Ten Things I Did on Mother's Day

 I woke up worrying about the Antarctic Ice Shelf, then decided that my fretting about it would not help.

Listened to the dawn chorus and estimated that there must be at least a thousand birds living nearby. Sounded like it anyway.

I thought about my own mother.

I sowed lots of vegetable seeds.

And entertained two adopted sons and a girlfriend. Received a Mother’s Day gift from Locky.

Participated in the naming of the most recent calf born on this farm. He is to be called Sparrow.

Spoke to my Katkin from Norfolk. She has had a bout of Covid. That’s all of my children have had it now.

Pondered my tendency to feel guilty about everything.

Did lots of knitting.

Did lots of weeding.

A Frugal Lifestyle

We had a home visit today from a financial advisor, a local chap from a well-trusted and established organisation. It was just a matter of adding to an existing ISA. Financial services being what they are, the advisor had already spent a considerable amount of time filling in forms on our behalf. As he was explaining all this to us he made reference to our 'frugal lifestyle'.

I was reminded of the investigation carried out many years ago by Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs during which an impertinent young pup sat in our reception room asking questions about our 'lifestyle'. Questions such as,

How often do you holiday abroad?

How often do you eat in restaurants?

How much do you spend on gifts?

To which the answers were - rarely and little.

That HMRC investigation was one of the most stressful years of my life and at the end of it we did not get a huge tax bill, rather a rebate and since then have paid an accountant a lot of money to manage our meagre affairs.

I know we are fortunate people. No mortgage, and a little something behind us. We're lucky boomers. Yet, in some ways our lifestyle is frugal and I like it being like that. We spend tiny amounts on personal grooming, entertainment, holidays and cars. We maintain our home but almost everything in it is second hand and 'pre-loved'. Likewise the garden. We grow some of our own vegetables and start most of our plants from seeds and cuttings. we make our own compost and keep hens for eggs. And we share. Every year we give hundreds of pounds worth of plants away, we share the eggs, another two other families grow vegetables here and we have a bushcraft camp and archery facilities that friends and family use at no cost. Bert also has friends queuing up to go logging with him in the woods. 

Sharing and not looking for cash returns brings its own rewards, not least being the feel-good factor. We get the labour in the woods, the labourers get as much wood as they want. We get volunteers replanting native trees for the enjoyment of it. We get company and friendship and office chairs and all sorts of good things in return. 

I said before, I know we are fortunate. Incredibly so. 

Saint Patrick's Day

 Usually, St Patrick's Day passes without note. It means very little to me nowadays. It used to - a day off school mid-Lent was always a good thing even if it was rather dampened by compulsory attendance at Mass, whilst wearing a clump of something dark green and trifoliate which was supposed to be shamrock. Even so, I always loved hearing Faith of our Fathers and Hail! Glorious St. Patrick belted out resoundingly by Sheena, piercingly by Aunt Mary and with all other choristers doing their best to keep up. One St Patrick's, Daddy took us to Randalstown to see a Hibernian March. The Hibs were a sort of counterpart to the Orange and, I must confess, I was expecting to see a lot more pomp and circumstance. Our main reason for attending was to support Cousin Joe who had joined an accordion band and I was beyond excited. Along they came, a collection of (sorry) po-faced men, marching along looking very pious and accompanied by the saddest of accordionists, a couple of lack-lustre drummers and a forgettable banner. The Glorious Twelfth it was not. Did I also mention it was mizzling with rain?

Since then, the celebration of St Patrick's Day, like Halloween and Irish dancing, have all been overly influenced by our American cousins. Parades? Wearing of the green? Drinking the bit out? A lot of nonsense except for the drinking of course. The 17th of March falling always in Lent was seen as an excuse to break one's abstention from alcohol. And as children, we would give up sweeties for Lent and there would be an exception allowed for Paddy's Day.

These days, no Mass for me, no Lenten fast. St Patrick's Day is just another bank holiday. Martha had the entire day off school, while Evie had a half-day. I picked Martha up just after ten and we went to a coffee shop for breakfast. Martha had something ridiculous that included waffles, strawberries and cream. That's not breakfast, that's dessert. I had something pancakey which was practically a dessert except for the bacon topping. Martha's mum had a coffee. Decaff. We observed that species of mummy often referred to as yummy. It was like being in an episode of Motherland.

