Another Rainy Day

Another bloody rainy day. I like a bit of rain now and again, as all gardeners do, but this is all a bit too much. It's windy as well. I brought some house plants to my local charity shop today as I have decided to concentrate on large plants and offload many of my smaller specimens. The plants donated were all self-propagated, an aloe vera, a tiny dracaena, a pink pelargonium and a spindly begonia. The wind blew the blossoms off the pelargonium as I was walking to the shop.

Of course, I bought stuff when I got in there. A glass citrus juicer and a James Wong gardening book.  Cost me one pound coin only. I needed the juicer as my old one was damaged and I wanted the James Wong as I enjoy his columns in the Guardian and Observer. His take on growing ones own is interesting. Why grow fruit and veg which is easily accessible and cheap at the greengrocer's? 

James Wong will be going to bed with me tonight as will Maggie O'Farrell and Tana French. Might be a bit crowded as Holly de Cat will be there too.

Fred enjoying a spot of birdwatching.

A young and rather soggy siskin.

Let It Be

Going into the kitchen this morning I spotted a little creature, skittering about, hiding behind the compost bin. My first thought was rodent but it was a wren. I tried to catch it, but it evaded me and made for the hall. I captured it (gently) by the front door. Outside. I hoped it might fly away but it couldn't so I laid it on a pile of beech leaves in the corner of the garden steps.

The culprit had to be a cat. Although no cat was to be seen. Our dogs police the cats so perhaps they harassed it into dropping the wren. Who knows?

There was a time when I might have thought it my duty to try and save that bird. Now I realise that doing so would only prolong its agony. If it was to die it would prefer to do so outdoors and without the interference of well-meaning humans.

Nevertheless, when Bert returned from an errand I told him what had occurred and as we approached the wee bird again it managed to fly towards the safety of a clipped buxus. So we couldn't see it any more. We left it. I like to think it recovered from its ordeal and was fit enough to continue its life on this earth. And, if not, it was still a very good year for wrens.

Cats are fuckers.

Every Picture: Pig Walks

Holly is in this picture too

Ah... the memories. When Rusty and Lily were little pigs they would go for walks with me up the back lane. They associated Nellybert with food and would follow us anywhere. Obviously, we wouldn't take them off the property as pigs cannot be moved without forms being filled out and permission granted etc. etc. Imagine having to apply to the government every time you wanted to take a dog for a walk.  They still hang out that back lane and the fields and woods that the lane leads to but no further than that as they are good and law abiding pigs.

I took a walk there yesterday with Ziggy, Roy and Holly de Cat. We tramped around a field, explored the wood for a bit and I took a few photographs. We spotted the pigs in the distance but they were their usual boring, grass munching selves so we paid them no mind.

Roy had important things to do and kept his distance. I don't think he actually approves of cats coming on walks.

Ziggy did not mind Holly being there

Recycled Post #1

Seeing as it is my birthday I thought I might be lazy and recycle a post from September 2004. I'm sad to say that Harry de Cat is no longer with us. But his legacy remains - Bert is now an avowed cat lover.

The Proper Care and Training of Cats

When our ancient three-legged cat died I swore there would be no more cats. Then Scary Tam called around and said they'd had another litter of kittens. "What are they like?" says I. "Totally gorgeous" says he. "I might take a look at them" says I. I phoned Zoe who agreed to accompany me on the viewing expedition. "I definitely want a female" says I. "I quite agree" says she.

So we landed at Scary Tam's and the kittens were rather nice. Zoe upended the three of them and pronounced them all males. She considered a career as a vet for a time.

"I'll take one anyway" says I. And so we landed home with Harry. He was always great fun. No fear of dogs at all and he used to take great running leps at them. Nowadays we have to dose him with catnip to get his violent urges going. Needless to say we got him castrated. My friend Vinny says that the average lifespan of an unneutered tom cat is two years.

But there was one huge problem. Harry had a thing about pissing on Bert, preferably when he was asleep. The duvets I had to dump! He got a name change for a while and was known as Pisher McGee. But he was still loads of fun and got away with it. "He'll grow out of it" says I. "He'd better, or I'll shoot him" says he.

