Lurgied and Narked

When we first moved many years ago to the Cullybackey house we were all sick. I remember being glad that we hadn't laid carpets as everyone was throwing up all over the place.Now I'm sick. Not stomach sick, as I can still eat, but flu-ish, lurgie-ish sick. My throat itches and my kidneys hurt. I think I must be allergic to new houses. Hannah and I went out for a walk and I was exhausted before I'd gone two miles. Then we went to Cullybackey Spar, which used to be the Best Spar In The World but has recently changed hands and has already gone downhill. There were not enough experienced people on the tills, which was irritating. On a scale of 0-10 my patience levels were at 1.5 while my narkedness levels were 8.5 and rising.Then on the Dreen Road two bastard lorries were blocking the road while one loaded crap on to another one. At 6:05pm! Cullybackey rush hour for fecks sake you morons. They both had banks of hazard lights going. I don't know why. Maybe it makes them feel important. Maybe it's to discourage enraged menopausal women from trying to lep over them Evel Knievel style. Actually I don't think the Fiesta would be up to that. But three cheers for me I managed not to be horrible to my darling Hannah and sweet Saint Bertram. Because they are stars. Hannah is being extremely helpful with all the work the move involves and Bert is doing all the things I ask him to. Today he sorted the cistern on the downstairs toilet and cut back the hedge at the bottom of the lane. It was OK for him sailing out on to the road in his new (to him) Mercedes Sprinter but I was taking my life in my hands every time I ventured out in my wee low Fiesta. The speed that country boys drive at is beyond scary. Good news is that I'm on holiday next week. Lots to do. By the way did youse know that the bastard Rates Agency continues to charge rates on an uninhabited house if it has even one stick of furniture in it? So the pressure is on to empty this gaff as quickly as possible. I wonder if the Queen pays rates? Bet she doesn't and bet His Toniness doesn't either. I'm too sick to research it myself. It's the sort of crazy thing His Edness might know.

Six Days Later

Every morning I wake early and experience a kind of quiet sadness. I think about the events of the previous day and I think about what I am going to do in this day. On Saturday and Sunday there was a lot to do. There were journeys to the airport, Matty's house to get ready, the 'lift' from Marrion's funeral parlour and the wake. Between Friday night and Sunday evening the family had all returned. My brother came back from Vancouver on Saturday afternoon after having left on the previous Saunday evening. On those two days the house teemed with people calling to pay their respects. It was tiring and it was good. There was a lot to do. On Monday we buried Seamus. His was the most beautiful funeral I have ever been to. Daddy would have been proud of us. And we were proud of him too. Afterwards we laughed among ourselves at how he was breaking new ground even at his funeral. I think I can safely say that he was the first man in the parish to have been carried to the chapel door on the shoulders of three Protestants and a Jew. Since then I wake every morning feeling this quiet sadness. And I try to fill my day with lots to do. Katy has returned to Norfolk butI still have Hannah with me. She goes back to Staffordshire on Saturday. Yesterday we sorted out the kitchen for the new house and today we'll be sorting out some of the flooring. It's better to be busy.