Martha and I parted company with her mother and my daughter and we had a very quick dash around the charity shops before picking up Evie. We then went to the Factory Craft Shop where I bought some glue (for a purpose) and some knitting yarn (for a purpose) and to Lynas for Haribo (for St Patrick's Day) then home.

Every year we get this agricultural themed calendar from our friend Richard. In the light of Holly's unexpected death, I felt I needed to replace the bull picture with a Holly de Cat picture. Hence the glue.

Home then to find Young Loveheart and two bags of sausage rolls. Happy days for Bert and Evie who had not been in an episode of Motherland with waffles, pancakes and cream. Next to arrive were the girl's parents and they and I went off to the woods to plant rowans, oaks, hawthorn, hornbeam and birch. Loveheart and Bert did something mysterious, Martha worked off the Motherland carbs on the trampoline and Evie made a grave marker for Holly, and then watched Netflix. We all had a very enjoyable afternoon. The best St Patrick's Day in an age and not a shamrock in sight.

Evie made this beautiful marker for Holly de Cat. It will be placed on the grave when the yacht varnish dries. 

Holly

 

Holly came to live with us in December 2006. She was born on a farm near Slemish and the day that Zoe and I collected her, we were told that all she'd ever eat was chicken. I wondered what kind of fancypants kitten we'd landed ourselves with but it turned out she was prepared to muck in with the rest of us and eat whatever was going.

She was always feisty. She loved to have arguments with Bert and she always won. Many the blooded finger he got from her but as she'd have pointed out if only she could speak, he had it coming to him.

I really thought she had a few years left in her yet. Her coat was glossy, her appetite good, her fitness levels great for her age (she loved to go walking with humans and dogs in the woods) and her zest for life was still there. Bert saw her racing round the yard chasing a dead leaf only the day before she died and Zoe saw her scoffing her dinner with relish only a few hours before. 

I went to bed after midnight and was just settling down to sleep when I heard a piteous mew. Not an unusual thing as either her or Fred would make that hard-done-by sound when they wanted outside. I got up thinking it was probably Fred. It was Holly and she was having some sort of fit in the corner of the kitchen. I called Bert as I am cowardly in those sorts of situations. He said, 'She's dying', picked her up, stroked and soothed her, his eyes all teary. She calmed, no more spasms but she was limp. We sat awhile. I thought of calling the vet. Bert thought there was no point. I said I'd take her to bed with me. My bed was one of her favourite spots. I wrapped her in a towel and lay beside her. She was very calm and still. She stayed like that for about two hours then around three o'clock her breathing changed and she became agitated. I gathered her up and a few minutes later she died.

Bert checked to make sure. And wrapped her back in the towel and placed her on the floor. She looked as if she was asleep. I got back into bed and cried a little. 

This morning I had planned to go to IKEA with Zoe and that's what we did. Bert was left with the task of burying Holly. He asked where? and I said, you decide - maybe not too far away. When I got back he'd placed her in a wild part of the garden behind a drift of snowdrops. She used to like lying there on sunny days.

We have five pets left now, two dogs, one cat and two pigs. The youngest (Jess) is nine, the oldest (Fred) is thirteen. Judy and the pigs will be twelve this year. We'll give them the best life we can for it might not be that long. It's all we can do.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/17223773@N00/albums/72157688045378801

Paddy's Apples

When Paddy died we went to his house. His apple tree, that strange forked apple tree that he loved so much was laden with fruit. Well, one half of it was anyway. I was pleased to see it as Bert, at Jazzer's request, had supplied the sprays and fertilisers that encouraged the old tree to give a bountiful harvest for Paddy's last autumn on earth. Earlier in the season, he'd sent us a bag of the apples and I’d made a very nice apple crumble.

At his funeral, each member of his family threw a rose on top of the casket as it was put in the ground. A lovely touch was, when one of his great-grandchildren, reached into a pocket and threw in one of his granda's apples.

Music Night 2016

So, after the babies were tucked up in bed and we'd read the story of how Brer Rabbit tied Mr Lion to a tree Jazzer and I went downstairs to see what Bert and Ben were up to and we found that Ben had taken over YouTube and was playing Bert his favourite numbers from Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band.

