Boiled Beetroot and Buttermilk

Pops was otherwise engaged when Matty and I went to visit him the other morning. So until he was ready we sat ourselves down for a chat with Francie.

Francie, you're looking well. How are things?

Och not too bad I suppose.

You've a bit of weight off you. Are you eating OK?

Aye, but the food's not great in here. It's not what I was used to eating.

So what did you eat before you came in then?

A big pot of Arran Victors boilt in their skin. And soup. That's what I ate.

But you get potatoes here.

Aye, but they're no good. They don't boil them in their skin and that's where all the goodness is. And you don't get enough of them. I used to eat eight or nine of them when I was in my own place.

What else did you like?

Beetroot. I don't know what they do with the beetroot in here. I don't think they boil it.

So you liked boiled beetroot then?

Aye. Boiled beetroot and buttermilk.

Poor man. No wonder he's failing. He's practically on the Atkins' diet.

Disrespect

Disrespect
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I was showing Mel & Mikey where Danny (the Wonder Dog, Champion of the World, Best Dog Ever) was buried when Paddy decided to coil one down on top of it. Maybe he thought Danny's grave needed a marker.

Mel & MikeyBoy

Mel & MikeyBoy
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

These two paid us a visit yesterday. Unfortunately I was heading out for the Clematis Reunion so only had a couple of hours with them. I took them up to see the new/old house and Mikey was quite impressed with the garden/field. Afterwards they shopped for Bert, made him his tea and kept him company all evening and helped him to forget about his wrinkly forehead for a few hours.

The Clematis Reunion

I had a lovely surprise on Monday evening. My old friend Gillian Blades phoned me to say that another old friend, Julia Correvon, was in Norn Iron for a few days and wanted us all to meet. Gillian was asking us all over for drinks and an Indian meal at her house. And of course Barbara Jackman would be there too. Barbara and Julia are the only two of us who keep in regular touch. We all went to the same school but it was the Second Sister who was in Julia and Gillian's year. Barbara is from the same village as Gillian and we've all been friends forever with never a cross word. Or if there was it's all lost in the mists of time by now. When Julia and Gillian went to uni (the swots are both teachers now) Barbara and I stayed at home and got up to all sorts of rascally behaviour. We were once jointly sacked from a waitressing job at the Bridge in Dunloy for being drunk in charge of a drinks tray and a cash float. I was a bit humiliated but Barbara thought it was a great laugh.

These are three wonderful women who I should have kept in touch with, but - hey - it's great to get another go. There was a lot of catching up to do and we had a great night but I couldn't help noticing that Barbara and Gillian can't hold their drink as well as they used to.

This is for my beloved ex-husband to read. Gillian Blades said she knew our marriage would never last and that you were far too good for me. She claims to have told me so at the time but I disremember. Probably blocked it out. Nah-nah-nah I can't hear you! They were all asking about you and are delighted that you've found yourself a good one at last.

Nivea or Ponds?

In Kill
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

This afternoon Bert is mostly suffering from a huge angst attack over the corrugated appearance of his forehead.

"Never mind," says I. "There's always Botox."
"Then I'll have a big fat forehead!" he wailed.
"Don't worry," said I. "You still look like Chris Ecclestone to me."
"Humph!" says he. "I look more like Abe Simpson!"

That picture was taken about ten years ago and illustrates how the frowns and grimaces of yesterday are the deep lines and wrinkles of today. Be warned young fellas. And don't forget to moisturise.

Nelly Gets A New Boyfriend. In Her Dreams

I've just heard the thud of a big bass drum and was contemplating going upstairs and telling the resident who lives above the office to turn her bloody music down. I'm feeling crabbit as I didn't get enough sleep last night due to their shenanigans. But the thudding got louder and it turns out it's an effing band marching through Spidesville. Have I missed something here? Why is there a band marching through Spidesville on Easter Monday? Everybody knows that the Orange Lily won't bloom until June at the earliest and that now is Easter Lily time. Personally I blame the Parades Commission for mixing everything up.