Then one day that Bert happened to be up early and he went to the front door to have a piss. As we live in the country there was no one to see him but a few thrushes in the hornbeam hedge and Pisher McGee. Bert spotted the cat, adjusted his aim and sent a good morning strone all over Harry. And as God is my judge Harry never peed on Bert or anywhere in the house after it.

The Fox and the Cat

Oh Hannah! Eight days after your birthday and I never did give you a greeting like I did in 2009.

But, as you know, life does suck sometimes and, if it didn't suck - sure then, we'd never appreciate the good times.

Good times like when we get to see that incredibly dangerous creature - the fiery red fox (beware the fox you foolish chickens and Michelle.)

It was sad you didn't have your camera with you - but then, what camera could capture an image so wonderful as the beautiful illustration of Janusz Grabianski?

Unconcerned

unconcerned, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Fred needed some kitten medication for which he needed to be weighed.

Just put him on your baking scales, said Bert.

He'll wreck them, said I.

As it happened Fred happily cooperated with the weighing process.

Sidebar Stories

d@\/e asked exactly how many eggs a day do we get from our 19 chickens? But there's a lot more happening around my sidebar than chickens.

Daughters - 3, Parents -1, Siblings - 6, Husband - 1, Dogs - 3, Cats - 1, Chickens - 19, Calves - 3 Pigs - 3

What of the daughters? All are doing well as far I know. See for yourself. This one is making ice cream. This one appears to be in France. This one is sounding off.

The parent (Matty) is doing fine. Spent this evening barrelling around Tescos filling her trolley with the sort of pap old women like - cooked ham, white bread, Marie biscuits and People's Friends. We always separate in Tescos. Matty does her own thing, I do mine. I meet my Cousin Eye. She and her beautiful daughter admire the contents of my trolley. Eye's beautiful daughter says it's a really healthy trolley. It contains oatcakes, a papaya, cambozola cheese, apples, three pairs of skimpy knickers (this mention of skimpy knickers is going to bring droves to my blog but mind you if I said I'd got Cherub knickers in my trolley that would really up my stats. Trust me. It happened before ) and two paperbacks. BTW the knickers are for Hannah. I don't do skimpy. When you get to my age you like to keep your kidneys warm.

I also meet Jazzer and her daughter Teeny Bird. Teeny Bird is wearing a tiny little vest top. Eveyone else in Tescos is bundled up in coats and woollies. Matty also bumps into Jazzer. They nod politely to each other. Matty does not approve of Jazzer. She has taken an unreasonable dislike to Jazzers facial piercings. She pretends she does not know her name. She pretends she thinks that Jazzer is called Gnasher.

So back to Matty. We meet up at the check out. She abandons her trolley for me to deal with and scuttles off to buy a scratch card. On the way home she fills me in on the current state of play of the parish feuds. Matty takes a keen interest in local politics but is wise enough not to get involved. Some of these feuds go back to the 1930s. But, as Matty says,

They're all very good to me.

Siblings - there are six of them. Two live and work in London and one of those is a blogger. One is in Vancouver. I believe he is an entrepreneur. Two live in Real Ireland. One of those has just come back from a pilgrimage to Santander and the other is a full-time student. The youngest sib lives next to Matty. I like to call him Jolly Joe. It's ironic. He reads this blog. Hi JJ!

Husband - the current one is very recent. We've only been married for eight weeks although I've known him for a bit longer than that. We were Nellybert long before Brangelina. Marriage hasn't changed our relationship much. We still bicker, I still blog, he still plays the clarinet.

Dogs Bonnie remains on her medication. Steroids. She drinks like a fish, pisses like a cow and eats like a horse. She is doing well. The other two still do that Dirty Rotten Scunging Devil Dog thing every time they get the opportunity.

Cat - a complete bastard. I don't really want to talk about her.

Calves - are still calves.

I asked Bert,

When do the calves become bullocks?

When you cut their balls off.


Pigs - I'm a little worried about the pigs. Bert has developed a bit of a 'relationship' with them. He keeps saying he'll never be able to eat them because he loves them so much. And there's us only newly married....