After we'd had our fill of The Boss I moved it on to Krystle Warren singing Circles on the Jools Holland show in 2005. Jazzer reckoned Warren was a man and could not be convinced otherwise. In her defence, she did have a quantity of strong drink taken. She rambled on in this vein throughout the track while Bert and I rolled our eyes at each other. The next one we listened to was Krystle Warren singing Jealous Guy a couple of years ago in Amsterdam. Even Jazz was struck dumb. When it was over she said,

Did you and Bert really think she was a man then?

I did not take this remark on board.

Bert asked for Paolo Nutini singing I'd Rather Go Blind. We weren't overly impressed. Heard it better. Nutini had himself referenced Etta James and Dr John doing it so I checked this out. This one was from 1987 and it was mesmerising. The others did not agree with me, especially Jazzer. Bert shouted for Christine Perfect (as she was) but I thought her version bland compared to Etta's. To annoy them all I played Etta doing Crawling King Snake.

After that we took it in turns to choose the music.

Ben (15) picked the .357 String Band, R.E.M. Losing My Religion and Joy Division, Love Will Tear Us Apart.

Bert went for The Dirty Heads, Cabin By The Sea, George Ezra, Budapest and John Prine, Killing The Blues. All songs that the fellows at the Tuesday night sessions work on.

I chose The Bangles, Walk Like An Egyptian, Miley Cyrus, Look What They've Done To My Song Ma, The Pixies, Caribou and Joe Cocker and The Grease Band at Woodstock doing With A Little Help From My Friends.

Jazzer went for an audition clip of some guy doing Redemption on Holland's The Voice. It was good enough. And then two videos by Taylor Swift. She did some serious dancing to one of them. I have managed to avoid Taylor Swift and her work until now. All I can say is that I plan to redouble my efforts. Swift is awful. Music for people who don't actually like music. I can't deny that she has talent but she wastes it. Still, who can blame her? The folk who don't actually like music seem to spend shed loads on it and make people like Taylor Swift, Madonna and their ilk very rich indeed.

This Time of War

 Wasn't it always so?

The News and all our thoughts are dominated by Putin's invasion of Ukraine and almost everyone has something to say. My say? I'm not as scared as I was back in 1962 when the world stood on the brink of nuclear war. I was in primary school then and I remember our teacher, Cassie O'Neill leading us in a prayer for peace and her fear was palpable. All the grown-ups were scared and never in my entire life has there been a more terrifying time. 

Until sometime in my thirties when I got so down that I went to my GP. He was that old-fashioned pull yourself together kind of doctor. I said I was depressed. He said something along the lines of, 'How so?' He was all prepared to be sceptical, or so I believed. I replied, truthfully, 

I keep looking at the sky and imagining I see mushroom clouds.

He started writing my prescription.

And so began a period of five years or more when I took reuptake inhibitors. They worked on my anxiety and I began to live in an unreal world. 

Eventually, I felt strong enough in myself to leave that cloudy place where I'd stayed too long.

It's so different when you are old. No matter what happens I know that I'll not suffer (or enjoy) it for long. Now I only worry about the younger generations. Sometimes I think we've all been foolish to procreate. Which doesn't equate with the joy and delight I'm feeling in my grandchildren, my great-nieces and great-nephew and all the other bright and lovely children entering and inhabiting the world. 

Today I had the pleasure of seeing a two-week-old calf  (Dudley) leave his shed for the very first time to frolic in the sunshine in a soft green field. He was loving life. Yet, at some point, he will enter the food chain. And that is a hard thought. He's not my calf. I'm not in charge of his future, But I saw him taking pleasure in his first experience of the great outdoors and, for me, that will have to do for now. 

Snow Day

Snow lost its novelty for me a long time ago. Nowadays it seems like a big nuisance and I cannot even be bothered to take pictures anymore.

Not so, for Martha and Evie who both adore snowy days. Martha was full of it when I picked them up on Thursday. Her school permitted snowballing at breaktime. They were asked though, not to throw snowballs at people who didn't want to take part. That would have been me. Evie's school said there was to be no snowballing but they did it anyway and the playground supervisors pretended not to notice.

The local bus station must have been a dangerous place on Thursday morning as the best of the snow had fallen during the night. At Evie's age, I'd have taken it very personally if a 'big boy' had lobbed a snowball at me. Evie was unbothered and told me that she used her cello case as a shield. I do love having such tough-minded grandchildren.