Yesterday The Paramilitary Arms held a Karaoke night. Some of the little darlings were going and appeared in the office beforehand so that I could admire them in their finery. They'd all made a huge effort with their hair which, thanks to the wizardry of straighteners, hung long and poker straight. Some of them had even washed it. The big one was wearing white Yeti boots with three quarter length hipsters and a vest top from which her belly protruded large and pale. The sensible one wore clean jeans, a shirt and a touch of make up. The wee one wore a short baby pink Mac with mottled bare legs in knee boots. It was a strange look. She had clarried on so much slap she looked like she was suffering from radiation burns. I gave her a wee touch about that and she started on a huff. I reminded her that I hadn't done the cleaning rota yet and if she got stroppy with me I'd put her on cleaning the toilets. An instant mood improver that though I don't know why she'd worry as she never does any cleaning anyway.

I must have been asleep for an hour when I heard what sounded like a party taking place just under my bedroom window. I got up to investigate. I found that the revellers had just come in - well some of them were in - some were still partying out on the pavement. I brought the stragglers in and shouted a surly "Away to hell !" to the non-homeless standing about outside. Then they all started telling me about the great night they'd had.

"Hey Nelly! The police are after me."
"Well if they come in here to arrest you don't be getting me up. And make sure the doors are all locked up tight after you when they take you away."
"I took a swing at some doll! Pulled her down by the hair and put the fut in her."

(This fut would be encased in a huge hairy boot. Scary! )

"That's nothing to be proud of. What did she do to annoy you?"
"Give me cheek. And she was foreign."
"Huh! That's no reason to attack someone."
"Well. It was great crack anyway."

So with stern admonishments to behave themselves I stomped off back to bed only to get up again 30 minutes later as it sounded as if it had all kicked off again. Downstairs I found them all sitting like angels with wings. I returned to bed now so thoroughly rattled that I needed something, anything to help me sleep. I then had the bright idea that a bowl of muesli and some cheese would be just the thing. Bad idea! When I finally got to sleep I dreamed I was in London with my new boyfriend Paul. He was quite a looker with his brillo pad hair and a pitted face that looked like he was suffering from radiation burns. He was delicately built and about three inches shorter than me and that's small. We were walking through London Town with Ganching. She was striding ahead and we were tootling behind holding hands. We found ourselves outside the Tate Modern and Ganching says, "Are you coming in to see the new Rachel Whitereads?"
Paul made a petulant little face and for a moment I hesitated. Then I said to him, "Paul, I didn't come to London to get a new boyfriend y'know. I came to visit Ganching. Maybe we can meet up later?" He stomped off in a huff and I knew I'd never see him again. I felt relief. Ganching said "What. A. Prat."
I was so pleased when I woke up and realised I hadn't been unfaithful to Bert. Not even in my dreams.

Scots Pine

Scots Pine
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Taken from the back porch at the beginning of March. I've had it with Picasa and now I'm trying out Flickr which I found via Marc

.

White Van Man

....Bert's one of those but he's not typical.

He doesn't drive with one elbow sticking out of the window.
He doesn't use a mobile whilst driving.
His average driving speed is 45mph.
He is unagressive and extremely polite & considerate to fellow road-users.

This morning I asked him if he'd care to help me with the housework. He said no as he would be busy 'pimping up his ride.'

• This will involve sweeping all the compost and dog hairs out of the back.
• Screwing on the bumper that he knocked off last night on Gorgeous Gage's gate post.
• Removing the green slime from the top of the van.

So far I have loaded the washing machine, the dishwasher and made a mercy dash to the garage for chocolate milk for Bert. Needless to say I belted up.

At the garage Nelly waves choccy milk at Hans.

"Guess who was on the stout last night?"
"That's not right talking about Bert behind his back."
"Won't you be slagging him then?"
"Oh no."
"Too scared?"
"Yeah. He might let the dogs out of the van. Or worse, go and tell his mother on me."

Clint came round when Bert was pimping the ride. Bert says "when I get this finished I might hit the Port later on. Clint replied. "Ye might as well. Sure ye've hit everything else."

Guess What, Bert?

Hey, guess what Bert? Lawyer Guy has put links on his new blog and I'm on it!

Yeah.

