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."

A Letter From Nelly

Springhill,

Cullybackey

31^st January, 2025

My Dearest Cousin,

Hoping this letter finds you and yours in good spirits. I am sorry to have left this letter so long, but life got in the way as they say. A great deal has happened since I last dropped you a line, and not all of it was good.

Were I to dwell on global occurrences I might depress us both so much that we should have to take to our beds for the remainder of the winter. Instead, I will concentrate on domestic matters.

We had quite the storm last week, quite unsafe to go out of doors with all the bits of hedges and trees blowing about. Sadly the middle bay of our polytunnel lost its covering and of course, the children’s trampoline rolled away taking the washing line and part of a small tree with it. The trampoline is wrecked but it could have been much worse. Our friend Howie lost his polytunnel, glasshouse, hen house and hens. His hens were not blown away, Foxy took them. Such opportunists, foxes.

Still, we were lucky to keep the electricity. It didn’t even flicker. Others were not so fortunate with thousands of people without power for days.

The next thing was I got another stomach bug. Remember I had one just after Christmas. Throwing up for 12 hours and off my food and feet for another 12. No fun. Folk keep telling me it’s a virus, something going around but funny it always seems to happen when I have been ‘over-indulging’ which is something I tend to do when my friend Cinta is having a sleepover. I’ve decided to eat more sensibly for a while and not to take alcohol at all. So far so good.

Speaking of eating sensibly, Bert has been told he has Type2 diabetes! Swisser could hardly believe it as he has always been slim. On Tuesday had a long day at the hospital having various tests as his blood sugar was extremely high. They were even considering starting him on insulin! Querying he might have Type1! Which would be highly unusual for a man of his years. Instead, he is on another drug and has to do a prick test before and after meals so we are both going to be eating sensibly from now on. The good news is that his blood sugar score has more than halved and the lovely nurses are pleased with him. Bert has been fortunate not to have had much to do with hospitals etc. and cannot get over how lovely everyone is. I told him it’s because he is a lovely patient.

Of course, he is a little bit sad that he can’t have cream and lashings of golden syrup on his porridge anymore. I have told him he can have it as a treat on his birthday.

But poor Cinta! When she was with us at the weekend she said she had five days off work to look forward to and was so happy about it. But that evening her dog Dora (sister to our Jess) collapsed while out on a nighttime walk and had to be carried home. They managed to get a vet’s appointment the next day but the news was very bad. The whole family are heartbroken. They brought her out to bury her here yesterday. She got a lovely spot between the hamamelis and the hebe. It’s strange to think that next January (If we are spared!) and the hamamelis is in full bloom again she will be gone 12 months. The life of a dog is not long.

Which brings Judy to mind. I cannot see her being with us a year hence. Oh! I will be glad to see this month over and done with. Too much anger and sadness and not nearly enough hope.

I shall finish now before I drive you under the bed covers. Perhaps the next time I write there will be some more cheerful news to report

Your loving, hopeful cousin,

Nelly

Dora and Jess in their younger days. Dora at the front

Hamamelis Pallida 

The Visitors Book Revisited

So how was our Christmas? It was quiet, but it wasn't always so. Here are a couple of festive blog posts from the Nelly's Garden's earliest days. Sometimes, looking back, I wonder how I ever had time to blog with a full-time job and a hectic social life. What it was to be young - only a mere stripling in my early fifties.

My favourite Christmas picture. Lovely Holly no longer with us.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

The Visitor's Book

As I cannot be arsed to think up a new post I have decided to post some seasonal extracts from the pages of Nellybert’s Visitor’s Book.

…. We arrived on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately (once again) Bert went to the wrong airport. How was I supposed to know that Belfast City is the one in Belfast? Anyway Ma should have done her research properly. Everybody knows that flights from Norfolk come into the wee airport…

…. It wasn’t too awful a visit. As usual there were way too many scary aunts around. I just hid behind piles of cushions and dogs. Nelly gave me a very strange present….

…. The night I stayed there were so many people there I only got a sofa. It was my birthday too! That panelling in Nelly’s shower room is fabuloso. My projectile vomiting wiped off a treat…

…. If I weren’t an animal-loving vegetarian I’d shoot that fucking cat. Pissed all over me just as I was getting off to sleep….

…I toddled over for the New Year’s Eve party and had just the one drink. Nelly said it was a triple brandy or something like that. Very nice. But you should have seen those young ones. Bottle after bottle of stuff they were drinking. I never seen anything like it. Mind you I would have liked to try that red stuff the weans were at. Hardy Breezer they said it was called. Nelly had that oul camera out. She knows I hate getting my picture took….