After school, they were straight out to the meadow. The snow was starting to disappear but there was enough of it to make a snowman and a snowdog and to take...

a good, hardy roll in the snow.

Then there was that time their mother made a snowman that looked a bit like a snowdog.

Coill na Baice to Trá Lí

Last Friday Zoë and I went on a rail journey. I'd been worried as Storm Eunice was ongoing but somehow we managed to dodge it the entire trip. Belfast was blue skies, Dublin even bluer skies. There was a flurry of rain as we passed through Tipperary and Tralee was a bit blustery. 

Obviously, the purpose of our trip was to visit Kerry Sister and the family, most especially Seánaí, her brand new grandson.

Great Aunt Nelly and the child. Taken by ZB?

We had four nights west of Dingle and it was a lovely time. The new baby was a beautiful darling and our hosts were definitely the mostest.  And there were dogs. I always feel most at home where there are dogs.

The journey home went well too. Home last night just after eight o'clock. I was tired but today I'm enlivened. I can still feel the weight of Séanaí in my arms and the soft silk of his dark hair against my face. It was such a good outing, family, stories, dogs and a new bambino. What could be nicer?

And I learned a few new things about knitting too. And finished A Pin To See The Peepshow.

 

Dudley and Eunice

Dudley and Eunice could be the title of an early unpublished novel by Hilary Mantel, or a pair of breeding bloodhounds owned by a Church of Ireland minister. Or, the names of an elderly Telegraph reading couple who still think that voting Brexit was an excellent idea.

The Storm Dudley didn't affect us too much here in Cullybackey. The winds were a lot stronger at the coast as First Daughter knows to her cost. She told me this evening that she had to go to A&E today after a gust of wind blew her off her feet and caused her to have facial contact with a metal gate which resulted in a busted lip needing to be glued together. Poor Zoë.

Storm Eunice is next. Due to impact this Friday, the very day that Zoë and I are due to travel from Ballymena to Tralee by rail. Fingers crossed we get there. 

We had a bull calf born on the farm today (one of Clint's). He's a big strong lad. We shall call him Dudley.

Obviously.

The Knitting Bug

Q. Why don't I blog more?

A. Because I am currently obsessed with knitting.

I took a notion for it before Christmas and on a day when I was supposed to be shopping for presents, I popped into the Silk Road in Mill Street and bought 10 balls of knitting yarn, all in different colours. I already had the needles even though I’d previously donated all my yarn collection to Aunt Lizzie who was keen on crochet work.

Every now and then during the Christmas and New Year stir, I’d glance at my bright balls of yarn and feel a glow of excitement. Soon. Soon I will cast on and begin my first simple project.

The return to knitting was every bit as enjoyable as I’d hoped. Before long I had enough strips of multi-coloured garter stitched pieces to sew together. I did not enjoy the sewing part but it had to be done. Perhaps next time I will endeavour to make the sewing neater but I was in a big hurry to start my next project – a stripey sweater just like the ones I knitted so many years ago. By this time I had acquired a lot more wool. Unfortunately, I did not have a pattern. Zoe loaned me a book, Knitting Without Tears by Elizabeth Zimmerman and it was informative – lots in there about knitting with circular needles. No definite instructions though. Elizabeth talked about knitting gauges. She wrote that it was important to do this accurately and conscientiously. She remarked that (and I quote her) that to ignore this advice might lead to me supping the porridge of regret with the spoon of sorrow. What a phrase! I admired it hugely yet did not pay heed to it. Sure didn’t I knit a dozen or more sweaters back in my heyday? Sweaters ranging from husband-sized to premature baby size. All were in perfect proportion. I’d wing it. It would all come back to me.

But it didn’t. The body and arms were far too wide and the sleeves too short. I decided to call my work a prototype and that I should learn from my mistakes. Even so, the prototype is almost finished. Zoe (a far better knitter than me) said I should keep going and that with the sharp increases in heating fuel it would be a useful addition to my wardrobe as it can be worn over several other jumpers.

I’m already planning the next project. Wish me luck.

 One of my stripey jumpers from when I was younger. Wish I still had it.

