Six Years Since I Crashed Out of the Treehouse

This morning Bert asked,

How long is it now since you crashed through the treehouse?

I told him I couldn't remember exactly but I'd look it up.

So I did. It was just over six years ago. I told him. He said,

You must have been some weight back then.

The cheek of him!

I said,

It was nothing to do with my weight. It was because of your rotten trapdoor.

Everything not good always turns out to be Bert's fault.

He said,

Six years ago. You'd have been the same age as I am now.

I said,

True. And you know you'd not survive a fall like that.

He agreed. Anyway - here's a post I wrote a few days after my fall.

Blackbird Again

This is Mr Blackbird earlier this evening singing as loud as he could to drown out the Dreen Road traffic. This picture was taken from ground level. He is sitting at the very top of a very tall and dying ash tree.

Four days now since I fell out of the treehouse and there is something to add. Two feet, for the drop was twelve-foot, rather than ten.

Every day I'm a little less sore than I was the day before, and yet...

On Day One I was super-hyped on adrenalin and glad to be aliveness. The pain was almost a joy to me because I had survived the fall with no serious injury.

Day Two was more of the same but with less pain.

On Day Three my left breast was really sore. As always, I went to That Place. Then Bert noticed that there were a lot of butterflies in the garden. Mostly Small Tortoiseshells and a couple of Red Admirals. I grabbed my camera.

I spent a happy half hour taking pictures. And afterwards, the breast pain had completely eased. Not cancer then, just boob whiplash.

Today, Day Four. Just one sore area, somewhere under my left shoulder-blade. It was really annoying, much less bearable than Day One's multiple pains. I succumbed to pain relief even though it was against medical advice.

I have been thinking about the fall and have figured out why I got off so lightly. My legs must have got caught up in the trap door cover so than when I landed on the ground I only impacted my shoulders and upper back. My head, lower back and limbs were entirely unhurt apart from abrasions and a big bruise on my right arm where it caught one of the wooden struts holding up the platform. The strut broke, my arm did not. Zoe said I'm as hard as nails. I hope she's right.

Today I took some pictures of our flycatchers. Himself sitting on the sumach outside my window.

 
Herself sitting on their second clutch of eggs. They are a busy pair.

I might go out now to see if I can catch a glimpse of the long-eared owl babies that are hopping around the big trees at the back of the sheds. That is the second pair of long-eared owls that have nested here this year. One pair in the middle of the wood and another pair nearer the house. The young ones kick up quite a racket after dark.

One From Ten Years Ago

 

The Daily Photograph 9

Wouldn't it be a fine thing to have even a quarter of that energy?

I was weary today so I just had fun with the girls. 

Sheena passed away shortly after midnight.

I will spend tomorrow in the garden.

Remembering Matty On Her Birthday

I used to think my mother would live to be over 90, but it was not to be. She did have what’s often described as a good innings, a cricketing term, I believe. She was almost 85 when she died, which was a decent stretch by any measure.

Today would have been her 99th birthday. We’d have been holding out for one more year and a telegram from the King, but it wasn’t to be.

Still, to mark Matty’s birthday, here’s a wee story about a jaunt we once took to Portglenone. One of the things I’ve missed most since she died are those runs out in the car. She was the best craic as a travelling companion and never, ever criticised my driving. 

This was posted in 2008. Three years before Matty died.

Matty and Hannah and I took a trip to Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey today. I wanted to get a Mass Card for a friend of ours whose father died earlier this week. I don't understand the etiquette of Mass cards, so I decided to take Matty who knows all the ins and outs.

Matty usually goes to Antrim with her favourite sister-in-law on Saturday mornings, so I phoned first.

You not out with Maud this morning?

No. I told her I just didn't trust my legs today.

Bert and I discussed this over our porridge.

Says she just doesn't trust her legs to go out shopping with Maud.

Why not?

Maybe she's afraid they'll go shoplifting or slope off to score some weed. Or maybe they'll slip into a betting shop and blow the pension on the Grand National.

Happily, she felt that her legs were trustworthy enough to go on a jaunt with Hannah and Nelly.

The Abbey is, like all repositories of rosary beads, Mass cards and religious paraphernalia, a weird and wonderful place. You go in. The first thing that you see is a miniature set of a priest's Mass vestments. You wonder why? Who'd want that? There are shelves and shelves of religious pictures and statues, there are rosary beads galore, there are stands and stands of pre-signed Mass cards. A monk is sitting in the corner to bless the holy stuff you buy for it's no use if it's not blessed. There is Status Quo playing 'Whatever You Want' on the sound system. Whether this was the monk's choice or the delightful young shop assistant's choice, I do not know. Probably the monk, as he was 50+.