…Nelly and me made pizza and salads then I played a game were all the dogs were sharks. They needed new shark names so Rosie was Peter, Scruff was Trevor and Paddy was Paul. Mammy had to chase me all round the house to try and get me to go to bed at half-twelve. Nelly tried to help her but Mammy dunted her out of the road…

…Nelly and me went for a walk and talked about life and stuff and I was telling her all about being a first-year at Slemish and about all my teachers and friends and stuff. Nelly started girning later about how we all get crumbs in the butter and spread it all over the surfaces. She kept getting me to make her coffee.

NB: Other visitors included Zoe, Dave, Jean, Jonny, Tricia, Brendan, Sadie, Naoise, Mel, PP, Jenny, Marty, Jazzer, Barbara, Martina, Ian, Lee, Martina, Caoimhe, Penny, Scruff, Macy and last, but not least, Gracie.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

The Visitor's Book 2006

Here are some of the comments left in Nellybert’s Visitor’s Book over the holiday period.

…. Nelly said it was Christmas Dinner but it wisnae! It wis beef and ye haftae hae fowl for Christmas Dinner! Nelly was that cheeky when I said – she said it was a dinner and it was Christmas and I was tae come ower before it got cowl and to tell you the truth she trailt me ower aginst my will. And her oul puddin’ was rotten too, it was as bitter as gall…

…. I always spend my New Year’s birthday at Nellybert’s and you’d think I’d get a bed by now but it was still the bloody sofa.

…. Nelly forgot to make the vegetarian gravy so I had to make do with cheese sauce which was exceptionally good. She did make me a special stuffing and it was yum-yum but there was something about it…you’d nearly have thought…but surely not? Nelly wouldn’t do that…would she?….

…It was great at Nelly’s. You should have seen all the toys Bert got from Santa. He got a rocking horse and a crane and he let me play with them. He wouldn’t let me play with his guns and he’s got three and they’re real ones too. Then Nelly showed me Harry de Cat’s grave and it’s got tiles on top. Nelly says that’s to stop Mr Fox digging him up which wouldn’t be very nice because he’s a skellington now. Nelly and me went for a really long walk in Portglenone Forest then she wouldn’t let me go to the shop for sweets because her exhaust fell off…

…Martina and me showed Nelly our Bebo pages and Nelly told Mum that I said I was 16 on mine and that Martina had a photo on hers with a Benson in her mouth. She’s a tout. You couldn’t tell her anything.

…The dinner was very nice but I swear to God you could not move through that house without bumping into some sort of an animal. Zoë had her wee dog Gracie out with her and though it’s a lovely looking wee thing, and there they were all oohing and aahing about how cute and sweet it was to see her playing with the new kitten, I saw the dirty looks that wee brute was giving that kitten when it thought no one was watching. I’d not like to leave them on their own for too long…

This year our visitors were Zoë, Dave, Hannah, Jamie, Eamon, Mel, PP, Jenny, Marty, Jazzer, Swisser, Martina, Erin, Ben, John, Buffy, Dirt Bird, Pearlie and Gracie. Ganching sent her apologies and some rather nice presents.

A Life In Pictures

Teller of tall tales. The General. The Wee Manny. A Rascal. A Traveller. An Adventurer. 

It has taken me all this time to begin this post and per usual I'm drawing on one I wrote almost ten years ago. 

I went to today's funeral (the first of the year) with the Wee Manny. He arrived at our house more than an hour early all suited and booted. In our part of the world, by the time a man is in his middle age he has his funeral rig ready at all times. This outfit will consist of a dark suit, a dark tie, black if the funeral is that of a close family member and, given the Irish climate, a heavy dark overcoat.

It was a battle getting Bert to wear his suit but he allowed himself to be persuaded. The funeral suit is a much easier option than trying to find other items of dark (clean) clothing. And the dark tie is always in the inside jacket pocket.

The reason I went with The Wee was because Bert was picking Hannah up from work and the Wee and I, both being Virgos, are  particular about punctuality. We were there at least half an hour before the proceedings began. The Cuningham Memorial is very close to where I live yet this was the first time I'd ever been inside it. The interior is traditional, with heavy roof beams and beautiful stained glass. The pews are those old-fashioned ones with doors. Ours seated just three people. As always, on entering the church, I had to stop myself looking for the holy water font and in the pew I noted the absence of kneelers. Presbyterians do not kneel. At least I did not attempt to genuflect as I entered the pew. I did that once but I hope no one noticed. That was at Church of Ireland wedding so you'd almost get away with it.

As we sat in that pew I reflected that The Wee is actually my oldest friend. Not old in terms of age, but old in the length of time we've known each other. I met him nearly forty years ago and knew of his existence a few years before that. The Wee was one of the cool dudes, living mostly outside Ballymena, in London, Amsterdam and other interesting places. I first met him in Dublin while I was visiting my sister who was at Trinity College. He and I had a mutual friend and the three of us went on a pub crawl. Little did I know that The Wee and I would still know each other forty years on and that we'd go to funerals together and that we'd have spent the time before discussing our favourite baking dishes and other mundane things. He introduced me to Bert nearly thirty years ago so I expect I'll have to be friends with him forever.

