Conversations

 

Enter Bert who comes out with this statement,

I have to say, you shock me.

Me, sewing my knitted blanket,

What point are you making?

It’s a lovely day, and here's you sitting knitting and a ball of stuff to be doing outside.

Well! It’s alright for him. He’s got a new toy to play with – a battery operated lawnmower. He got me a leaf blower at the same time but that’s two seasons too late, or early depending on how you look at it.

When I told Swisser about the leaf blower, I told her I felt a bit guilty about getting it, and she had a lot to say on that subject.

A leaf blower! What’s wrong with a rake and a brush?

I admitted that she had a point. But said,

Have you seen the amount of trees we have? The size of this place? I need a leaf blower as well as a rake. I’d be weeks, months gathering up all the leaves that fall here. And anyway, they all go to the compost heap in the end.

She argued on,

They’re so loud. so antisocial, so unnecessary. I hate them. Bloody men with all their noisy machinery.

I say,

We have no neighbours so won’t be bothering anyone. And it’s the beech leaves* that are preventing wild flowers coming through at my would-be meadow. Maybe if I could get the leaves gathered up in the autumn the orchids and cuckoo flowers would spread and there’d be more orange-tip butterflies.

But I couldn’t convince her. So changed the conversation to another of her annoyances, the volume of tourists that clog up her personal beach at PBT. It’s my opinion that she would be far happier if she lived up a long lane with no-one near her.

To return to Bert and his remarks about me doing needlework on a rare sunny day. I was raging at him but knew he was right. I put down my needles and went outside where I took pictures of the crocus then watered and tidied up my potted herbs.

*Beech leaves can form a tight seal on lawns or low-growing meadow areas which prevent low-growing or delicate wild flowers from growing.

A Lot Going On Back Then

Twenty years ago, there was a lot going on.

I was working, and Bert had a job too. We were in the middle of fixing up this house while also trying to sell our old one. On top of that, we somehow managed to maintain a lively social life. And far more people were commenting on my blog back then - blogging was quite the thing in 2005. Everyone had one. Now it’s just me and Ganching, keeping it going.

At the time, Bert was growing and selling climbing plants, mostly clematis, which were especially popular with the local garden centres. There were so many independent centres back then, not like today, where the big chains dominate.

Some of the customers we sold to back then were real characters - like this fellow,

So this garden centre man phones up and says,

"Have yez any of that clematis Garibaldi'?.
"We have indeed."
"Keep me a whole big pile of them. I'll be up with the trailer tonight.

Well, I knew he meant 'Sieboldii' but as you know, the customer is always right.

I was telling Bert about it, and he said,

"Oh I know that wee boy. He was up with his trailer one night loading up with clematis and he says to me, 'Can you sell them oul clematis?' and I says to him that I could sell them to a band playing and he says to me as he loads them on thick, 'Thats funny for I cannae sell them atall.'"

Clematis Florida 'Sieboldii'

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."

Conversations

 Bert: Where's that Holy Joe calendar that was on the freezer?

(A local congregation blesses us annually with a calendar featuring scenes from the Northern part of Ireland  complete with Biblical verses, also some tracts, and a CD of their pastor's sermons.)

Nelly: It's in the recycling bin.

Bert: What? Why did you do that?

Nelly: I do it every year.

Bert: But I needed a calendar for my room.

Nelly: You have a calendar. The Fane Valley calendar that Feely gave us, the one you said that Clint would be so jealous of because of all the pictures of fine Hereford bastes.

Bert: I think it was very negative of you throwing out the Gospelly calendar.

Nelly: I do it every year and you've never complained before.

I am a bit worried that Bert might have succumbed to Late-Onset Presbyterianism. I shared my worries with Hannah. She said,

Mum, I think you need to accept that as Bert grows older he will be turning into Pearlie. Don't be telling him I said that.

I said,

But I tell him that every single day.

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Later on that day, I'm in Tescos. There is a stand offering reduced bedding items, duvet sets, pillow cases etc. in shades of soft green that exactly match my bedroom. I'm drawn to it. There is a throw that tempts me. But I cannot see what price it is. I go to the help desk with the item and explain my predicament. The assistant is a lady of mature years, giving off an air of being completely scundered with Christmas and the New Year. She scanned the throw and said,

You may put that back on the shelf. It's not reduced. Twenty pounds. I wouldn't give that for it!

I did as she said. And loved her for it.