Which brings me to the chickens. Dave asked how many eggs do our 19 chickens provide us with. d@\/e, at present our 19 chickens lay one egg a day. That's right. One. Mind you at least a dozen of them are roosters. We shall eat them eventually. Pearlie gets the egg.

Only Doing Her Job

I heard a fierce growling noise in the kitchen this morning and went to investigate. There was Holly de Cat with the sweetest, prettiest baby mouse in her slavering jaws. It was still alive. She glared at me defiantly, as if to say, don't you dare take my prize away from me. I hesitated. Holly let the mouse go and it staggered off a few inches before she snatched it up again. She growled and glared at me again. I thought hard about saving that little mouse's life.

Then I wised up and went to work.

Catinabag

Warning! Cute picture alert!



Hanging about in grocery bags has to be one of Holly de Cat's favourite hobbies.

This Could Be The Last Time*

When Bert was painting the new bookshelves he upended a sofa to give himself more room to work. Harry de Cat, with his liking for lofty positions, perched himself on top of it. He cast a sharp shadow on the wall behind and I thought it would make a good picture. I didn’t know that I was taking the last picture of Harry that I’d ever take. And, last night, when Bert fed Harry he didn’t know that would be the last meal he’d ever give him.

We hardly ever know that, do we? Yes, Harry was just a cat. It’s no big deal really. Bert and I are sad but we’ll be less sad tomorrow and even less sad the day after that. By next week we’ll be well over it. For he was just a cat. It’s sharp and sore to lose your pets but you get over it quite quickly.

But...I took the last photograph of my cat and I didn’t know it. And Bert gave him his last meal and didn’t know it. Just think – you could be giving a person, someone you love, your beloved, your child , your parent, or your friend the last phone call, the last kiss, the last hug or the last kind word. I’ve been thinking about that all day.

*Or the 102nd use of a dead cat

The Last Picture

harry, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Harry de Cat was hit by a car on the Dreen Road sometime last night.

Under the butterfly bush.

Be Very Careful What You Wish For

Last night I cosmically ordered the motivation to change my bed. I specified that this motivation was to be delivered within 24 hours. This morning, at approximately 7.20am, Harry de Cat (aka Pisher McGhee) pissed on my bed.

On the bright side I'd wanted to be up and about early so I could make leisurely preparations for this morning's interview...for the Job Of My Dreams. Remember I cosmically ordered steady employment by the 2nd November 2006? That very afternoon I got word of an interview.

Noel and me. Up a tree. Kay-I-ess-ess-I-en-gee

Too Hot To Blog

Two shifts in Mingerton completed and I'm tired enough to die of tiredness. It's so hot I cannot even tolerate a lunchtime walk. I've no car to get away from the dirty hole that is Tinkerton/Mingerton and anyway my feet stick to the asphalt. It's too hot to work, to blog and to cook.

This morning I was wakened at quarter to six by the roar of silage cutters. It is all lies about the countryside being quiet. It is loud, it is lethally dangerous* and it is smelly. Cattle reek in hot weather, sheep are rank and the pungent stench of last season's silage would knock you on your back.

Taking washing to the line this morning I met Harry de Cat hurrying towards the house with a freshly killed rabbit in his jaws. On my return from work I found the half devoured and disembowelled corpse resting beside my verbenas. So Nellybert decided to have a barbecue.

Harry de Cat with his bellyful of rabbit

Harry's leftovers

Swear to God we had sausages and chicken and a delicious green salad washed down with some cheap cider. Eat Harry's leftovers? I should think not. Maybe next month when I'm not spending any money we'll be sharing Harry's kills and eating Mag Pie.

*Consider Bert and his .22 missing the magpies and hitting God know's what.

Pretty Pictures

I'm a bit shattered myself. The picture shows part of what happened during last night's riot in Mingerton. Being work related I cannot say too much but it was not a pleasant experience for anyone. I don't know who lobbed the stone that smashed my rear window but I'd bet a week's wages* he/she was a child. A feral child.

What kind of parents allow children (some as young as four) to be out when things like that are going on? And they must have known there was a situation going on in the estate for the riot police were out in force.

