The Joy of Tidying

 

Obviously the first thing to do when embarking on a tidying spree is to sort one's books in alphabetical order. That sparks joy.

Everything else is pure drear.

It has been a busy week with little time for tidying. There was a friend's party on Saturday evening at which I did not drink alcohol and had a great time. A practice run for Neesh's wedding. On Monday Bert and I borrowed Clint's trailer and went to the Council Recycling Centre where we dumped the clothes dryer and some other items. I suppose that could be considered tidying.  Tuesday, I took the girls for breakfast and took some stuff to a charity shop (more tidying). We went to Tim Hortons - my first (and last) visit. 

On Wednesday we bought a gigantic television set and then visited some old friends we hadn't seen for ages.

Thursday was a tough day. Ziggy hadn't been well the previous night and Han asked us to take him to the vet. She couldn't do it herself as she had work commitments. The vet spent some time listening to his chest and when she had finished she told us that his heart was failing. Blood tests were taken and he received two intravenous injections. He was booked in for further tests. We were told to bring him back the next day if he wasn't any better which worried me. It was hard having to tell Han when she phoned to ask how he'd got on.

We had the girls on Thursday but didn't see that much of them apart from at feeding time. They amuse themselves these days, playing with Cleo, drawing, loading apps on Bert's phone and watching Netflix on my laptop. Bert set the new TV up which kept him occupied. I worried about Ziggy, who, as the afternoon wore on seemed to improve a little, chest not thumping as much, coughing less. He fell asleep on my sofa but the minute Hannah's car came up the lane he sat bolt upright. 

Today we had a friend come around to help us clear an overgrown part of the yard. He is a big mate of Ziggy who was pleased to see him. There was lots of tail wagging and after they'd said hello to each other we left Ziggy to rest. But no, Ziggy wanted to hang out and that's what he did. The injections and the meds he has started seemed to have alleviated the worst of his symptoms. 

And the wild place got cleared (more tidying) with the promise of further clearing to come and Les and Mrs Les called round to collect a forgotten saxophone. How does anyone forget a saxophone? And Teeny Bird and her two lovely children and Uncle Ben and two welders and Howard (bearing home-grown strawberries, cucumbers and tomatoes) all called to visit and then Locky phoned to ask how Ziggy was, so a very full day indeed. 

And after everyone had gone and we had dinner we watched the Chris Packham programme on our giant TV then Naked Attraction. I'm not sure which was more harrowing.  

Granny Buns

Granny Buns

 

That picture is supposed to be me! I got it as a free add-on from a genealogy site. Upload 20 or so photographs and receive images depicting Nelly through the ages. The one above is a 1950s-style illustration.

The reason I like the image (despite it looking nothing like me) is that cosy, smiling, maternal woman is how I sometimes like to see myself. The sort of woman who makes her own jam and would knock up a batch of delicious scones at the drop of a hat. The kindly person who would never let anyone leave her house hungry. The sort of kitchen goddess who is never happier when cooking delicious food for people she cares about. One of the younger family members used to call my mother Granny Buns because every time she came to visit Matty baked fairy cakes. Perhaps that Granny Buns above is my alter ego.

Instead, I am a woman who has up and down moods. Sometimes I’m lovely and sometimes I’m not. I blame my parents who, when I was a curly-haired moppet would recite this poem,

There was a little girl,

            Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

            When she was good,

            She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

So when I’m feeling frazzled, down in the dumps or ‘horrid’ it affects my cooking. That is what happened last week when I had Zoe and family around. I was out of sorts. The dessert, a simple steamed pudding, turned out well but my potato dish and the broccoli were close to indigestible. Was it me and my glum mood? Or was it the weather in Spain? Maybe it was Brexit. Whatever the reason we all put on a brave face and were consoled by pudding.

So what upset my stomach? Was it the undercooked broccoli, the second helping of pudding or old age? Whatever it was I had a tummy ache, trapped wind and threw up before bedtime. Five days later I still don’t feel right. I may phone the doctor for some magic pills to make it all go away.