Turned out forever wasn't as long as I thought it would be. Robin, you will be missed and we will be talking about about you and your exploits forever.

Robin

Thirteen days ago I went with my friend to the local hospital to visit with her husband. Seven days ago he was discharged to spend his final days in his own home. Six days ago Bert and I visited him. Four days ago he died. 

He came back home today. And he will leave again on Friday.

I met him first in 1975. Some years later he introduced me to Bert. And we were friends from then on.

He is the third person in my circle of friends to die this year. All from cancer. I guess we're all around that sort of age. 

I'll write more after the funeral.

Say Everything

I don’t live in a bubble. No sirree! For it seems now I am surrounded by people who do their own research on YouTube and are coming up with notions far removed from how I think about the world. Was it always like this? Y’know – I’m not sure. Back in the day, with one’s partying buddies, I’d never have dreamed of making enquiries into anyone’s voting intentions. For sure, I knew that certain folks in my friendship circle would be supporting parties that would not be for me. Back then, being a DUP supporter was not a deal-breaker.

I asked Bert this hypothetical question,

If you lived in an English constituency right now who would you vote for?

His answer,

Probably the Green Party.

My response,

This is no time to be voting for the Green Party! Not even hypothetically!

This, even though I believe all parties should be Green.

This afternoon a couple of friends from another (younger) generation called with us. One of them claims never to have voted. He told us that his mother is begging him to use his vote this time and to vote for the DUP.

My response? Don’t vote Davy, don’t go near a polling station. Have the courage of your convictions. Stay at home.

The other friend, comments,

Aah! Democracy in action.

I continue,

Tell me, Davy, right now, if you lived in an English constituency who would you vote for?

The Reform Party.

Aaargh!

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Then earlier today, I ran into someone I used to know. Our former acquaintanceship was never one that would have allowed for the interchange of political views, yet within moments of the meeting I found that she was vaccine-sceptic, anti-Sinn Fein and concerned about immigration. Thinking back I find this so different from how things used to be. Years ago we all avoided political and cultural discourse, now we seem to want to set our cards on the table straight away. Is this a good thing? Maybe it is, even it makes for some degree of discomfort.

But I’m not going to let it lie. The days of Whatever You Say, Say Nothing are over. I am Irish, at home, and in search of views on everything.

My Week

 Monday - shopping with Vee. We also went to the Secret Garden at the Ecos Centre where we found a shared interest in birds of all sizes.*

Tuesday - date with the oldies. The oldies aren't the oldies because we're old. No sirree! We are the oldies because we are old friends.

Wednedsay - a free day which I spent reading and doing chores.

Thursday - Buckna to return an antique scythe we had on loan. Martha and Evie came too and had an interesting conversation with the owner of the scythe about working in movies. 

Friday - the Bonnars called. Old friends and fellow descendants of the Family Robinson we swapped a Chilean Lantern tree for pansies. I believe we got the better deal. 

Saturday - I went to Martha's dance school's recital at the Braid and had the best time. It was so pleasurable and my face ached from smiling. The entire thing was a delight and Martha made us proud. She shone. No doubt, all the other parents and grandparents were just as proud as we were but... she shone.

The Banjos were here when I got back home. Jazzer made a delicious dinner but she lost it at the rice. So I made the rice. There was music (YouTube) and dancing (Jazzer). I wish I could dance. Still, I give it the occasional go. Bert never, ever dances in public. I asked him today if he ever danced when no one was around and he admitted he did. If it's a good tune. Jazzer might be able to dance but, as usual, her music choices are shite. Gabrielle? Taylor Swift? 

Sunday - a quiet day which I needed. Finished reading my Tana French and can now speak a version of snotty-nosed teenager. Apparently, I only need to say Hello? and Excuse Me! a lot.

Tomorrow I go shopping with Vee. I have to buy a new kettle.

*There are a nest of coal-tits nesting at the top of my window. A few feet over from that, over the front door, the spotted fly-catchers are sitting on eggs. And at night we can hear the young long-eared owls calling for food.

My Week

 On Monday I picked Vee up and we went grocery shopping. I had my list and whizzed around Tesco in no time, then raced out to the car and read my book (The Axeman’s Carnival). Vee must have been in nippy form too as I only had a few pages read before she was out piling bottled water into the back of the car. I never buy bottled water. Am I odd? Afterwards we went to the Ecos Centre coffee shop to find it closed. Why do places close on Bank Holidays. I find that odd. So, it was on to Creative Gardens for a light lunch. I took a photograph of mine and sent it to Bert for complete badness. Am I a bad bitch? Answer – yes.