It's that time of the year again.

Conversations with Bert

The first thing Bert said to me when he came down this morning was,

How did Ivan Kroll die?

I say,

Who the fuck is Ivan Kroll?

I'm thinking, knowing his interests,

(a) some Nazi

(b) Eastern European politician 

(c) why is he asking me?

He elaborates,

You know, that show we watched - Boy Swallows Universe.

Oh that Ivan Kroll. He died horribly. How can you not know that? We only finished watching it two weeks ago.

Truth be told, I had to look it up myself. I remembered the horrible bit and I remembered it was Gus. Other details escaped me.

OK. Gus pushed him through a glass clock in a tower and he landed on a limousine. Totally dead.

So who's Gus?

Later on Jazzer called while I was making dinner. She begins,

I know you'll want an update on Dora since Ben was talking to Bert...

Bert never said anything to me about Dora. Or Ben.

Oh well. We took her to the vet yesterday to have that lump investigated and it's OK. Nothing sinister, she had it removed and they are happy enough that it was benign. 

We talk on, supportive on my side, relieved on hers, jointly agree on husbands never telling us anything important. Call finishes.

I go in to speak to Bert and I am filled with wickedness. I say,

That was Jazzer on the phone. 

I sigh and continue,

Poor old Dora.

His face drops. I relent.

It's OK. She had her operation, she's fine, it's benign, she's going to be OK. Why didn't you tell me?

I forgot. You came in with the girls, they were fussing with Chico and Cleo. I just forgot. 

I'm putting it down to Bert's superior abilty in compartmentalisation. Worrying things are put in one box, trivia in another. Another example, we went out for lunch on Sunday with some good friends. While she and I were discussing psychopaths we have known and know, Bert and he were discussing who was Sheila Grant's first husband in Brookside. That's when I told him about IMDB.*

*Enzway - everybody knows it was Ricky Tomlinson.

One From 17 Years Ago

One of our regular guests. Chico is day care only, no overnight stays yet.

This blog will be twenty years old in August so, with all my archives to draw on I am recycling a post in which Bert, Young Rooney and myself, discussed Nellybert's fast-approaching old age. What has changed since then?

We have arrived at our old age and seem to be managing OK even though we didn't go down the paintballing or stables route. .

Like ourselves, Young Rooney is seventeen years older, he's married now with children. He's given up on horsey girls. So has Bert. I still run around in filthy jeans and body warmers. We sort of do boarding kennels but only for family and friends and their dogs get to sleep on our beds. And it's free.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Farm Diversification

Young Rooney called in this afternoon and we got to bouncing a few ideas around. These mostly centred around what Nellybert's going to do to bring the dosh in for the old age. Neither of us has much in the way of pension plans. In fact I just cashed mine in and it's just about enough to pay off my credit card and buy some decent teeth. Young Rooney says,

You could rent out the ground.

Doing that. Money's crap.

You could plant trees.

Done that. Fifteen acres in trees already.

What about a garden centre? Bert could run it and you could do a tea shop. Sell your cheesecake.

We hate garden centres.

Lots of money to be made.

Huh!

Boarding kennels then?

Someone tried for boarding kennels before and the road put in against it.

Cattery?

Mmmm. Maybe.

Riding stables? Paintballing?

Nelly goes,

Paintballing? Lots of fit blokes running about? Mmm. Maybe.

Bert goes,

Riding stables? Lots of gorgeous lassies in jodphurs? Sounds OK. Far better than all those oul biddies that hang about garden centres.

Young Rooney goes,

Aye. Riding stables. Me and Loveheart'll be round here all the time. Loveheart says all those horsey girls are mad for it. He says it's all the bouncing about in saddles that gets them going.

Nelly says,

Yeah. And I can become one of those old eccentric horsey women running about in filthy jeans and bodywarmers with no time to go to the hairdresser.

Bert says,

Sure that's you now...

In which Bert takes up literary criticism

Sunday morning, and Bert stays in bed with his book.

When he comes down I ask him,

What are you reading now?

J.M. Coetzee. Dusklands.

Is it good?

It's shite.

Why read it then?

It's really two novellas and it shouldn't take long.

But why is it shite?

Because of how he writes. Never says what he means, just fliff-flaffing about. It's esoteric. What does esoteric mean anyway?

I don't actually know for sure. Look it up and while you're at it check out what's being said about Dusklands online.

Is that not cheating?