Here's hoping that I can get my act together by Tuesday when they're all back for supper. I'm already consulting Feast supplement in the Guardian. There will be no shop-bought broccoli. Go Granny Buns!

Sniff

Would be dutiful daughter dials number.

Hi Mum! How are you feeling today?

Oh. Is that you Nelly? I'm feeling much better today.

That's good. Listen I...

I can't talk now. I'm going to the doctor.

The doctor? Why are you going to the doctor?

I've got the cold.

I know you've got the cold. That's why I asked you how you were feeling. Why are you going to the doctor?

He wants to see me.

I was just ringing to let you know I can't take you to Tescos tomorrow because...

I wasn't for going anyway.

Right. You can phone me when you get back from the doctor. Tell me all ab...

Click

So I guess I'm a bad daughter today for not taking my mother's cold seriously enough. Oh well. 

What I Did On My Recent Four Days Off Work

Tuesday evening: Watched BB nominations and had a shower. Tuesday early evening: Done up like a kipper during home visit from our financial advisor Mr GFK. Dogs return from scunging. Tuesday midday: Zoë and I visited Matty and Leitrim Sister and saw highlights of the video from her birthday in Kerry. Best bit for me was Matty mistaking video camera for a still camera and grabbing hold of the nearest grandchild to pose rigidly for photograph. Tuesday morning: Visitors all use Nellybert shower (not at once) after hearing that it was tourist attraction comparable to Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge only cheaper. Dogs escape and go scunging. Monday evening: Musical evening and supper at Nellybert’s. 9 out of 10 people agree that Tor is best guitarist ever to play Nellybert smoking room. Sorry other guitarists who may read this but he is. Monday afternoon: Cooking marathon. Monday midday: Shopping marathon. Sunday evening: Delightful evening with the Stray Toasters at Galgorm Manor Hotel followed by dreadful breach of etiquette by self. (Top secret – need to know basis only) Sunday afternoon: Hanging about reading the papers sort of thing. Sunday morning: Bed mostly. Saturday evening: Swisser visits, eats all the chocolate and tells tall tales as usual. Harry murders rabbit. Saturday afternoon: Delightful afternoon spent in company of Marc, Ed, The Broom, Hannah & Jamie. Also met Jaffs for unfortunately far too brief a time. I sat beside Ed but treated him with utmost respect the whole time. Beowulf was unable to make it and was sadly missed especially by the ladies of the company. Self included. Of course. Saturday morning: Drinking lots of tea, eating nothing, recovering from…. Very early Saturday morning: Delayed allergic reaction to Tinkerton. Very poorly indeed.

Too Tired To Blog...

...which is what happens if you don't leave off the hard labour on the Sabbath Day.

I laboured mightily at the coalface Monday and Tuesday. And I walked hard as well. On the second walk (Cullybackey to Gillies) I spotted what looked like a drowned sheep on the riverbank but I did not investigate further as it was nearly dark. Bert was cooking a leg of lamb last night and this sighting took the edge of my appetite. Swisser joined us for supper so there would definitely be no blogging. After we'd eaten, Bert, as usual, was fishing for compliments and only then he told us that the leg of lamb had belonged to one of those gorgeous Jacob's sheep. I don't know if I'd have eaten it if I'd known that.

Afterwards, Young Loveheart turned up. He was looking pretty skinny and was sporting a neat wee beard. I thought he looked like a male model. Sort of pale and interesting. The first thing he said was "I'm dying. I have a brain virus." It's not often I'm rendered speechless. Just what do you say to a 26-year-old who has just announced he's terminally ill? It was quite a relief when we established that 'dying' was a figure of speech and he meant that he'd been rather poorly.

Natch Young Loveheart's pale and interesting look intrigued Swisser who hadn't met him before. "So who's Young Loveheart then?" she coyly enquired. I answered, "Old Loveheart's son," and left it at that. Then the next thing she's quizzing him about his recent illness and trying to pass herself off as a real doctor. But I soon put the young fellow right by telling him that she's only a PhD with a midwifery qualification and not to be paying any heed to her.