On his last blog he didn't link to anyone but he wound that one up and now I'm linked to his new one.

Oh.

That means I'll probably get lots more hits from America.

Right.

You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?

Not really.

Well - people with blogs link to other people with blogs and they all read each other, then other people start reading them, then...

It's not making you any money though is it?

Bert! Everything can't be about making money! If you go out there and watch a beautiful sunset God doesn't reach down to you and say "Hey! Thanks for watching the sunset. Here's a fiver."

Yeah, but it's a bit different watching a sunset and sitting at an ould computer.

But it's not just about sitting at a computer. It's interacting with real human beings and having a laugh and....

Yeah.

I need a laptop.

Fuckety-Fuck Fuck!

...to borrow an expression from Ed.

About 20 minutes ago I got nabbed for £30 worth of Fixed Penalty Fine just because I'm such a bloody free spirit (see below) that I rarely belt up on the short dash from home to garage. That'll learn me. And in case you're wondering I didn't plead for leniency although it was obvious he was expecting me to. Instead I said "It's a fair cop, Guv'nor."

I won't go into his macho posturing in his leather strides but underneath the tough traffic cop gear he was a wee skinny specky wanker. But that's just sour grapes. Another thing that pisses me off is that when I gave him my date of birth he didn't even say "God! You'd never think it. You don't look a day over 40."

When I Was Sweet 16

I found this via Bliss.
He was checking out his Porn name.
I checked mine too but it was a cringer so I thought I would share this Quiz instead. It dates me to a T!

You Belong in 1969

1969 If you scored... 1950 - 1959: You're fun loving, romantic, and more than a little innocent. See you at the drive in! 1960 - 1969: You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too. 1970 - 1979: Bold and brash, you take life by the horns. Whether you're partying or protesting, you give it your all! 1980 - 1989: Wild, over the top, and just a little bit cheesy. You're colorful at night - and successful during the day. 1990 - 1999: With you anything goes! You're grunge one day, ghetto fabulous the next. It's all good!

The Naming of Children and Other Creatures

This from Stray-Toaster has got me thinking about the naming of children.

...when I was born, Metal Guru was number one. (Which might explain some things, as my mother went from hippy to glam...)

Marc got off lightly as his Momma could have preferred Bowie and called him Ziggy. It has happened but not to anyone I know and obviously Marc's Momma loved him too much to impose that rarity on him.

I've often thought that it's a strange thing that something as personal as the name by which we are known is almost always chosen by another. Hopefully the namer thinks enough of us not to choose a name that is too outlandish. Like the silly young mum I came across who named her newborn Chardonnay. Beauteous Colleague enquired "How will you spell it? " Young Mum obviously hadn't a clue and shot back "The way it's spelt. How would you spell it?" Beauteous Colleague obliged as after all the Registrar might be a teetotaller but afterwards she commented "I should have told her it was spelt J-A-N-E and saved that child a lifetime of misery."

Now I got called for my maternal grandmother and the patron saint of childbirth who is, according to my mother, St Gerard Majella. My given name is Mary and when I were a lass all Catholics had a Mary of some hue in the family even when it was an all boy family. Irish tradition did not permit the familiarity of calling a sprog Jesus although the Spanish and Mexicans are cool with it. I had a short-term boyf called Jesus once upon a century ago. His best mate was called Jesus too but mine was the cutest Jesus in town.

I could write forever about names and I may come back to it sometime but here I'll make do with a short list of my likes and dislikes in names.

I like lots of names from the Bible, especially the Old Testament. Now daughters consider yourselves spared for I liked the names Job chose for his girls: Jemima, Kezia and Keren-happuch.

You could hardly go wrong with the OT for a damn, fine name. At random I found:

• Moses
• Bezaleel
• Aaron
• Zelophehad
• Levi
• Joash
• Eli
• David

Hmmm. well 5 out of 8 ain't bad. Girls didn't get many name checks in the OT, did they? I suppose it was a bit of a patriarchal society.

Now let's try the NT.

• Jude
• Zenas
• Abraham
• Jesus
• Benjamin
• John
• Paul
• Mark

That's 6 good ones. I'm not counting Abraham because I dislike that name ever since the Smurfs ruined it for me.

