Judge Not

Was it our mother or one of her friendship group who used the phrase 'not very well-liked? I'm not sure. But I associate it with Matty.

She might have said of someone,

He's not very well-liked in these parts

And the person (who was always a man) would surely be the most evil, philandering, dishonest scoundrel that ever trod the earth.

Another variation usually applied to women,

She's not that well-thought-of around here

And this would indicate a person of low standards held in low esteem by her neighbours. Perhaps she was overly friendly with the breadman, undoubtedly her children verged on feral and it would go without saying that her house-keeping left much to be desired. 

Of course, the person imparting this information wouldn't be judging. They were only saying what other people thought.

I suppose it is human nature. Judging our neighbours keeps us from thinking about our own behaviours. People in glass houses etc. Who said that? I need to find out. Down from the shelf comes The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations - an essential volume in the pre-Google time

And...

Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones is a mid-seventeenth century proverb.

Much later...

I confess - I then fell down an Oxford Dictionary of Quotations rabbit hole and it was much more satisfying that the online experience.

The rabbit has a charming face:

Its private life is a disgrace.

I really dare not name to you

The awful things that rabbits do.

'The Rabbit' in The Weekend Book (1925)

Now that's judgy!

 

What I Did On My Holidays

I completed my last day of paid employment a fortnight ago. The idea was that I'd be getting straight stuck into a stint of looking after Matty. But the way it turned out was Matty got offered two weeks respite in the Braid Valley Hospital, so I've been on holiday for the past two weeks and it has been rather wonderful.

I hit the ground running in the first week. Bert's affairs needed a great deal of sorting out. I spent that week ordering clematis liners and sorting out his paperwork. I also got working on another plan. This year we intend to make more use of the land and, to that end, have taken on board another couple of people to work on our co-operative allotments. Our aim is as much self-sufficiency as we can achieve.

But before that there was some overdue cleaning to be tackled.

I started to clean underneath the furniture instead of flaffing around it and I was just in time. The pup-chewed wood, the milk bottle cap and the shred of Christmas paper could have stayed under the sofa for ever but I reckon that dead mouse would have made its presence felt before long. The sun-room, with its wood-burning stove, can get rather warm.

And talking of more useful dead animals - our friend Peter presented us with three fine, plump rabbits.

I had a great idea. Bert said it was his but as he didn't say it out loud that means it was mine. We were having the co-operative around for a brain-storming luncheon party last Sunday and I though it might be a useful and bonding experience if Bert took them for a master-class in bunny butchering.

So, after a delicious lunch of roast pork, home-grown vegetables and blackberry and apple crumble Bert took a party of three out to the back shed, showed them the bunnies and gave them a knife and went off to do something more interesting instead. Luckily Rachael had a book.

I still haven't heard what their rabbit pies and stews were like but I'm sure they were yummy. Freddie de Cat certainly enjoyed his bunny hind leg, made a nice change from mouse. I told Bert he should have hung those bunnies out of reach.

Young Rooney was most disappointed with us that we didn't keep the skins. Said they make a great rug when cured and stitched together. Rachael will need to be got on to that one. I fancy some rabbit skin slippers myself.

Take That Peter, You Pumpkin-Munching Bastard

Imagine my pique when Bert told me that my pumpkin plants were being munched by a bloody rabbit. Where is Foxy when you need him?

"Do you want me to shoot him?" Bert said. "Most definitely," I replied. "Then we'll eat the little bastard."

So he did - and we did. And he was yummy.

A Rare Breed

This past week Bert was considering buying in a few rare breed type cattle to graze in his plantation. He’d been thinking about Dexters but they’re hard to keep in and fencing wouldn’t be one of his strong points. Someone had told him about these Irish Moiled cattle that were grazing at the Ecos centre in Ballymena so we went along to have a look. The word was that the owner might be looking to sell them.

They are lovely cattle Moilies but nevertheless, Clint and I have persuaded Bert that there is no point in rushing into it. As I pointed out to him, he’s not actually had that much luck with beasts that certain folk have chatted him into.

Remember the rabbits Bert? Your mother was raging with you when you landed home with those. Suggested that they’d been palmed off on you by some boy you fell in with at a road-house.

It’s well seen she knows little about pubs if she thinks they’re frequented by boys with pockets full of rabbits.

Remember all those babies they had? Little brown babies got on them by wild buck rabbits that screwed them through the hutch wire.

Aye. We had to take that lot over to Gallaghers and set them free.

Then there was Bob and that palamino from Greenmount.

Bob was a lovely horse.

Aye. He was. But he was useless for riding. Always trying to scrape you off by walking tight up to the hedges. And do you remember how the pair of them kept breaking out? They were always running up and down the Dreen Road with you after them like an eedjit.

And you mind all those boys that kept stopping with me while I was running after them offering to buy the pair of them of me?

And you eventually broke and took a very bad price of the last fellow that asked you. Said they were going to a riding school. I’m sure.

What do you mean?

Far more likely they were going for dog food.

Don’t be depressing me.

Anyway – can you imagine the Moilies? When they’re not racing about the roads they’ll be out getting shagged by the wrong sort of bull. They’ll be a quare rare breed then.

It's Amazing!

Spent a little while today down at Clint's (aka the nursery) taking another silly mini-vid. Bert complained that I was taking movies of him and he hadn't even combed his hair. I reassured him that I had editing software that could comb his hair for him.

And can you guess which thoughtful husband this is?

Thoughtful Hubby: I bought Delilah a rabbit for her birthday.
Bert: What colour is it?
Thoughtful Hubby: Blue with silver balls.
Bert: Really?
Thoughtful Hubby: Aye. Now may be she'll lee me alone!

And now we've just had a phone call from Rodders who got the barbecue date wrong and wants to come partying tonight with a 'crowd of musicians'. Oh dear. And me in the middle of my revision schedule. I think Bert has put him off. I do hope so. When Rodders talks about 'musicians' he could well mean Californian punks or ruffians like that Fifty Cent chappie. I certainly don't want him here tonight. We'd have to lock away all the magpie shooters. Hang on a minute, aren't we supposed to....

Things To Do On A Saturday

1. Go do planty things in the greenhouse.
2. Have major tussle with vile pampas grass. Lose.
3. Go see Jolly Joe about car getting MOTd.

4. Take Matty to Homebase and buy loads more seeds.
5. Take Matty to new charity shop in Antrim Town. Buy a book.
6. Take Matty and Rosie to Lough Shore and buy strawberry ice creams.

7. Take camera out to fields and sneak up on rare and exotic wildlife and take lots of photographs of same.
8. Do some work for seriously overdue college assignment.
9. Give Hannah a lift into town.
10. Eat chocolate. Mess around on computer.
11. Forget to call Joe to hear if car got through MOT.