Back home I baked Bert a birthday cake and made a start on a curry, Mangalorean Catholic style. Don’t know about you but it was new to me. And it was hot!!! The reason I was preparing Tuesday’s food on Monday? I had a coffee date.

So up on Tuesday morning, chores, shower, ironing… Ironing? Yes. Ironing. Meeting one’s peers one wants to look one’s best. As I was about to leave the house there was an issue with a mouse. A shrew mouse in the slavering jaws of Woody de Cat. I saved it and deposited a protesting Woody in the house. I was going to be at least 5 minutes late and me well-known for my punctuality.

Off to Portglenone, found the coffee shop, a new one. Despite being slightly late I was first to arrive. Again. I bagged the best table in the shop. (Won’t they be pleased.) Settled down to wait. Five minutes pass. Then another five. I had a little niggle. I knew I was in the right place but was it the right time? I checked our WhatsApp group. It was the right place and the right time but I was early. A whole week early. All I could do was laugh.

Back home to finish the preparations for Bert’s birthday supper. Frosted his cake (chocolate orange cake, Nigella recipe) and complete the curry. It was hot, hot, hot. Decided to make a milder one for the girls, Thai red curry. They do like spicy food but not too spicy.

All went well. The curries were good, and the cake was rich and delicious.

Waiting for the cake

Wednesday was an at-home day. I started cleaning the larder and became overwhelmed. So much stuff came out of it, I wondered how I was going to fit it all back in, although dumping all the out-of-date stuff helped. I abandoned the project and had an early night which I needed as I’d been wakened by the dogs at five am and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

Thursday. I finished the larder and was so pleased with the achievement that I kept opening the doors, looking in and feeling delight. The rest of the house a tip but the larder was clean, fresh and well-ordered. Then off to pick up the girls who are very happy to have finished their summer exams. They asked if the could have Netflix and I agreed and half an hour later I found them watching Bridgerton. Oh dear. If I remember rightly the first season was quite risque in parts. M said she was coping but that E was finding it a little cringey.

Friday. This morning, when I woke up I found myself recalling a not unpleasant dream. I tried to bring it back – something about Donald Trump in court, being found guilty of crimes. Then it dawned on me that this had really happened. What a way to start the day.

Despite this, I was irritable this morning. My larder joy had dissipated and I had to deal with other chores. Of course, just as I’d finished mopping the kitchen floor, Bert got up and he and the dogs trampled all over it. I told him about Mr Trump and he said, Who told you? This annoyed me. It’s as if he thinks I am not capable of finding out things for myself and must wait until someone else informs me. Which is how he (mostly) experiences the world. 

Later on we were called upon by two young lads, one anti-woke and the other fearful of Islam. They annoyed the fuck out of me. I wonder where they get their news?

 

Best part of the week? Finding that the spotted flycatchers have taken up residence in their old home above the front door.

Catching Up

 

Who is that fellow sitting (some time ago) with all those young women? These days he is a retired solicitor, and two of the women are his sisters. I'm the one in the middle wearing a red dressing gown, my favourite outfit back in the day. I'm sitting next to my youngest sister who was always up for a night out. One girl I don't remember but the friend who took the original photograph will know for she knows everybody and everything.

These past couple of months have found me reconnecting with old friends.  First, it was Vee who I've been taking out a bit for she had to give up driving for a while. We get our goods in, go visit garden centres, cemeteries and coffee shops. We even went to Ikea! Just like regular old ladies. I'm finding it all most enjoyable. There was a lot of catching up and lots of stories to be told. 

Then about a week and a half ago I got a call from another old friend Cici. I'd bumped into her about a month before and we'd exchanged numbers. It was the usual thing. Must get together, the sort of thing that is often said and then not acted upon. But I was delighted to hear from her. She suggested meeting up with her and another friend two days hence. I was so excited. Thought about what I was going to wear even! Obviously not the red dressing gown for even though I still have it it doesn't fit too well these days. Our mutual friend, Ari - I've known her since she was twelve. She was London Sister's friend in first year at grammar school but after LS left town we became closer. 

As life goes on we take different paths, meet other friends, develop new interests and I hadn't seen Ari in nineteen years. I was nervous. I needn't have been. The craic was mighty, the catching up began. We had all changed so much yet it seemed we hadn't changed at all.  There will be a next time. I'm looking forward to it.

Cici took the original photograph and Ari is sitting next to me. It must have been taken in the latter half of the 1970s. Cici will know, she knows everything.  