Now despite my great interest in things horticultural I'm not too keen on plant names. My blogname Nelly Moser is a notable exception. But then Nelly wasn't actually a plant but a lady who gave her title to a very popular clematis.

Rose isn't a bad name but Primrose? Daisy, Holly and Poppy are all a bit Jamie Oliverish and are also very popular names for babes born in the Portland Hospital. Pansy is vile but I like Violet and Viola. And Olive is awful with all its Popeye connotations.

Funnily enough I'm not that keen on 'Irish' names especially the ones that are drawn from Celtic mythology. Maybe it's because Matty put me off naming my first-born 'Aoife' but I think the reason I don't like them is that in a sectarian society they'll define you before you've even had the chance to say 'haitch'. I don't like any name that's got an M followed by a H.

Now cast your mind back to the glam rock era. Nelly is sitting up in the maternity ward informing Matty of her choice of name for the first born.

"Aoife Mary. Aoife is Irish for Eve"
"Oh I don't like Aoife. How is it spelt?"
"A-O-I-F-E"
"Oh no. There's too many vowels. Nobody'll be able to spell that. Can't you call her Peggy. It's our Peggy's anniversary."

Next night

"I'm going to call her Zoe. Zoe Margaret because Zoe Mary sounds stupid and I'm calling her after your Peggy."
"Oh I don't like that. How is it spelt?"
"Z-O-E"
"Nobody'll be able to spell that. Why don't you call her Margaret?"

Grrr! I didn't listen and kept Mary for Katkin's second name. And as far as I know Zoe likes her name. She's very insistent about the wee dots over the E.

One last thing - When Bert was in Australia the people he met there wouldn't call him Bert. They said it was an old man's name. Everybody who knew him in Oz called him Rob, which I actually like better than Bert. But the name Bert has grown on me now and it does lend itself to so many pet names - like Bertie, Bertram, Bertiekins and my favourite Bertie Boy. I asked him once if he didn't hate me calling him by those silly names but he said he didn't as it meant I was in a good mood.

And this is the very, very last thing - if there is some daft name that you like, don't give it to your kid. Give it to your cat, your dog, your fish, your horse or your teddy-bear. Actually I'm taking that back. It doesn't matter about the rest of that menagerie because they don't give a damn what they're called but you must give your horse or your dog a decent name. Unless of course you race them for money then anything goes.

Do You Know...?

I used to know a wee girl who started nearly every sentence with "Do you know...". It was often some nugget of information that Teach had told her and so mad for knowledge was she that she had to pass it all on to her Mammy (and anybody else who would listen) in case we hadn't heard. This wee girl had dyslexia and could hardly read for ages. As for her spelling - wos atroshus. But she worked really, really hard and got first a HND then a rather good degree and she's now a young executive in deepest, flattest Norfolk.

So in the spirit of Kate's questing, knowledge-hungry mind I'm asking - Do you know how I can fix up alerts for new comments on this blog?

A Dead Skunk Or Perhaps It Was A Cat

I definitely deserved the damn fine weekend I've just enjoyed - for I had a tough week before it. There was the odd weepy moment. My tears fell for the passing of Christopher Reeve, a severely delayed reaction that, and some dead skunk in the middle of the road. The only person who got a new handbag was Bert's Aunt Liz-Ard - she thought my purple suede one the business so I allowed her to copy me. As well as shopping for handbags, Lizzer and I also shopped for alcohol. Chardonnay for me, rum for Bertie Boy and Bacardi Breezers for Lizzer*. She'd never tried it but I told her she'd love it what with her sweet tooth.

The rest of Saturday was socialising with Swisser and others. It was a pity that John the Hat dented the side of Bert's van while moving the PA stuff to Ghillie's. A pity for him as Bert didn't give a flying fuck what with all the scrapes and dents I've added to it over the years. Later we went down to Ghillie's to hear the lad's play and I for one had a damned good evening.

