend, spend, spend. Not a good citizen at all. Not doing his bit to make fat cats even richer. Just quietly growing the best clematis in Norn Iron.

1. Because they are the only concern where he operates a sale or return policy.


2. His answer was 6-8 times a year. I suggested he should have said, “Do I look like I go out for meals Fat Boy?”


3. He actually did growl, “I don’t do birthdays.”

Guilt Trip

Me on an outing. 1,322 views

It's hard to know why this picture is the seventh most viewed on my Flickr photostream. I don't remember much about it, or who took it, or even where it was. I can roughly date it to the very early nineties. I had met Bert for that is his Indonesian batik bag in the foreground. I was at university for that was my look back then. I would have been coming up to forty, still without a driver's licence. We went out a lot in those days. See a bit of fine weather and off we sped. That never seems to happen now. Cow still not calved, Bert a ton of things to do in the polytunnel, pigs to look after, me a ton of things to do as well but sitting here in front of this screen feeling vaguely guilty that I am not sowing seeds or planting hollyhocks. Guilt trips are the only trips I take these days. Where did it all go wrong?

The Parlour Revisited

A post from September 2009. Still relevant.

The other day I asked the household where some kitchen gadget had got to. Bert says,

The last place I saw it was on the sill in the parlour.

Parlour? Where’s the bloody parlour?

I never said parlour. I said…you know…that room out there.

You mean the room with the washing machine in it?

Yeah. That room, the – you know?

The scullery. Or utility room if you like. Where did parlour come from?

I never said parlour.

You bloody did.

It’s a big problem for me this shifting of place names. The outside is a nightmare. The sheds are referred to something like this -

• The Woodshed

• The Milk House

• The Byre

• The Cattle Shed

• The Workshop

• The Hen House

• The Pig House

• The Calf Shed

• The Back Shed

• The Potato Shed

• The Turf Shed

• The Silo

• The Tractor Shed

• The Tool Shed

• Ian’s Shed

Of course we don’t have fifteen sheds. We have about six shed-type buildings and each one has at least three names depending on which decade Bert’s mind is settled on that particular day. For instance, if Bert refers to the Turf Shed, will he be speaking of the shed which currently contains turf (unlikely) or does he mean a shed that was used for turf storage twenty, or even forty years ago. This is not much use to me as I don’t know where they kept the turf during the Swinging Sixties.

It was no better in our last place where we only had a garage and three poly tunnels.

Where are my orange handled secateurs?

In the tunnels.

Which one?

The one with the clematis.

They all have clematis.

The montanas.

Big ones or liners?

Och you know. The one with Denise’s potting bench.

She has two bloody potting benches! Here they are! Why couldn’t you just have said the middle tunnel?

I blame his mother.

When this was her house there were three rooms referred to as The Scullery and two known as The Pantry and two called The Good Room and two more called The Front Room. Upstairs was The Room, Bert’s Room, Lizzie’s Room, Uncle Andy’s Room, Our Room, My Room, The Good Room, The Room With The New Window, The Room With The Broken Floor, The Cupboard, The Back Room, The Room With The Good Bed, The Front Room, The Big Room, The Wee Room, The Best Room and the Attic. As far as I know, The Toilet and The Bathroom were never called anything else but I could be wrong.

There was none of that nonsense in our house. Upstairs we had 4 bedrooms which were named according to the persons who slept in them, downstairs was The Kitchen, The Scullery, The Room, The Bathroom and The Room Before The Bathroom. It never changed downstairs. Outside sheds were named and stayed named. You knew where you were in Tannaghmore.

And don’t get me started on fields.

Blackberries, A Funeral And An Eely Song

After the blackberries were gathered I went to my cousin's house. He'd died in the early hours of the 26th September after a long illness, patiently and bravely borne. He had enjoyed the support of a very loving family and it seemed to me that he was happy during the last year and a bit of his time on this earth. He said as much too. His funeral was on Friday past and it was a big one for he was greatly loved.

It was at the funeral of another school friend about five years ago that my cousin addressed me as 'Nelly' in the graveyard. I was surprised. Somehow I'd thought that my neighbours and relations from way back when wouldn't know about the Garden. I should have had more wit. Anyway he said he enjoyed it and ever since then I'd always thought of him when I was putting together a new posting. This following post is an old one from around that time and, I think, the sort of post he liked reading.

I'll miss thinking of him when I come to Nelly's Garden although, not as much as he'll be missed by the family who adored him.

Eels! Eels! We Like Lots Of Eels!

FROM NOVEMBER 07, 2007

Yesterday evening while excavating the freezer I found a bag of frozen eels. Bert was ecstatic for he'd forgotten we still had them. He has only recently discovered the joy of eels and he cannot believe he lived until the ripe old age of 48 before tasting them. Those of you who know him personally will hardly be surprised he took to the Lough Neagh delicacy, as eels, like most of Bert's favourite foods, fall into the category known as 'close to minging'.

That's not to say I don't enjoy a bit of eel myself but in moderation only. I couldn't gorge myself on them nor eat them on consecutive days.

Bert fried a huge panful of them, ate two helpings and set aside a large portion for today's lunch. I merely nibbled on two small pieces.

When I returned from work this evening I asked him,

Did you have a nice day darling?

He answered,

No. I had a terrible day.

Why? What happened? 

Well you know the eels I was keeping for lunch? I refried them and they were just perfect. My mouth was watering for them. I was even singing an eely song while I was buttering my sodas and making my tea. 

The one that goes, 'Eels! Eels! we like lots of eels!' sung to the air of the Bavarian Drinking Song? 

Aye. That one. 

What happened? Did you burn them? 

Pearlie rang over wanting me for something.

Oh God! Were you over there for ages and burned your eels useless? 

No! They were out on the plate waiting to be eaten. 

Oh dear. Not...?

Yes! I came back over and there was the plate sitting where I'd left it. Not an eel in sight. The plate was spotless! 

Bonnie...? Aye! She's the only one big enough to have reached it. Not one solitary eel left....