The Thompson Twins

 Pippin and Woody

A few days ago Woody had a big adventure. He returned to Portglenone, the town where he was first rescued by Ben and Sara. Busy shopping streets are no place for lost baby kittens. He was much safer at the vets. Except the part where she removed his testicles but I don't think he noticed. We collected him just after lunchtime and although he'd lunched at the vet's surgery he straight away had another large meal. After that he went outside to explore his favourite places and then had a wrestling match with Chico. His day continued as usual with play fights with Pippin and Cleo, a big supper and the usual bedtime.

Next day I was going into town and spotted a leaflet lying in the car, so picked it up and read it. 

Woody's Aftercare. Woody has had a big operation, the removal of both testicles. He has had anaesthesia and may be lethargic and sleepy. Small meals may be offered if he seems hungry. Rest and quiet times are important for Woody's recovery. The wound... etc. etc.

Oh dear. I forgot to read the after care leaflet. Bad cat carer. Still, he's OK. The operation didn't take a fizz out of him.

We call Pippin and Woody the Thompson Twins they both came to us from Sara T whose surname is... you guessed it.

And as Nellybert often say to each other, Sara does exceedingly good kittens.

 She's good with dogs as well.

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...

The News From Cully

 

Never mind the Windsors and their recent over-reported, who cares* hospital stays - our Judy, the old girl, has had dental surgery, the price of a week's holiday in Spain, but with complementary toenail trimming thrown in. She came through it courageously and is already showing signs of improved mood and zest for what remains of her life. Who needs a holiday in Benidorm anyway? I'm holding out for Seville.

*Who cares? If the reporting around King Charlie's prostrate treatment results in more men seeking help and more lives prolonged then I say - that's good.

I'm always ordering books of the internet but this week I thought I'd try a new seller. I was immediately drawn to this volume of short stories by H.E. Bates in an Etsy shop**. When I was in my late teens I was a big fan of short stories by the likes of Bates and Hardy. I remember staying up late reading in front of the old Rayburn , fire door open, and being overcome by carbon monoxide fumes. When I finally closed the book, but not the fire door, I climbed the rickety wooden stairs, entered the bedroom where my two youngest sisters were sleeping and there fainted to the floor, overcome not by the fumes of cheap coal but the sharp, fresh, cold air of that freezing room. There is a lot to be said for living in a draughty old farmhouse. I bought that book for the sheer nostalgia of it and I look forward to reading it again.

I'd recommend the seller. My book arrived promptly, beautifully wrapped and with a complimentary postcard. How did she know that I use literary postcards as bookmarks?

**Full disclosure. This Etsy shop belongs to my sister. But I'd still be recommending her even if I didn't know her personally. And because I know her I also know how much time and effort she puts into providing this service. 

Other news from Cully - Ben and Sara are camping in the woods tonight. It's February. I'm so proud of them. A well-reared pair.

Cabin Fever

 Since Saturday I’ve hardly been out of the house. There was a quick and early run to the Spar for our weekly print journalism treat, the Weekend Guardian for people like us, people with log-burning stoves need something to help light our fires. Sorry, re our carbon footprint - I’m not going to be embarrassed about that as I rarely use aeroplanes and Bert never flies anywhere.

On Sunday I was completely confined to quarters. Never put my nose outside the door. Did a lot of housework. Took my daily exercise in the polytunnel as it was really wet and windy.

Monday had me taking a quick run to the Spar for milk and to Boots for my medicine. It’s something I take for arthritis, been taking it for years, even before I fell out of the tree-house, maybe started around the time I was cowped by the pig. I don’t know if it helps but I’d rather not stop just in case it does.

The sore stomach started around lunch-time and got worse and worse. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t throw up and I couldn’t poo. The pain went into my back. If someone had offered me heroin I would have accepted it gladly – even though I was pretty sure it was just trapped wind. I slept a lot when I could. No-one offered me heroin so I took two dissoluble paracetamol at around 10pm and slept all night. The smart watch recorded a total sleep of 11 hours and 45 minutes for that period.  Crazy dreams.

The bad pain was gone next morning and I did the natural thing. Tummy still felt tender and I had little appetite and I was so tired. Spent the day reading – mainly Jan Carson.

Today I had the cabin fever. I went to Antrim, took Jazzer shopping. Just a few things she said. We breakfasted in Alfie’s, my only concession to my delicate tum was cappuccino rather than an Americano. Afterwards I checked out the charity shop, nice sweater, two mugs and a book with change from a fiver. Then it was Asda, Lidl and Islandbawn Stores. Jazzer’s idea of a few things is very different from mine. In between Lidl and Islandbawn we stopped at Belmont Cemetery for a bit of a walk and to call with friends. Jazzer said hello to her mum and dad, her sister, her brother, her niece and nephew and many friends and neighbours. I said hello to a great-niece, a cousin, an uncle, an old friend and some neighbours from home. There was a funeral taking place while we were there but we kept a respectful distance.