Perhaps just feeling the tiniest bit fragile on Sunday morning but no matter. It didn't stop the First Daughter and I heading to the Farmer's Market in Templepatrick. Also there were Matty, the Second Sister, the Baby Brother and his beloved. He's a tough looking mother for a Baby Brother is J. Got a big thick doorman's neck (for that is his other job) and doesn't look unlike Johnny Adair but with a sweeter expression. There was a slightly embarrassing incident at the Market for which Z has claimed copyright as she was the one who got traumatised. Afterwards Z and I went for coffee and some light shopping. I only bought a pizza wheel, so light I could carry it in one hand.

*Liz-Ard - she's the one with the dog and without the grim expresion in Boho Chic.

Clint Gets Droll With Nelly

Clint was hanging about the polytunnel with Bert this morning. When I brought them out coffee
and hot-cross buns Bert says

"Where were you off to there in such a hurry?"
"Just down to get the paper."
"Aye," says Clint "We heared ye all right, roaring down the lane, music blaring like a young boy!"
"Did ye?" says I.
"Aye," says he. "I reckon they heared ye at the Diamond."
"Well, lucky old them." says I.

Humph! Young boy indeed. I don't know any young boys who'd be listening to Robert Randolph and the Family Band. Do you?

I've been listening to those fellows for a while now but I did go to HMV yesterday where I bought a load of new stuff (some of it was old new stuff) and yes I did take a chance on Bright Eyes. Bert was very impressed with it and said I've a great ear for new music. I p00h-poohed that and gave all the credit where it belongs. Thanks Perdito-Tostadora and Mikeyboy.

Drowning the Shamrock

My thanks are due to Zoe for the advice that got me back on top blogging form. She is to be nominated for a Nelly Award in the category 'Serpent's Tooth'.

So yesterday was St Paddy's Day. I spent most of it at work. It was also the first anniversary of Paddy Dog being sprung from Crosskennan Dog Jail and a year and two days since I last smoked a 'feg'.

As everyone Irish knows it is a tradition among the drinking classes to 'drown the shamrock' but as I was collecting Ganching from the airport that night I had to postpone my shamrock drowning until later. When I returned I got caught up chatting to Bert and the muso fellows so when I actually poured my glass of Bushmills and looked at the clock it was two minutes past midnight. Rats! Missed it. Still the whiskey was good (one glass) and I slept like a log.

Bonnie & Spide

Q. What the hell am I doing up at 2am?
A. I'm ready to repel all boarders.
Q. Who needs repelled?
A. Bonnie & Spide are on the loose, lurking outside. There is no way they're getting in here to trash the place like they did last weekend.

Reasons To Be Cheerful Part 2

My three beautiful, intelligent, sensitive daughters

St Bertram who has put up with me for nearly 19 years

Dogs present and poultry future

The beautiful home we're building that will soon be ready

My family also including really great in-laws

My lovely ex-husband who has been a good father to my girls

A few, maybe not so few, loyal and supportive friends

Some great people I only know through blogging (you know who you are, you're on my links page)

Who needs drugs?

Did I mention the mood swings?

When I Find I'm Feeling Crappy, I Take A Pill To Make Me Happy

I've 'suffered' from depression for almost all my life. It comes and goes. Sometimes years pass without it - then years with it. It's never been bad enough for me to completely lose it, but sometimes it's got close.

Up until about five years ago I'd always refused medication. As far as I was concerned there was no acceptable medication available. There was only stuff that doped you and wrapped you in a fluffy cloud of unfeelingness. I'd rather feel pain than feel nothing.

I've had periods of counseling/therapy which I've mostly hated. All that delving into the past. I thought they were so nosy and so intrusive. I remember telling my mother about why I was not going to go back to one psychiatrist. "She wants me to hate you Mammy." How naive I was.

For years I self-medicated with recreational drugs. I was seriously psychologically addicted to cannabis and I used ecstasy on a regular basis for several years. After a very traumatic period at work I was offered counseling. It was classic - if I didn't talk, he didn't talk. There were no intrusive questions. This was the first time I ever opened up and told about my drug use. It was he who recommended seeing my GP and starting on the new generation of anti-depressants.