No. It's a really good thing to do. Helps you to understand the book, maybe get more out of it.

A little time passes. 

Bert has just found out about the world of books online. He says,

Ha! I'm not the only one then. It says here that those that find fault with Dusklands concentrate on the obliquity of the book's method.

He goes back online. Doing his research. Some minutes later he waves his phone in front of my face. I am looking at a picture of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior.

Bert says,

Look at that! The state of it! Spine's hanging off it! And they're looking £40 for it.

I say,

It's probably a first edition. But I wouldn't want it in that state.

I look up our paperback copy to see what that is worth. Seventeen pounds.

Bert says,

You should sell it. It's a load of shite anyway.

An seid prátaí

I was making soup and needed a large onion so, outside to find Bert who is clearing the middle bay of the polytunnel. He is going to make an obstacle course for Cleo. It was Hannah's idea, a way to burn off some of the pup's excess energy and take her mind off the Kong.

Where are the onions?

Scratches head. Thinks. Says,

Big ones or wee ones?

Big ones.

They're in the pruta shed.

Pruta shed? Which one is that?

You know! The pruta shed. 

Never once in my life have I ever heard you calling any of the sheds a pruta shed.

It's always been called the pruta shed. Ask Clint.

I'm sure Clint would be too embarrassed to call a shed for something it hasn't had in for forty years. Now which one is it again? Give me a clue. What do you keep in it?

Onions.

What else?

Tools, kindlers, stuff!

Oh - you mean the workshop. Righto.

The naming of places has always been an issue with Bert and I have blogged about it before. And as I'd told him the pruta shed was a new one on me I thought I'd refer back to this post.

It seems that back then he called it the potato shed, and that's another thing, as Bert gets older he uses much more Ulster-Scots dialect. I have been known to accuse him of making words up and he'll say,

Get the book* out!

The book always proves him correct.  

*The Concise Ulster Dictionary was a gift from Ganching 28 years ago. She paid £9.99 for it. Today you'd be lucky to pick up a second-hand copy for under £100. I'll not be selling mine. Far too useful.

Those of you that have Irish will see that most of Ulster's old words for the spud are derived from our native tongue. I wish I had more of it myself so that I could take my turn at confusing Bert.

New Years Day

The day did not get off to a good start. Bert came downstairs waving a copy of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior and giving off about it being the worst book he'd ever read.

Why did you read it then?

Because I kept thinking something would happen.

And did it?

No. Nothing happened and there were far too many people in it and they did nothing and what had it all got to do with a Dutch Interior anyway?

I was intrigued. I've only ever read O'Connor's short stories so I'll be adding Dutch Interior to my to-read list. I suggested he might like to read First Confession as I consider it to be an excellent short story. I hoked it out for him and said,

That might be easier for you to understand. Or maybe not.

He said, 

Are you saying that I'm stupid?

No. You're not stupid, you're Protestant.

The Big Shop

The big shop begins with a list, a list carefully curated to the last ounce of caster sugar. But first I have the last Christmas present to buy, a task somewhat hindered by the future recipient of the last Christmas present being in my company. Never daunted, I give her a tenner to browse TK Maxx while I peruse H&M. Sadly, H&M has been cleared out of the best stuff but I buy something anyway. I meet Martha (for it is she) in TK Maxx to find that nothing has caught her fancy. She has other ideas. I am frogmarched to Superdrug where she spends her tenner on lip oil and other essential cosmetics that did not exist in my young day. 

On to Tescos where I discover that my carefully curated list has been left on the kitchen table. I panic slightly and call a crisis meeting with Martha. She reassures me that it will be OK and I bring forward the motion that no matter what happens we will HAVE FUN. 

So, caster sugar. I remembered that. Off to the home baking shelves where we were stopped by a young man carrying a tub of baking powder.

He asked,

Is this the same thing as baking soda?

Both of us,

No. It's not.

Me,

Is it for a recipe?

He,

Yes.

Me,

You'll definitely need baking soda then. It's in a similar tub.

Martha,

Look! There it is!

Talk about grateful. He couldn't thank us enough. Most gratifying.

On to the caster sugar.

Me,

Can you see any Martha?

Woman beside us,

I'm looking for caster sugar too.

Martha,

I can't see any. Would golden caster sugar do?

Me to woman,

Is it for a recipe?

Woman,

Yes. My friend and I are making a pavlova.