Being nosy, I checked out the funeral when I got home. I had supposed it was for someone who had lived a long life. But it wasn’t. It was for an infant.

The Unforgettable Geoff Kerr

This Is My Life: Shopping & Animals (and books)

 

First thing in the morning I let Cleo out for morning pees and poos. Delighted to say that it is more than 50 hours since she has performed either of those actions indoors. The Kong obsession has not been entirely helpful as her desire to collect it in the morning has often led to a big piss on the kitchen floor. Every day is a learning day (for both of us) and I have learned to pitch the Kong out the bedroom window so she just cannot wait to get outside to fetch it.

The picture above is post morning evacuations and back to bed with coffee, Kong and Woody the kitten. Woody has breakfasted, no need for outside as he is still a litter tray user. I have my coffee and my books, not easy to manage with a largish kitten sitting on my throat. Cleo has her Kong and all is right with her world. This morning's books are something about Hurricane Katrina and euthanasia which depite being ploughed through for months, the name escapes me at the moment. The other two books are Wally Lamb's This Much I Know (excellent) and Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye (even more excellent).

Woody has removed himself from my throat and is amusing himself playing with Cleo's tail. It will soon be time to get up as I am taking Jazzer to the shops. Asda to be exact. She is post-surgery for a shoulder injury and I am helping her out just as she helped me out when I injured my hip last year.

I have a perfunctory wash for which I am not ashamed as I showered yesterday and I dress myself in Snag tights, raspberry coloured, Nordic socks, shades of raspberry, Blundstone boots, a polka dot denim Toast skirt, a grey M&S long-sleeved vest, a burgundy coloured jumper and a pink hand-knitted (by Ganching) scarf. My outer garment being a black M&S burberry. I am, in my own opinion, looking well for 70 years old.

On the way to Antrim - I'm travelling slow as the roads might be icy, I notice strange clouds in the sky. They are disk shaped, one on top of the other. I make a note to myself to Google them later.

To Jazzer, still in pyjamas, but despite her shoulder difficulties she is soon ready. All I had to do to help her was adjust her surgical support sling. Last week I had to fasten her bra so - progress. We leave the house, breakfast at Alfies's, collect supplies at the pet shop and peruse the charity shops. I buy nothing, Jazzer buys pyjamas. A theme going on? At our house we call pyjamas drinking trousers - someone call AA.

On to Asda. Asda, once Antrim's flagship grocery shopping destination has become hugely disappointing. OK - so I picked up an incredibly cheap and fleecy duvet set that will replace the one that Cleo ate, but that does not make up for one, just one till being open while we, the actual customers were expected to check out our own shopping whilst being overseen by the grumpiest shop assistant in the world. Honestly Asda, I'm not coming back anytime soon. Also, the Kenco coffee was overpriced although to be fair the cheap and cheerful Spanish Rioja I just took my last swallow of, wasn't bad at all.

After having deposited Jazzer and her groceries I headed home whilst listening to an incredibly interesting programme on Radio 4 about bacteria. I felt vindicated having had just the perfunctory wash as apparently bacteria ain't all bad. I am also encouraged to wear my clothes for longer between washes. But, that said, it seems it is still a very good idea to wash one's hands regularly and thoroughly.

Home again, and in a good mood, having had a brisk 20 minute walk through Ballee Cemetery. It is very cheering to pass the graves of one's former neighbours and work colleagues knowing that one is still here. Bert was also in a good mood having chopped down a disease-stricken ash tree that was annoying a horse chestnut and that will keep us warm for at least a month.

Then that bloody internet. Far too easy to go shopping there. That bloody Rioja too. I bought another pair of Blundstone boots. Still haven't figured out those clouds. Lenticular? Where are the mountains? The Mournes are miles away. Belfast hills?

The Merry Wobblers

To Cleo's thrilled delight, Saturday night brought Banjo Man, Jazzer and the two dogs. Their pup, Arlo, is just a couple of weeks older than Cleo and they spent ages play-fighting. Fun for them and fun to watch too.

After an excellent meal cooked by Jazzer, we settled down to watch music videos on YouTube. Marty was raving about an Irish band he'd been listening to.

You'll love them Nelly. Just your kind of thing. Young band. From Dundalk. Where's the remote?

He starts shouting at our giant television.

Play the Merry Wobblers!

Merry Christmas featuring Elton John and Ed Sheeran came on.

No! Play the Merry Wobblers!

Jah Wobble came on.

I said,

The TV doesn't understand your Belfast accent. Try speaking like Bert.

But Marty was too distraught. He tried again.

Play! The Merry Wobblers. An Irish band. From Dundalk.

An item about Dundalk FC came on.