I'd heard about Prozac - both the good and the bad. But I hadn't heard about Seroxat which was what the GP suggested. I started taking it. And it was good. There were no more mood swings, no more deep, deep lows - no rages. Just a nice even way of getting on with your life. During this period I stopped taking ecstasy.

The first time I stopped the medication was because I was so happy. I stopped it very abruptly and a week later I turned into a she-devil, a very depressed she-devil. So straight back on to Seroxat for a couple of years. Then I stopped again because I was so contented and life was sweet. But I didn't do it as abruptly this time. Still a couple of weeks later - she-devil. But I persevered. I was happy as Larry for the best part of a year then the mood-swings, the weepiness and the depression returned. So back on Seroxat.

It's been two years this time and after a year I gave up smoking tobacco and cannabis. I went back to the Doc and told her I was ready to come off. I followed her advice to the letter and here I am again with the mood swings and weepiness. So now I'm wondering, what with the years of ecstasy and as many again on Seroxat, am I incapable of living without some little white tablet to keep me happy?

Things they don't tell you about re-uptake inhibitors :-

1. They make you fat
2. They impair the orgasmic response

Getting Out More

Bert's oldest friend Clint has returned to his old job of wagon driving after a period spent running a retail business from home. Driving is a job that is mentally exhausting but it doesn't burn off many calories. And while Clint is a big man he doesn't want a big belly so he's decided to get out from behind the wheel and walk. And who better to get out more with than his old mate Bert.

Now Clint doesn't feel that comfortable in urban areas unless he is encased in a HGV. And when he's in rural areas he likes the protection of a Massey Ferguson, which for preference, will be embellished with a bushwhacker or some other useful attachment.

So Bert decided that Clint on foot would need breaking in gently. Their first outing was to the nearby town of Portgenone. Bert reported that Clint wandered the street of Portglenone like a tourist. He gazed the length and breadth of the street marvelling at its many shops and attractions. He just couldn't get over the bustling metropolis the town had become.

The other Friday night when Nelly was at work and Bert was having a cosy night in with his girlfriend Swisser (and their chaperon Ian) the talk came round to Bert and Ian's plans for the folowing day. Ian informed Swisser that Bert and himself would be having a big day shopping in Portglenone. "Ooh," says she, "That sounds fun. What's it like for shoppng then?" Ian answered "Fantastic." and went on to tell her what a great day Bert had had with Clint and how impressed Clint had been with it all. "I'd love to come too," she said. "What's there?"

So Ian described Portglenone's many attractions.

1. Shopping for work boots in Logan's
2. Pies from Portglenone Meats
3. Costcutters for the weekly shop
4. Dessie Dayfresh
5. Admiring the guns in the gun shop
6. Watching Anthony fall off his boat into the Bann
7. Glow-in-the-dark Virgin Marys in the Monastery shop
8. Lunch in the Wild Duck

And still she wanted to come!

And what of Clint and getting out more? The outings have continued. Recently Bert and he had a stroll round the Sallagh Braes followed by a brief sojourn into Larne. They are working their way up to Carnlough but they'll have to get there soon as it will be a bit too frenetic for Clint when the warmer weather comes.

Bye Bye Shitface

Car crime hasn’t affected me much and if you’d asked me I would have said that I wouldn’t have been that concerned if someone nicked my car. After all it’s only an old Astra and I’m not exactly car proud.

But it does make a difference when it’s personal. A few weeks ago someone stole a car that belonged to a disabled resident who really relies on her motor to keep her independence. The police recovered it and everyone knows who stole it but hearsay is one thing and hard convictable evidence is another. A couple of nights ago I decanted a little 17 year old piece of shit, from under a bed in my place of work. I’m ever so nice when I do things like that – no point in riling them as they’re young, fit and nasty and I’m an old lady. So it’s – you may a well come out of there, I can see you, Shitface isn’t it? You know you shouldn’t be in here. You’re only getting [insert girlfriend’s name] into trouble. Now off you go. Don’t let me see you in here again or I’ll be calling the police. By this time we’re at the front door and it’s bye-bye Shitface. Because. you see, I know that Shitface was there the night that other car was stolen. Everyone knows, including the police but there's no proof and his accomplice has been charged with it.