Me,

You'll definitely need ordinary caster sugar then. It will keep the meringue pale. Try Lidls. They always have caster sugar.

Me to Martha,

Get us. Baking consultants. Don't forget to tell your mother.

I bought the golden caster sugar and everything that was on the left-behind list except fruit and three kinds of cream. I can get that in the local Spar. The bit more I spend will be offset by fuel costs.

Yet I still need to go into town tomorrow. Pet supplies, dog treats, a new peanut feeder for the birds and another Kong. Bert lost one today. It was Cleo's favourite toy.

How did that happen?

They were annoying me with it so I threw it over the shed roof.

But over the shed roof means it always ends up in the midden*.

I forgot the midden was there.

*Midden - dunghill**

**Dunghill - big pile of cow shite

 

On White Goods

Our washing machine packed up and no-one could remember how long we'd had it. Hannah said it was at least six years but I thought it might be slightly longer than that. I decided to check the old blog to see if there was any mention of it but no. Whilst checking I found an entry from seventeen time ago and I had absolutely no memory of ever having had that conversation.  

We've had two more dishwashers since then. Stuff just doesn't last any more. Hopefully the current one will go for a good few years more seeing as I only use it about once a week. Like the guy said, I usually wash them in the sink now, just like our grandmothers did.

Martha washing dishes in the sink assisted by Auntie Hannah. Those were the days when she thought washing dishes was fun and raincoat and wellies were essential. I call that picture The Girls Who Never Take Their Coats Off.

The Honest Sales Assistant (2006)

Bert and I went to Ballymena yesterday to buy a replacement dishwasher. While Bert trotted off to the bank to pay in some cheques I went to a local shop where they always provide good service. I have to say that I found the price of their dishwashers a bit breath taking at first. There were machines costing in excess of £300 and I’d told Bert we’d be paying less than £200. So when the sales assistant approached me to ask if he could help I asked him if he had any less expensive dishwashers. He led me over to another part of the shop and showed me a much cheaper machine. I’d never heard of the make but it looked all right to me.

So why is this machine so much cheaper than the others?

Because it’s manufactured in the third world using cheap materials from China.

Oh.

This machine was made by people who aren’t getting a proper wage for their work. People who work in unsafe conditions. People who are, in fact, children!

So is it any good?

There’s not a thing wrong with it.

Even so you’ve put me off a bit. I don’t like the idea of buying a dishwasher that was made by badly treated children. Should you be telling me this?

I’ll not be telling you lies. I have the man above to answer to when I die!

Would you buy this dishwasher?

A dishwasher! I don’t think so. People have no need of dishwashers at all. After all how did our grandmothers manage? What’s wrong with washing dishes in the sink? People have no need of half the stuff they have these days! When Armageddon comes….

Thankfully at this point Bert joined us and I managed to change the subject. We did not buy the very unethical dishwasher. We bought another one instead. Ten pounds more but at least I can sleep at night. ;)

Mrs Librarian Woman

 A commenter on this blog asserted that I led an 'interesting life'. I beg to differ as my life is mundane, even a bit dull. I hardly go anywhere, rarely do anything, just sort of exist really. I should break out a little, get on a train now and again, wear things from the very back of the wardrobe, spend more money, cook with apricots, book a trip to Manaus.*

Yet I do find life interesting most of the time. It's all out there, even just outside the front door or, if it's wet, the front room. Outside the front door there are snails and owls and moths and in the front room there are dogs, and people, all-the-time people. People with dogs.

And even when there aren't people in the front room, Bert's room, there are dogs and Bert who gets bored much more easily than I do.

He was channel-hopping on his giant TV, said that even though there are hundreds of channels there is nothing worth watching. I was watching a programme about David Beckham in my private secret sitting-room and thought it well worth watching. Amazingly, some of the best bits were scenes from football matches. I don't even like football but the film-maker was good at the job and made it interesting.

So, when I was done with that I went to see Bert who was watching something horribly gory about vampires. He told me he had nothing to read as he had finished his book this morning. Somehow this has become my responsibility. I gave off to him.  

Why do you always tell me you need something to read at quarter to eleven at night?

I told you I finished my book this morning.

And you don't have at least four books in your to-read pile? Don't you be coming into my room at midnight looking for a book.

You have all the good books in your room.

That is balls. I have all the P-S books in my room. There are four other bookcases throughout the house containing books A-O and T-Z. Is it not enough that I source all the books, buy all the books, shelve all the books that I have to choose all your reading matter too? 