Fine Deed Is Nifty

Dede and Zoe

 I was going to blog about knitting, which has, once again, become an obsession.

Dede at a party in Belfast

 
Then I recalled that today is Leitrim Sister's birthday.

Dede at Ballee

Then I remembered that way back in the day when I was a Fairisle and Stripey jumper fanatic, my youngest sister was never shy about wearing one of my creations. In fact, apart from my children and their father (who had no choice) she was my biggest fan. Happy birthday LS, enjoy Spain and I promise you, I'm going to knit you the craziest jumper for your next birthday. It will have sixty different colours.

The Worst Year of the Conflict

In terms of people killed during the north of Ireland conflict, 1972 was the worst year for fatalities. There were 497 people killed over half of which were what is termed as civilians, people who were not part of the security forces or proscribed armed groups.

I was 18 years old for the most of 1972 and one of those people, as yet, living in an area relatively untouched by the troubles. The first casualty of that year (I refer to Lost Lives) was an 18-year-old English soldier. No doubt his death was announced on the evening news. I don't recall. The news on the 30th of January, exactly fifty years ago was much more dramatic. Thirteen men and boys were shot dead on the streets of Derry by British soldiers. This atrocity came to be known as Bloody Sunday. I remember it but, to be honest, at the time it didn't sink in. 

I had a friend from Derry, her name was Marian, a student nurse at Musgrave Park Hospital. Marian was a goth before goths were even a thing. My Daddy used to call her the wee black crow. She was always staying at our house and this one time she invited me to come to her house in Derry. She lived in Irish Street which I found odd as it was a loyalist area. But Marian was no loyalist. She socialised across the bridge and on that particular night she took me to a republican club. Marian told me that it was a 'Stickies' club and I had not a clue what that meant. Later on, I came to realise that the Stickies were the Official IRA which would be superseded by the Provisional IRA. It was all a mystery to me.

Back then I didn't even know that fifty years earlier my own Granda had been in the IRA. For some reason, it was not something openly discussed in our family. I knew my Granny was always ranting talking about the Easter Rising, the perfidy of the British and the tragedy of the Irish martyrs. I remember her shaking her stick at me in a rage because I didn't know who James Connolly was. So, suffice to say, I was a total ignoramus when it came to Irish history - even though I was living through it.

The day we took the bus to her city Marian brought home to me what Bloody Sunday meant to the people of Derry. She opened her bag and took out a handful of Mass cards. Showed them to me, pictures of wee fellows, some of them younger than me. she'd say about one, I went out with his brother. About another, I was at school with his sister. Another, my ma was friends with his ma. These were her people.

Years later and not long after the findings of the Savile enquiry, Bert and I went to the Museum of Free Derry. It was heart-rending. The man at the desk was one of the relatives and he told us that to hear that the enquiry had found all 14 victims innocent of all accusations originally used against them was a wonderful moment. I saw him on the news this evening. He is still fighting for justice.

 

TW3

Only oldsters and media studies grads will 'get' the title of this post. Checking out the link on Wikipedia myself, I'm surprised I even remember it seeing as I was barely a teenager when it aired.

My own TW3 has been rather uneventful. We started watching that David Tennant thing Around The World in 80 Days. Enjoyable enough, and very much Sunday night TV.

Obviously, Bert has been glued to all televisual things historical and WW2 related. It has been Holocaust Remembrance Week. I lit a candle last night knowing that no one would see it. 

Enjoyed very much seeing on our family WhatsApp the first pictures of my extremely new great-nephew Seánaí. Kerry Sister and I are the only ones in the family who have just one great-nephew. All the other sibs have two. We are a family that is light on boys so are excited when we get one. Our parents Seamus and Martha have (so far) 25 descendants of which eighteen have been girls. 

Other news. Three positive Covid cases in our inner circle. One family, two friends. All mild cases so far. Bert and I are still testing negative.

By far the most exciting event of the past seven days was the Scruffy Hen capturing and eating a young rat. All the other hens were extremely envious and tried to steal it but Scruffy won the day. 