After the PSNI removed a couple of key characters (for their own safety) I was able to get Bert in to drive my car home to the safety of Cully. I wish he could have taken me home to safety too.

Back on the home front - Harry de Cat 1 Rats 0

Nellybert and the dogs are going camping now so we'll have some proper pretty pictures to post later.

*As if I could afford to bet a week's wages. It'll take that to fix the back window of the Fiesta.

A Wicked Bitch

It's a pity I didn't keep Rosie tied up. She has just bit the postman! Not too hard - just a nip on the ankle. But it tore his trousers and drew blood! Bert said he was 'nice' about it but he will report it and then we (and Rosie) are in trouble.

This has been a difficult few days of pet-keeping.

The dogs kept getting away. Bernie the bantie is clocking on a hidden clutch of sterile eggs and Harry de Cat pissed on Bert this morning. Now this. I'm really worried. We will be getting a visit from Nigel and we might get taken to court.

Actually if there is a prosecution it will be me as I am the licence holder. But I won't blame postie if he reports it as he is entitled to do his job without being harassed and bitten by dogs.

Why do dogs hate postmen so?

Poor Robin

I witnessed a brutal murder this morning. I was sitting in the den about to enjoy a nice cup of coffee when I saw Harry de Cat leap right through a bush. I knew he was up to no good so raced outside as fast as I could. Harry de Murderous Cat ran off but there, on the other side of the bush, laid a poor robin breathing his last. I carried him into Bert who pronounced him a goner. He died in Bert’s hand and was gently laid to rest underneath a hedge. I think Harry just pounced on him and crushed him to death. A robin being hit by Harry must be like us being hit by a truck.

I know, I know – nature red in tooth & claw and all that but I briefly hated Harry. That robin was one of a pair that had been hanging about this past few months. We enjoyed watching them.

Harry is belled but he is so damn fast. Bert suggests that we feed him up so that he gets fat and ponderous. Would that be cruel? Or should we just get one of his legs amputated? That would slow him down all right.

Belling the Cat

Domestic cats kill over 275 million animals and birds per year. Harry de Cat certainly does his bit to keep up the numbers. He struck again this morning only minutes after being let out of the house. The victim was a young thrush. I won't go into the gory details as they are too disturbing. But it was alive, barely, when I rescued it. It did not survive as it was too badly maimed.

I hate Harry today.

I said to Bert,

I feel like getting rid of him.

You were keen enough to have him.

I know but Scarey Tam got me in a weak moment just after Caps died. At least Caps didn't kill anything towards the end of her days. With only the three legs and all.

I wonder what the vet would say if we brought him down and asked for one of his legs off?

She'd be shocked. But he'd need two off to stop him.

The two back ones?

He'd be able to trail himself out and kill on. We'd need his teeth out too.

And de-clawed.

He'd probably go out and punch the birds senseless then suck them to death.

What about getting two legs off on the same side? That'd stop him.

So we've decided to get him a collar with a bell on it. A really big bell about as big as his head. Made of cast iron. Or lead.

The Book of Lies

This morning we opened the door to Harry de Cat. He lurched in with a young robin in his slavering jaws. Bert kicked him up the arse and the robin fell from his maw. We closed Harry in the house and took the robin outside. It was stunned, covered in cat slabbers but alive. Bert laid it down gently on the drystone wall and the wee bugger flew off!

"Why can't you hunt rats and mice...and squirrels?" Bert asked the cat. Harry made him no reply and leapt on the cat feeding surface and roared for Kitty Treats.

Oh the wee birds are lovely but - hoochin with worms. And natch so is Harry which is why he's always hungry. Bert says the pet shop girl's worm treatments are no good and that we should take Harry to the vet for a good strong cure. "Like being put down," I suggested.

Now Bert has told me a terrible thing and I'm too scared to look it up in case it's true. He says that the roundworms that Harry gets from the birds and rodents can drop out of his bum and dessicate. Then if they are ingested they rehydrate and off they go again laying their horrible eggs and so on. Bert says they can lie dormant and dried up for six months or more. I asked him where he heard this and he said "I read it in a book." I said I hoped it was the Book of Lies.