I left the room and googled Irish Band From Dundalk. Came back, said to Marty,

They're called the Mary Wallopers.

Banjo Man was right. I did love them. Even though some of them had mullets and Dave Hill fringes and Lemmy moustaches. 

Next day I checked their tour dates and they're playing Belfast in December. I'm not going. The last gig I went to was Django Django in Derry and I got mistaken for the singer's aunt. If I was to go to the Merry Wallopers I'm sure to be took for their granny.

What's With the Crazy?

 Oh dear, dear God! What is wrong with the world? What's with the crazy?

We had visitors yesterday evening. Not the best timing as we'd already spent the best part of the day at a funeral. Nevertheless...

Topics under discussion.

The 1969 Moon Landing. 

Hunter Biden.

Climate Change.

I introduced climate change, as a lead-on from the continuous wet weather we've been having. I said something along the lines of, that we may get used to having wet summers. Turns out, according to my visitor, that scientists have taken samples from the ice fields at the pole (I forget which one) and it seems that rather than getting warmer we are actually entering a cold phase. For some reason, this means climate change is a hoax and it's not humankind that is accelerating it. OK. Our friend, the fellow one, isn't going to stop driving classic cars or start recycling just because that wee Swedish b*****d says so. At this point, I'm sure that some members of my close family will be wondering why I didn't drive him out of my house on the end of a graip.* Instead, I told him he was extremely rude to say that about the young Swedish woman. This was me laying my cards on the table. I might have said that if he continued in that vein I would have to put him out.

He moved on to the moon landings which occurred three years before he was born. That is IF they occurred. I listened to him trot out the tired old arguments about shadows, magnetic fields, Stanley Kubrick - things I've been hearing about for decades. I could hardly be bothered arguing. All I said was that when I am on my death bed, my loved ones around me, Bert crying his eyes out, I will not be concerning myself about whether the moon landings happened or not. At the moment, I believe they did but it's not a big concern.

Then Hunter Biden. You know if that man walked into this room right now I wouldn't even know him. Apparently, the reason why THEY had us all on tenterhooks about the submersible full of millionaires that perished near the Titanic was to distract from Hunter Biden being in court that week. What had Biden done? According to our friend, he'd driven his Porsche at 175mph whilst smoking a crack pipe on his way to meet a whore. Some guy. Bert was impressed. 

There was other stuff, Roswell, aliens, Bidens getting away with everything while Trumps were persecuted. Thankfully our conspiracy theorist's wife seemed to have more sense. Which is why we'll have them over for a curry sometime in September. This time I intend to control the conversation. We will be discussing the Labour Party, the Easter Rising, the American Civil War, Mao Zedong and the PSNI. I will be researching everything.

P.S. I told you I'd blog this. If you want that curry you'll have to suck it up. 

*graip

 (ɡreɪp)

n

(Tools) dialect Scot a long-handled fork for digging dung

Wee Catch Up

 Where did summer go? These past few days we have been lighting fires in the evening and I'm in bed right now wearing a fleece it's that nippy. 

Since I last blogged I have -

Watched The Sixth Commandment. Which is very good indeed and Anne Reid and Timothy Spall are brilliant.

Had a day out in Portrush with Jazzer. It was Pearlie's ninth anniversary so we went to The White House which was her favourite shop. Lord it was awful. Full of over-priced tat. No wonder Pearlie liked it.

Booked my flight for Norfolk and London for the last week in October. So looking forward to seeing Katy and her family and the London siblings.

Thought very hard about my Twitter addiction.

Bought another pair of shoes for Naoise's wedding. That's two outfits I have now. Someone else might need to get married.

A Post From Fifteen Years Ago

 Y'all will have forgotten this one. Sad to say, Pearlie, Lizzie and Pepe are no longer with us. 

Funny old week I've just had. On the surface, it was the usual ho-hum stuff but it's so quiet. Too quiet. Ominously quiet. I keep wondering if I'm still going to have a job come the new year and that's strangely demotivating.

However, as always, the weekend has been busier. I made that Coconut Bread as recommended by Zoe and Bert cooked the very last leg of pork* from last year's pigs. We were having a Russian judge, a postman and Swisser to dinner. What a lovely evening we had. The judge was delightful and not at all what you'd expect. For one thing, she was an amazingly smiley person. She does have this judge's face for hearings. With just a little persuasion she showed it to us and it was very stern and solemn.

Today I returned to sorting out the stuff from Pearlie's previous abode. This is turning into one of the labours of Hercules. It is never-ending. Today it was her zip collection, her button collection, her handkerchief collection, her marbles, her flint arrowheads, her apron pocket collection, 40 years' worth of newspaper clippings, mostly weddings, obituaries and fatal accidents. Oh and anything to do with the Royal Family.