 Much excitement again tonight as I took myself off on a solitary date for one to see Belfast at the local cinema - the first time I've been to the 'pictures' in ages. I'd forgotten how annoying one's fellow cinema-goers can be. Crunching crisps, slurping drinks, kicking seats and then the one reprobate whose phone started ringing during a particularly poignant scene. Despite these annoyances, I enjoyed the film. Maybe a wee bit heavy on the Van Morrison tunes (there are other Irish musicians y'know) and Judi Dench was wonderful. She reminded me of several McAnespie matriarchs, especially Clare and Josephine. And now I'm home, sipping a glass of wine and catching up on my neglected blog.

Oh! One other thing - I was eleven years retired this past week and still love waking up in the morning not having to go to work.

A Local Hero

Two Sundays ago I bumped into an old friend from primary school and she told me that her brother was gravely ill. Only six days later I heard he was dead.

Joe was a few years older than me and at school, I thought of him as one of 'big boys'. I remember him teasing me because new to television, I thought that different makes of TV sets showed different programmes.

I have another memory of Joe when he was a teenager. I was going to my Granny's shop on an errand and he was on the other side of the road swiping the heads of dandelions with a stick. Why this stays in my mind I do not know. There was something fierce about him that unnerved me.

Joe left Tannaghmore when he was a very young man and I rarely saw him after that. Until I went to work for a homeless organisation. This organisation was new to Northern Ireland and there was to be a convention in Belfast. A lot of people would be coming over from London, Liverpool and the South of England. My manager, Anne Henderson, mentioned that one of the people from London, the chair of the organisation, hailed from my neck of the woods. His name was Joe McGarry.

Joe's story was extraordinary. He came to England in 1971 and worked for more than 20 years working as a labourer, often sleeping rough and eventually falling into alcoholism.

My own brother left Ireland for London when he was in his teens and did the same sort of labouring work as Joe. He told me stories of daily hirings and the lure of the pub at the end of the day. Eamon said there were middle-aged men, staying in stinking digs and the pub was a home from home for them. It was there that the site foremen paid out the wages. Little wonder that so many of them stayed there, in the warm, in familiar company, spending those wages rather than go back to their dank lodgings.   

My brother was lucky in that he had sisters living and working in London who provided emotional support and, occasionally when times were tough, a place to stay.  Joe was not so fortunate. In his own words in Ireland's Forgotten Generation (23 minutes in) he was seven years homeless, sleeping rough or in derelict buildings and still got up in the morning and went to work.

Eventually, Joe moved into Arlington House in Camden Town. He was still drinking but eventually, his life turned around. He became involved in the Aisling Project and after a trip to Co. Donegal in 1995 he found the inspiration to quit alcohol. 

I didn't know any of this when we met in Belfast. Anne and I gave Joe a lift back to Tannaghmore and we stopped at the Ramble Inn for something to eat. He spoke about his alcoholism. He was so articulate and well-spoken and came across as such a thoroughly decent man.

Afterwards, I followed his career. He went on to found Novas Ireland and set up projects in Limerick, Tralee and other Irish cities. I'm going to link to Joe's friend Alex McDonnell who'll tell the story better that I ever could. Alex also gave a great eulogy yesterday at Joe's funeral. 

Joe McGarry was a truly remarkable man. I'm glad I met him.

The Weird and Wonderful

There was an article in the Guardian recently by Rowan Moore, writing about his love for weird and wonderful objects that don't fit in with current ideas of good taste. Moore wrote,

I’m drawn to things that show a desire, a dream or a belief, where you can get a sense of connection with the maker.

I was reading this one early morning, upstairs drinking coffee and I glanced down at the weird and wonderful quilt covering my bed.

I found it on eBay a long time ago. It's hard to know how I was drawn. The good description probably, the quilt carefully folded so that only the best bits are shown. I might not have been so keen on it if I'd noticed that chintz edging. 

The figures, flora and fauna are appliqued on coarse unbleached cotton. The stitching is not exquisite. The fabric used for appliqueing is vintage so maybe the quilt is decades old. I've had it for at least fifteen years and am guessing most of the fabric pieces are from the sixties/seventies.

At first, I thought the scenes depicted on the quilt were biblical but now I'm not so sure.

That creature must be a unicorn. There are no unicorns in the bible. 

This might be a dog, probably an Afghan hound although I'm not sure about the feet. I think I had a smock top in that brown fabric when I was about seventeen. Which was fifty years ago. Scary.

 These fabrics are actually rather fabulous. 

Aren't they?