I quickly chose my Mass card; a bargain at two quid. Meanwhile, Matty gets heavily involved in a conversation with the shop assistant on the possibilities of buying a book on the life of Saint Anne but said saint being slightly obscure, none was to be found. Matty reports that Anne is the patron saint of grandmothers. With Jesus as her grandchild, she would be, wouldn't she?


I experienced Matty's untrustworthy leg in one of Portglenone's charity shops. She does this genuflection thing with it. She says the strength just leaves her leg for a moment. I tried distraction as a cure and pointed her in the direction of a shelf of brand-new shoes. No shoes were purchased - she just bought another beige skirt.

Mum with her last dog, Jess. They are sitting on a bridge at the top of the Drumkeeran Road. It's not there now as the road was widened when the 'line' became a dual carriageway. I believe Matty might be wearing a beige skirt. If it's not beige, it's dusty pink, which is practically the same thing.

 I really miss her. We all do.

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'

First posted in December 2005

 

Dressed: One from nearly twenty years ago

Pearlie, Lizzie and Pepe

In the olden days, farming people had two sorts of clothes: their ‘good’ clothes and their ‘wearing’ clothes. Good clothes were for outings — high days, holidays and Sundays — while ‘wearing’ clothes were for working in. In our house, my father used to talk about ‘good’ clothes and ‘ould’ clothes. Usually, ‘wearing’ or ‘working’ clothes had once been good clothes. A farmer’s outfit would most likely have consisted of a pair of old tweed or heavy cloth trousers worn with an old suit jacket. These need not necessarily have matched, as trousers would wear out more quickly than jackets. Belts were uncommon, and trousers were held up with galluses. If the elastic in these wore out, the trousers could be secured with a length of baler twine — and no one would think any less of the wearer. The look would be finished off with a cloth ‘kep’, as there was no such thing as a heated tractor cab in those days.

Women who worked at home would wear an old skirt that had once been a good, church-going skirt, along with layers of jumpers and cardigans and a flowered apron. When outdoors, she would add a headscarf, an old coat and a pair of wellington boots. Trousers were never worn, as they were not considered ladylike.

Bert’s mother still adheres to these traditional dress codes. While at home, she wanders around in an assortment of mismatched garments, often including layers of polyester and acrylic skirts. She always wears a flowered apron and a pair of Bert’s old deck shoes. Many of her clothes date from the early acrylic years and are virtually indestructible — as long as they’re kept away from naked flames. Being both canny and from Cully, she sees no need to replace these vintage garments. Her better clothes are kept for special outings, Church and the like.

Last week, Pearlie asked Bert to take her to visit her sister Lizzie. Since it was only Lizzie she was going to see, she decided against changing out of her ‘wearing’ clothes. On the way, she asked Bert to stop at the local garage to stock up on wild bird seed. She gave him £10 and instructed him to spend £5. Meanwhile, she waited in the van. But then she changed her mind. Bert said he was gathering up her purchases when she suddenly appeared in the shop foyer, shouting:

‘Bertie! Bertie! Ye may spend the whole ten poond on the wee birds!’

This is what he told me.

God, it was strange to see her standing there in her old ‘wearing’ clothes. You know, I never give her clothes a thought when she’s at home, because I’m so used to the odd way she dresses. But to see her standing there among normal folk — it looked so strange. Back in the van, I was having a wee giggle to myself about it, and she said, ‘What are you laughing at?’ I said, ‘You! And the cut of you, standing in the shop with your apron and all the rest of it.’ And do you know what she said back?

‘Those that knows me, knows I hae better; and those that disnae, disnae matter!’

Off to a wedding in her best clothes

One From Ten Years Ago

 

Burning Books

One of my delights is reading to Martha and Evie; that pleasure is greatly increased when I enjoy the story myself. We are all loving the Winnie the Pooh stories by A.A. Milne. A few weeks ago I was given a pile of books by a friend. Most of them were Charlie and Lola books which were new to me but I knew Martha would be pleased with them. There was also a Winnie the Pooh book which was unfamiliar. Martha picked Charlie and Lola for this afternoon's reading session. It was OK. It might grow on me as I become familiar with the characters. Evie chose the new Winnie the Pooh book. As I opened it I saw that it was  a Disney book written by someone called Tammi J. Santa Croce. The children appeared to enjoy it but not me. It jarred. The prose was inelegant, the tone simplistic, the story trite. Croce had endowed Piglet with a stammer which was entirely ignored by me in the reading. The worst of it was the author's treatment of Tigger. She had him saying things like 'li'l buddy', 'where are ya?' and 'tigger-ific'. The most awful part was when he said, 'Hey, buddy boy! Whatcha doin'?' I was appalled and resolved to get rid of the dreadful book at my first opportunity. It's actually burning on the fire right now.

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.

One From Sixteen Years Ago

Pearlie's Favourite Niece visited us today and I found myself remembering how  it was when Nellybert and Pearlie shared a roof.