And speaking of which, we were at the table yesterday when Aunt Lizzie's papillon wandered into the kitchen and cocked his leg against the dishwasher. The postman said,

Hey! That dog just pissed up against your dishwasher!

Oh. Sure it was only a wee drop.

Aren't you going to kick it's arse?

Just think of it this way. If the Queen was visiting and she brought the corgis and one of them took a leak against the dishwasher you wouldn't mention it would you? In this house Bert's Aunt Lizzie is just like the Queen. If anybody was to kick Pepe's arse she'd never darken our door again and Pearlie would be devastated.

 Bert, Lizzie, Pepe and Pearlie

*Pigs are going tomorrow. Bert is very sad.

A Productive Day

 

Hannah and I went to town, recycled children's books and clothing at the council yard then went for a drive on Ballymena's newest road which is rather lovely as it goes past the Ecos centre where it is lined with trees. Then to Tescos to offload my more readable books, Ian Rankin, Sarah Waters - that kind of thing. And who should I bump into but Mrs The Wee Manny who was donating her cookery books as she only uses online recipes these days. She was feeling rather frazzled as her two pups (Cleo's litter mates) have destroyed her garden and are eating her nicest clothes. Then there is her geriatric dog who keeps collapsing on his own stool and thus needs frequent baths. Thank goodness for her lovely hubby who gives her no bother at all. We hope to see them all over the July holidays.

Then we went to the Costa on the Larne Road link. My second visit, my first was with Vinny when we shared a lemon curd tart. My mouth has often watered thinking of it. Today I ate a whole one and it was delightful. The clientele at that Costa is awfully middle-class. People-watching is far more interesting in Grafters.

When I got home I spent a rainy half-hour slashing and hacking in the garden. Filled one barrow for the compost heap. I wonder if I can blame Cleo for the disaster in the garden should my cousin call. I'm not sure she'll buy it as there are giant weeds there from before the pup was born.

How goes the decluttering? I'm still in my bedroom but it is emptying out nicely. Books were the biggest issue there. They are being gathered together and will be sorted in days to come. 

To fuck with the housework

The Siege of Drumrankin

 

On Saturday Ben and Sara came around and we made a start on the overgrown flower bed next to the lawn. Ben was the spade man and I just pointed at things and wheeled barrows to the compost heap. A mass of blue iris was removed, a huge cephalaria gigantea disposed of and yellow crocosmia, irises and Sidalcea lifted and shared with Sara. Bert absented himself from these endeavours as he was helping Clint with his beasts.

Cleo likes a bit of digging too.

We had a leak in the upstairs bathroom which I discovered at 6am on Sunday morning. I’m usually up at that time as Cleo needs to be toileted as early as possible. Bert was informed of the leak and got up to look at it. Then returned to bed saying he would sort it later. I placed a basin under the drip and returned to bed for a few hours. Finished my Jane Gardam – the third part of the Filth trilogy already ordered from World Books.

Four hours later Bert got up and I fed him porridge and peaches and he got to work. I’m not sure what he did but the leak was fixed – temporarily.

Clint was on the yard first thing this morning. There was a bit of a siege on. Apparently, some boy’s cattle along with some other boy’s Simmental bull had broken out of another boy’s field and some decent sort of a boy had come along and got them all off the Dreen Road and into Clint’s silage field. So a posse of boys were gathered up and the cattle were to be moved into our big shed for collection.

I went up to tell Bert.

You know the other day, when you were telling me a tale about J’s sister-in-law, who was letting Clint cut silage in her fields for free and this boy came up and said he’d no business as the grass belonged to him and it was very confusing and it was either ‘this boy’ or ‘that boy’ and I couldn’t make head or tail of it – well do I have a tale for you, boys, cows and bulls galore and the good news is that there are that many boys coming to round them up that you can stay in bed.

It must have taken the boys a good half hour to get the beasts out of Clint’s silage but eventually, all landed in the yard and the cattle were safely deposited in the shed. The boys were a mixed bunch. One of them was a grizzled old fellow who looked like he belonged in a Western movie. One had a shifty look about him. One wore his trousers belted close to his armpits and one young one’s jeans were hanging halfway down his arse with a good expanse of his hairy crack on view. One was a girl and one was Clint.

It goes without saying that Clint wasn’t that impressed with twenty cows and calves and a bull trampling through his silage but the boy who owned the bull said he could have the loan of it for a month and Clint reported tonight that it has its courting ears on and he’s hoping to have an excellent wee crop of calves in 2024.

Yellow crocosmia, sidalcea, iris, cephalaria. Don't worry, I've still go lots of them left. These had just gotten out of hand in a small flowerbed

And Bert was up reasonably early this morning, off to the plumbing supplies store and has fixed the leak.

And I have bought yet another dress for Naoise's wedding.