It’s also bye-bye girlfriend the next day for persistent couldn’t give a fuckness about the rules. So that night she’s got nowhere to lay her head because instead of being nice she gives those people who are in a position to help her a mouthful of abuse instead.

Then it’s break into previous abode to do hundreds of pounds worth of damage then try to make the great escape in Nelly’s Astra. This attempt ends in abject failure, as his tools of trade are a teaspoon and coat hanger. Surprisingly, considering his stupidity, Shitface was careful not to leave fingerprints. The worst part is if the PSNI do catch the little tosser and send him to a YOC he’ll come out a lot better versed in how to commit the perfect crime.

The thing that surprised me was just how outraged I was by his clumsy attempts to steal my car. But I wasn’t surprised at my relief that he hadn’t managed to get to my new Loudon Wainwright and White Stripes CDs. Mind you he’d have been more than welcome to the Bessie Smith.

Handbags A Go Go!

I was on leave there for a while and I believe I'd forgotten what work was. Right now I'm in the middle of seven days on. This is a rare occurence as I'm a part-timer but She Who Must Be Obeyed is on annual leave and Beauteous Colleague thinks she's got the mumps... again! So it's just me and Flossie carrying the place. But oh.... the handbags I'll be able to afford when pay day comes.

Meanwhile back at the ranch Bertie is a-partying. With Swisser.. and Ian. Many thanks Ian for carrying out those very necessary chaperoning duties.

Searching For Nelly

The majority of searches that end up here are looking for info on Nelly the singer. Other referrals from search engines to this blog have also included ‘Nelly's Tree Company’ I wonder if that one was really looking for one of Bert’s fine trees? Then there was someone looking for ‘Gardens in Ballymena for wedding photos to be taken’. Certainly. Come on down. We offer the keenest rates in the county. Someone searching from the BBC found me by keying in ‘st.patrick hobby/driving snakes’. But by far the most worrying was a Googler who turned me up by searching for ‘Nelly old men’ and in a continuation of this frightening trend some pervert on Technorati found me by keying in ‘granny sex photo’.

Boho Chic 

The Great Leaderene

I was up at the site this morning – Bernie and Bianca were trotting along behind the Great Leaderene. She was sporting a stocking tied round her neck at a jaunty angle. It was one of those stockings favoured by older girls, i.e. about 50 denier and a sort of brown-grey colour. I enquired of the Great Leaderene –

“Why are you wearing a stocking around your neck?”
She answered –
“I’ve got a sore throat.”

I did not enquire further as the explanation would either have been extremely long-winded or a short and bad-tempered “Humph!” She is not to be trifled with these days as she recently pulverised a crow with her bare hands. I’m wondering if the stocking might be some sort of folk remedy that only she and her kin are privy to.

I realise that many who chance upon this blog may find the above slightly baffling. Those of you who do know about the Great Leaderene will not be the least surprised to hear what she’s been up to. I have consulted with Bert and he has given me his permission to mention her occasionally. We both think that a person so gloriously eccentric ought to be shared.

Bianca and Bernie

Bianca and Bernie Bantam are standing at their kitchen sink discussing the building work going on next-door and the imminent arrival of new neighbours.
Bernie: “Who is this Nelly anyway?”
Bianca: “Some class of a rapper I’m told.”
Bernie: “Holy fuck! That’s all we need! Anyway it’s not what I heard.”
Bianca: “So what did you hear then?”
Bernie: “Well it’s probably shite, God I hope it’s shite.”
Bianca: “Tell me. Tell me right now.”
Bernie: “I heard it was a dragon.”
Bianca: “Go to hell! Sure we wouldn’t last five minutes with a dragon!”
Bernie: “Apparently she likes a dog and she likes a garden.”
Bianca: “Well I suppose there’s more eating in a dog compared to a bantie.”
Bernie: “I really don’t fancy a dragon as a neighbour. We’d be better off with a rapper. At least he’ll not eat us. Though I suppose he'll be black?”
Bianca: “I heard he was.”
Bernie: “There’ll be drive by shootings for sure.”
Bianca: “It would hardly be handy for them. They’d have to come up the lane, then they’d have that big pile of blocks to get round, then back down the lane again. Anyway it’s racist of you to assume that just because Nelly’s a black rapper that there’d be guns involved”
Bernie: “I don’t see how you can say I’m racist. We’re probably every bit as black as him if not blacker.”