What a difference sixteen years make. Back then I referred to myself as 'middle-aged'. Now I too am old. And dare to hope that in 10 years time - when I'll be as old as Pearlie was that my middle-aged people will have a lot more patience than I did.

But then - I don't intend to be a curmudgeon. Promise!

Choices

The following is based on a true event. One of the most difficult things about having Pearlie living with us is the struggle to hold on to a sense of myself as a fairly decent human being. There is no feelgood factor.

A few weeks ago I went on a shopping expedition to get Pearlie some decent clothes. Pearlie has never had the remotest interest in clothes and, as long as I’ve known her, has garbed herself in layers of hideous greying underwear, jumpers, cardigans, vile skirts, men’s socks, battered footwear and the lot topped of with a horror movie of a headscarf and a home-made and much patched apron. She had the look of a poverty-stricken Eastern European peasant from the nineteen-forties only with added nylon and polyester.

But now it’s up to me launder this gruesome stuff so I’ve been sneakily throwing out the worst of it and replacing it with decent clothes from Marks & Spencers and the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. There will be no more baggy, outsized interlock cotton vests with fraying hems in this house.

Sure ye could put a stitch in them.

Excuse me Pearlie. A stitch? I do have a life. (Or at least I used to)

Her hideous long-legged cotton knickers bought from the packman are slowly being replaced by similarly granny ones from M&S only the Marksy ones are light and thermal and almost pleasing to the eye.

Where’s all my other knickers? Did Margaret take them home to patch?

In the bin long, long ago.

I spent over three hours picking out a skirt, a cardigan and underwear for Pearlie. Had I been shopping for myself I’d have completed in half the time. But I know how hard she is to please. Skirts must be lined, they must not be too long or too tight. Knitwear must not be bulky but it must not be too light. The sleeves must be roomy, likewise the neck. Colours must not be too bright. I played safe and got dark green. I’ve seen her wear dark green a lot. The underwear was thermal, soft and it fitted her. Exhausted I made my way home.

I didn’t show her the new duds at first. I knew she’d be bound to hate something and I even had a notion of packing them in her case so that the first time she saw them would be when the care assistants at the respite home hung them up in her wardrobe. But next day she was in a good mood and I felt I could handle the criticism so I showed her what I’d got. And amazing joy – she liked everything! I was delighted.

But that was Sunday. On Thursday Favourite Niece came out to pack her suitcase. That evening I didn’t get home until nearly eight and I was feeling pretty tired. I was surprised to see that Favourite Niece’s car was still in the yard. Moments later FN bounced out of Pearlie’s room went straight up to me and said, “That skirt’s no good. It’s falling off her. Can you get it changed? And she doesn’t like those knickers. Says she’ll be far too cold in them.”

Did I stay cool? Not exactly. I swore a bit ( a lot) then I did get cool. Well maybe more cold than cool. You know that cold anger thing where you might like to kill somebody? That was me.

Since then I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been thinking about choices and how it is supposed to be important to give old people as much autonomy as possible. And I was also thinking about how great it would be if middle-aged people got to exercise some choices too like whether we wanted to launder patched rags or not. Or maybe we could choose whether or not we welcomed an aged dictator and a haphazard team of carers into our lovely home.

So anyway after thinking long and hard I have decided that these are the really important choices to offer my aged dictator.

• Milk or Tea.
• Pink hot water bottle or blue hot water bottle.
• Shape up or Ship Out.
• My Way or the Highway.

One From Ten Years Ago

 

Fun With Cardboard

I have had the pleasure this weekend of the company of all my children and grandchildren. Yes folks - my darling Katkin and her husband are visiting from Norfolk. It's a whole year since I've seen her. Tomorrow we are going to Derry. There will be photographs. Until then here are some photographs.

What ever can Aunt Katy be pushing in the NinkyNonk? Dave knows but Jess doesn't.

My word! Small children. Someone needs to inform the Health and Safety Executive without delay.

Martha might be deciding that all she wants for Christmas this year is a selection of large cardboard boxes. Who needs toys?

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...

Ten Years Ago

 

A Weekend In Fanad

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

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

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

A beautiful yellow dress.

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

A lovely pink skirt.

 A fashionista in the making for sure.

Sixteen Years Ago

 

I came across this post from February 2007, back in the day when Z & D had just the one child, wee Gracie. Sadly Gracie is no more, although I do still have that scarf. 

Dos And Don'ts

Nellybert has been entrusted with the task of looking after (for one week only) the most precious dog in Ballymena.

Gracie’s owners are off to Mexico for a fortnight. I picked the whole lot of them up this afternoon and took them to Belfast to catch the bus to Dublin Airport.

D says,

I expect Zoë went over the dos and don’ts for Gracie’s stay?