Cruelty to Animals

Oh I do hope that no one from the USPCA reads this blog. There have been two instances of cruelty to animals at Nelly's Garden today - three if you count what the cat did.

I decided to walk into Cully this morning to collect my Tory rag. I strapped myself into my music listening apparatus, slotted in some Classical Favourites, slipped a fiver into my sturdy bra and went in search of a dog. Paddy was my dog of choice as I'd taken Rosie the last time. But it wasn't even 9am and he was still in bed. I trailed him out of it, hooked him to a lead and then had to drag him down our scarey back lane. It's so overgrown now that the postman won't even drive up it and he doesn't give a hoot about his wee red van. So that was the first instance of cruelty to animals.

On the way back there was a torrential downpour. Ironically enough it started just as 'Air on a G String' started on my player. That made me smile. Getting soaked but I didn't care for all I needed was my music and a metaphorical Hamlet cigar. The rain made me smile but my poor abused dog hated it. I wonder if he'd known there was going to be a big plout and that's why he'd been reluctant to go in the first place?

The second instance of animal cruelty was two-fold. It was very cruel of Harry de Cat to kill all the little wren babies in the polytunnel. It was also very cruel of Bert to kick Harry's arse. But also strangely satisfying. Bert said, "After I guarded them diligently too." I don't think he was pleased when I pointed out that he wasn't very diligent last night when he fell to the Bushmills and forgot to ensure that the wren-murdering bastard was indoors.

Writing from Home

I’ve noticed something – recently I’ve been posting from work. The posts are different I find that I’m writing as if someone from headquarters was peering over my shoulder. I think that when I post from home that my writing style is more natural, more me.

So here I am posting from home. Here’s what happened today.

Woke up at work. Got up in pyjamas and opened the gates. Sat at work computer and planned my day. Laughed heartily at Ed post. If he woman would be minx. Male equivalent of Minx? Had breakfast. One shredded wheat, sliced half banana, dried pineapple and milk, glass orange juice. Had shower. Got dressed. Worked all day until 4:30pm. Work consisted of writing reports, showing client best way to clean toilet, doing key work, talking to St Vincent de Paul about how latest request to them for help was unnecessary as money shortage caused by spending dosh on drink and only wanted money for fags anyway. Too bad, so sad.

I got home from work at 5ish to empty house, No Bert, no dogs. Shrugged shoulders and poured glass of wine. Phoned Katy who is panicking about having entire Bowyer clan to stay with her in February. Told her not to worry as long as I got bed to myself, ex-husband can sleep on sofa and sibs can bunk up together. Sat down to read article in Observer about Bez and decided would like him for new best friend. Then read fascinating article about Kate Moss, decided Zoë much better bet as daughter, though unfortunately not worth 15 mill to help out dear old mother etc. etc.

Then Bert came in. Where dogs? Bert spent Saturday night in Hillsborough and dogs left home alone Saturday night. On his return he took them for lovely walk through fields. They, suffering from cabin fever, had taken off after rabbits and had not been seen for four hours. For badness, being very spoiled and not used to lack of human company.

So we go to Ghillies Bar to see Banjo Man and the boys giving it welly and get a bite to eat. Says I very good idea – to hell with those damned dogs, if farmer shoots them we’ll get ourselves some new, good dogs, who won’t run away. So we went to Ghillies Bar, saw Banjo Man and the fellows all of whom were playing well below par due to having been up late at Banjo Man’s mum’s 60^th birthday celebrations the previous night. We ran into Young who told us that he had given up his ‘good job’ at the County Hall to pursue a life of hedonism and geetar playing in sunnier climes. I heartily congratulated him on his courage. Young was our inside man in the planning office but he’d already told us there wasn’t a hope of building being allowed up our road within the next 20 years so OK to sell current gaff and fields to the Wee Manny.

One delicious meal and two gin and tonics later we decided it was time to return home. Greeted in yard by two very dirty, hungry dogs that we ignored. Went inside, made coffee and ostentatiously petted the cat still ignoring evil dogs. After coffee fed dogs but remained cool towards them. Relented 10 minutes later gave them pets and told them very bad, horrible brutes not as nice as good cat.