I secretly enjoy doing this but not late in the evening. So before climbing into bed I threw him in Strumpet City and a David Sedaris. I don't think he'll like the Sedaris.  

*I'm reading Eva Ibbotson.

And On That Theme

 Another one from an age ago...

The Stack Garden

Bert generally does not tell me things. So I wasn't a bit surprised yesterday when a large truck containing stones arrived in the yard. As Bert thinks receiving a load of stones an important task accomplished it would therefore be deserving of a cup of tea. When he came into the kitchen I attempted to engage him in conversation.

What are the stones for?
Och!
No. Tell me what they're for.
Tssk!
Just tell me. Other husbands tell their wives things.
The back garden!

And off he stomped clutching his cup of tea in hand.

Did I ever mention that he's not really a morning person?

I pondered this information. The back garden? We have various areas around the house that could be described as a garden but I wasn't sure what he meant. And why would he need stones for it? Gardens are my department too. I deserve to be consulted.

I broached the subject again the next time he came in for refreshments (thirty minutes later).

So, exactly where is this back garden you speak of? Back of where?
I didn't say back garden. I said stack garden.
Stack garden?
Yes. Every farm has a stack garden.
Where's ours?
Round the back. Where the pigs are.
Bert – In nearly thirty years I have never once heard you call any part of this place the stack garden. Have you just made that up?

I have to say here that the naming of places is something we argue about discuss often.

Bert went on to argue that this area, which I call the pig paddock, has always been referred to as the stack garden and that if I had been brought up on a farm, as I claim, then there would have been a stack garden.

And what would this stack garden be used for?
For stacks.
What kind of stacks?
Hay! Corn! Logs!
No. We had sheds for those and the hay was baled and stored in a hay shed.

He continued to insist that all farms had stack gardens and I argued that stack gardens were all in his head or else something only hill-billies know about.

Currently, his names for fields are,

The Field Across The Road

The Meadow

The Corner Field

The Hall Field

The First Hill

The Second Hill

The Third Hill

The Big Hill

He claims not to remember the names of the six fields planted in trees apart from The Whinny Field. These fields are now known as The Trees. I pressed him on this and he managed to recall that two of them had been referred to as,

The Wee Field On The March With Gregg's

The Boag Field

Boag Field. Do you mean bog?
It rhymes with doag*. So what did you ones call a boag then?
We called it The Moss and cut turf in it. We didn't make a field out of it.
Youse were that grand out at Tannaghmore.
We were.

I'm certain sure that when I met Bert he didn't speak of doags, boags or stack gardens. And he used to (I think) tell me things so when the man from the quad bike shop pulled into the yard this morning I thought he wanted to buy a tree, or perhaps he was looking for directions. But no. Bert has bought a quad bike. And never said.

*doag - dog

This post brought a comment from my youngest sister,

Don't tell Bert but we also had bogs. The 3 fields behind the field in front of Heffrons. The wee bog was drained and the one farthest from the house had a beautiful weeping willow.

I remember that weeping willow. I wonder if it's still there?

I couldn't find a photograph of the Stack Garden that wasn't boring so here is a picture that has got a lot going on. The area behind the five-bar gate is the Stack Garden. 

One From Fourteen Years Ago

 

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Come Into My Parlour

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.

Do 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, each with 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 the same in our last place where we only had a garage and three polytunnels.

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, 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 had 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.

Getting On A Bit

It's not just Nellybert that are getting on a bit. Lily and Rusty are teenagers now and that's really old for pigs. They are slowing down and Lily is getting thin. Still terrible buggers for making holes in hedges, breaking out, tumbling the bins and stealing the chicken food.

That picture is from a video Dee Mac put on YouTube some thirteen years ago. Ben and Sara were visiting and I mentioned its existence. Bert says,

Lily and Rusty are never on YouTube!

They are. You know they are. You're in it too.

I never heard tell of it.

You have. You've seen it before.

Ben put it on. He can work YouTube much faster than us.

Bert said,

Well I never. Lily and Rusty on the YouTube. I never knew the like.

It must be great to be Bert, reliving all his experiences again and again. Or is it? Should I be worrying?

Looking Back At Looking Forward

 

A post from six years ago and I still haven't come to grips with the crochet hook.

I've been thinking about this Senior Citizen thing coming up next March and it seems I should be making some lifestyle changes.