Not really. I know not to feed her from the table. What’s the rule on beds?

No more than two consecutive nights.

Z chips in from the back seat,

She gets fed at 7.30pm. No treats unless she does a trick. Get her to play dead or something like that. Oh and she’s been doing this choking thing recently. She usually sorts it herself but if she can’t dislodge it just put your finger down her throat. If that doesn’t work grab her by the back legs and turn her upside down whilst patting her firmly on the back.

Righty oh. Any issues with comfy chairs?

Oh no. Comfy chairs are fine.

D interjects,

Unless you’re already eating there yourself. She’s not allowed to be on the sofa if you’re eating a sandwich. She knows that.

Z says,

If she should, God forbid, make a run towards the road you mustn’t run after her. I know it would be your first instinct but she’ll think it’s a game and run harder. What you must do is run in the opposite direction and shout “Ball!” She should run after you then.

Okey dokey.

And one other thing. She hates joggers. If you’re out for a walk be careful with joggers for she’ll go after them. And watch out for Willie Drennan. She hates him.

Recycled Post From Thirteen Years Ago

 And why not? Sure some of my current followers weren't even born thirteen years ago. Yes, Martha - that is you I'm talking about.

The Fifties Baby

Bert in his lemon romper suit that Big Fat Fred recently peed upon. Cats! When they're not asphyxiating infants, they're befouling their vintage garments. 

In the 1950s expectant mothers knit bootees, bonnets, cardigans, matinee jackets and leggings for their babies. The favoured colours were white, lemon and pale green. Blues and pinks were for when after baby was born. It was held that anything brighter than pastels would hurt baby’s eyes. There were no scans in those days so the only way you’d ever know the sex of an unborn child would be by swinging a gold ring on a thread over the bump. If the ring went clockwise it was going to be a boy and anti-clockwise indicated that a girl was expected. But it was still best not to get the pink or blue wool out yet as this test often proved unreliable.

As well as his wardrobe of hand-knitted garments baby would also need lots of little woolly vests, at least three flannel nightgowns with embroidered ducklings marching across the bodice and two dozen terry-towelling napkins. Baby wore plastic pants over a big napkin and this made his bottom look very large indeed. Baby also needed a soft white shawl for swaddling for there was no central heating in those days. Summer wear would have been romper suits for boys and smocked dresses for girls.

Prams were gigantic, pushchairs were merely large and car seats were non-existent. Baby travelled on mother’s lap, who sat on the front seat beside father, who always drove. Mother and father might both be smoking but mother would be very careful not to drop her ash on baby’s head.

Fresh air was considered essential for baby’s wellbeing and he’d be well happed up, settled down in his gigantic pram and left in the garden for at least three-quarters of an hour be it snow, hail, rain or shine. If baby cried it was considered to be good for him as it strengthened the lungs. The only thing that mother worried about while baby was in the garden was that a crow might come down and peck at his nose or that a cat might climb into his pram, curl up on his little face and smother him. Mother’s vigilance was constant.

Baby did not have the toys that the modern child depends on. A rattle was considered sufficient amusement. Those were simpler days and who is to say that they were not better times. Is today’s child any happier with his primary colours, his designer wardrobe, his Cat boots, his baseball cap, his baby-walker and his pram that cost twice as much as Nelly’s current car? Will he grow up more contented than his grandfather who was taken for walks in a rattly old pushchair or left in a freezing garden determinedly waving his rattle in the air to keep the crows and cat at bay? I think not.

Maybe there is just one area where the modern infant is more fortunate – none of those rotten, scratchy, itchy, woollen vests.

Counting Sheep in 2016

 I found this scrap of a post today on an old external hard drive. Written 22nd November 2016.

On nights when I find myself tired but not quite ready to fall into sleep I have a number of little mind games to help lull me over. These vary from a winning the lottery fantasy (I never play the lottery) and how I would dispose of my fortune. I’d need at least £7,000,000 as I have a very big family. Sometimes, if I don't wish to excite myself too much I just try to remember all the 32 counties of Ireland.

Back when I was a teenager, I’d be deciding in which order I’d date the Monkees and which of them I’d eventually marry and raise children with. It was always either Davy Jones or Mickey Dolenz and I only went out with Peter Tork once and then we just held hands. You know, thinking back, I never once planned my wedding or thought about a wedding dress. It was always about what Davy and I (or Mickey and I) were going to call our huge family of mostly female children. Lord! I was so young.

Last night I found a new method of helping myself nod off. A fantasy of having Donald Trump killed.

I must have been feeling slightly better the following week when I wrote and posted this,

And what of my inner life? Well... I'm still trying to come to terms with what appears to be the new world order and the rise of the right. At least I'm not dreaming about killing that man any more. Negative energy Nelly, negative energy.

It's been a long four years.