Sprigged cotton juxtaposed with snippets of mid-century atomic. What's not to love about this creation. How great it would be if the person who made it (or her descendants) could know that it fell into good hands and that I love it and would not part with it for any money. That's my connection with its maker.

PS. I was working on a blog about death but did this instead.

In A Funk

 Maybe because it's post-Christmas and the weather isn't right but I've been in a funk this past week. It was too mild over Christmas, the bloody wallflowers are in bloom and then we had snow.

 

And then it all melted away and it was mild again.

Yesterday I felt so grotty on waking that I took a rapid Covid test (my very first). It was negative which made me feel slightly better. If it's not Covid I'm worrying about it's something else. I have this weird pain at the side of my head. Of course, I imagine it to be the worst possible thing but it is probably because I keep clenching my jaw.

Tomorrow I am going to town to spend my book token and buy Bert some special ingredients for a black-eyed bean curry that he wants to try. I hope it lifts me out of this funk.

I will not buy wine. I will not buy wine. I will not...

Litter Louts

Driving into Ballymena this morning I saw the driver of a beat-up old car throw litter from the window. I thought it disgraceful behaviour. Minutes later, driving through the town I witnessed the driver of a small van throw something out the window. Two litter louts in one morning? Disgusting. 

I was on my way to Antrim to meet Jazzer and because it was icy I was taking the dual carriageway rather than the back roads. Just off the Ballee roundabout, I was overtaken by a bright green BMW and happened to notice the well-coiffed blonde in the passenger seat. The next thing I saw was litter flying out of the driver's window. Enough was enough! I flashed the car. Moments later rubbish was simultaneously thrown from passenger and driver windows. I flashed the headlights again. The BMW sped up and I lost sight of it...

...until the approach to the Dunsilly roundabout. They were in the Belfast lane and I was heading towards Antrim. I drew level and glanced at the driver, a well-dressed man not that far away from my own age. He looked straight ahead. This man and his woman friend did themselves and their ilk no favour this morning for, as from now on, should I see a signal green BMW I am going to assume that the person driving it is a complete arse.

And just so y'all know that I know, flashing one's headlights in such circumstances is, according to the Highway Code, inadvisable as it may confuse other drivers. Yet I will do it at times - at fellow van drivers if there is a mobile speed-trap parked on the outskirts of Cullybackey and often to allow large vehicles such as lorries or buses to get through tight parts of town and village traffic. I particularly love it when the lorry drivers give me a blast of the air horn in acknowledgement. Even a friendly wave can make my day.

LP - Halo (Beyonce Cover) [Live]

Treasure Hunting

There was great sadness on Thursday. Maya, Zoe's older dog had been put to sleep the previous evening after it was discovered she had inoperable lung cancer. Her family put her next to her companion Gracie who died 13 months ago. They were quite the pair. Evie made the grave marker. It should really have been Gracie * Maya as Gracie was the elder but if we'd put Maya on the other side she would have been too close to the beehive. And, speaking of bees, Evie told them that Maya had died and a number of them appeared at her burial.

It's actually scary how mild this Christmas weather has been.

The girls stayed over that day and we watched a terrible movie, Home Alone 2 which was horribly violent. I had to tell them that the brutality afflicted on Joe Pesci and friend by young Culkin would have resulted in their deaths twenty times over. It really wasn't a suitable show for Grannies, never mind pre-teens.

So much lounging about, snacking and watching endless telly is not the best way to live one's life, even at Christmas so next day Hannah and I encouraged the girls outside to seek buried treasure.

Martha refused to change out of her pyjamas as they were so warm and comfortable. A certain Aunt might be pleased to know that Evie was also wearing her Christmas pyjamas under her day clothes. 

Evie was the more enthusiastic treasure hunter. At break time Martha headed to her bedroom to continue reading a new book, bought with the token gifted by Granda Bert.

The dogs just didn't get it.  Humans digging? And not burying bones. Or unearthing them.

 A picture of interesting fungi. Much more interesting than the 'treasure' we found which was -

A triangular piece of rusted iron.

Several beer cans.

The innards of a spent firework.

Two trays from an abandoned electric oven. These were buried DEEP and Evie and I put a lot of effort into digging them up.

Afterwards I had to lie down for half an hour. It was worth it.