I say to Bert,

When I'm an Old Age Pensioner I am going to have ROUTINES. For instance, I'll always go shopping on one particular day. And I'll start liking Marie biscuits.

Oh yes?

And I'll have a regular shampoo and set and wear lilac cardigans and suede sandals from Hotter.

Uh-huh.

I'll watch the soaps, Emmerdale and Coronation Street.

You should.

I'll start going to church.

Really?

Oh yes. And Daniel O'Donnell will be my new favourite singer and I may even learn to perform a gentle jive.

You're on your own with that one.

I'm taking up crochet. I'll make crocheted blankets for my even older friends.

Good idea.

Later on, as we breakfast on boiled eggs and toasted wheaten bread I say,

Another thing. When I'm an OAP I shall eat like a bird. Old people do that.

What?

What do you mean, what? How come you were able to accept all the other stuff I might do and not that I could become a light eater?

Well. I could see you having a regular shampoo and set and starting to crochet but I can't imagine you ever losing your appetite.

Cheeky bugger.

Cattered

Our recent bout of Covid was a lot harder on Bert, most likely because he had not availed himself of a booster jab. While I got over the worst of it in a couple of days he spent three days in bed with a fever and, when he eventually made it downstairs he was weak as a kitten and a pathetic-looking sight.  

Actually, I don't know why people say 'as weak as a kitten' for if Pippin is anything to go by, kittens are as tough as old boots. Anyway, Bert was most intrigued to hear that he was looking peely-wally* as he enjoys any kind of attention and off he went to check himself out in the mirror.

Aye, he remarked 

I am looking a bit cattered.

I say,

Cattered! What do you mean? I've never heard you say that before.

I say it all the time. 

You do not! That's not even a word. You're making that up.

It is definitely a word.

I don't believe you.

Where's the book?

Where it always is.

He fetches it and lo and behold **cattered really is an Ulster-Scots word.

The book was a present from my sister 26 years ago and it is much used in this house. 

*Peely-wally adjective pale and sickly-looking. [Scots, origin unknown.] Concise Ulster Dictionary, p 249

**Cattered  adjective unhealthy-looking[Cf Scots cuiter "to pamper because of ill-health".] Concise Ulster Dictionary, p 57

Diary Entry #2

I met an old friend today. I thought we'd spend a few hours together but she wanted to make a day of it and I'm glad she did because I enjoyed myself very much.

Bert was on his own all day and when I returned at around 5pm he was scoffing a filled baguette and a plate of pickles.

That's a late lunch.

Breakfast, actually.

You're not wise.

I kept thinking you'd be back with something nice to eat.

Why would I do that? Sure our shelves are groaning with food. I thought we had a pact to eat what is actually there rather than continuously buy more stuff?

That is actually true as we are trying to decommission a chest freezer. It is supposed to be emptied by Christmas but it's not going to be easy. 

Charity shop find, a present for my friend

I Assumed He Knew What He Was Doing

I've just been out to close in the hens and their shed appears to be on fire! Thankfully it wasn't.

I spoke to Hannah.

Do you realise he's got a bonfire going a metre from the hen house?

Yeah. I assumed he knew what he was doing.

Bert spoke to me.

Why are you taking pictures?

So if the hen house burns down I can blog about it.

Sure, what do you know about bonfires?

Not much. I've little experience of them. It wasn't me burned down next door's garage*.  Anyway, stop adding stuff to it.

I thought you wanted this area cleared.

Me? Not really. Think of all the poor wee invertebrates dying in there. They thought they were living their best lives. 

That stung. I could see the look of regret on his face. He'd forgotten about the beetles and earthworms etc. I was nearly sorry I'd brought it up.

Anyways, I decided not to close the hens in after all, just in case.

A Postscript

* For fear of retribution Bert did not admit that sixteen years ago, on a very windy evening a stray ember from one of his bonfires might well have blown over to the derelict property beside us. It might have settled in the eaves of the garage (stacked with empty and half-empty paint tins). Maybe there was an old bird's nest in there, that caught alight,  maybe it dropped to the floor, found some dry timber, started a blaze.

Doesn't matter now, especially since that garage has since been demolished by a passing vandal with a mini-digger. We'll never know. It's a mystery.

Now there are rumours that the property has been bought by a developer in which case we might eventually have close neighbours. Ugh! Bert says,

You never know. They might be the best neighbours in the world. 

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.