Nelly Moser would like to apologise for the 'fowl' language, profanities and breaches of PC code that have appeared in this post.

Two banties look out from their all mod cons henhouse at a pile of blocks that will become Nellybert's New Home 

To My Daughters

Thanks girls for all the cards & gifts & hugs. I'm all of a glow.

Breaking news - arriving in County Antrim around about St Paddy's Day, from sunny Canada, yer man below.

Return of the Prodigy Son 

The Political Compass 

Show & Tell

How right-wing are you?

Where do you stand?

And what about you?

Can you be bothered – or are you ‘too tired’.

Go on, I dare yez. Take the TEST

I decided to get off the fence and this was my result. But on a different day, in a different mood, it could be a different result. Let’s stand up and be counted. I need at least two people to rise to my challenge or I’m giving up blogging.

The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries

Nelly’s work often brings her into contact with the spide sub-culture.

Now one thing about this particular sub- culture that I have noticed is that many of them are the very bestest chums with The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries.

The media would have us believe that the Paramilitaries’ main concerns are protection rackets, drug dealing, cigarettes and diesel rackets not to mention giving disaffected youth a sense of identity. Nelly knows better. Their main business is actually acting as Agony Aunts and conflict management response to young female spides.

In my line of work I have found that when a difference of opinion arises between two female spides at least one of them will claim a close friendship with The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries. He will be called upon to sort out the problem that has arisen between these two females. The problem is usually extremely grave. One female will have chatted up/shagged another female’s boyfriend or may have stolen her carry-out/make-up, dissed her family or given her a smack. Thereupon The Head Man Of The Paramilitaries will be called upon. That poor man has his work cut out I can tell you. Time without number the Head Man Of The Paramilitaries has been winging his way to Harryville to settle a dispute but somehow never manages to arrive. I wonder why?

Sex Your Brain!

Your Brain is 60.00% Female, 40.00% Male

Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female You are both sensitive and savvy Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve

I saw this quiz over at Acidman's blog.
I note that I'm nearly as much of a man than he is. There is only 6.67% difference.

And this is a message for Ed. I dreamt about you last night. It was very civilised. You were still alive when I woke up.

Shite Or Right?

When I was in my late thirties I resumed my education. For a year I attended the local FE College to take A levels in English and Sociology. There was only one other student who wasn’t a teenager and as I was a fellow oldie she latched on to me like a cleg. She was 20.

At first I found the whole process very difficult. My first attempts at essays were dire, simply because they were all over the place. One of the lecturers gave me this piece of advice, which I intend to apply to the remainder of this post. Then I invite comments on how shite the advice was – or not.

The advice was this

Tell them what you are going to tell them.
Tell them it.
Tell them what you have told them.

So here goes –

I am going to tell .you about a weird dream I had last night.

I didn’t realise quite how anxious I was about returning to work today until the dreaming started. There were several dreams which were all work related but this one was the weirdest. I was out on the razz with three work colleagues and we were having a hell of a night. My only difficulty was keeping up with them and worrying about what crazy situations they were going to drag me into. I managed to slip into the ladies at one point to chill but whilst there I gave birth to an infant. My main concern was that my colleagues would think I was a party pooper for having done this and I was wondering how I could keep it from them. It was obvious that it was not going to be easy as the infant was a cross between a large foetus and a monkey and was very active. In fact it kept climbing up the curtains, perching there and glaring malevolently at me. I realised that I did not like it very much then immediately felt guilty about this, as after all I had given birth to it. So I decided to knit it a cardigan in an effort to bond with it. But it kept coming down off the curtains and unravelling my knitting. The third time it did this I strangled it with a piece of yarn.

That was the best dream I have had in ages and I know I will remember it forever.

Think Twice Before Eating Dumplings

When I wake up in the morning
I hop up right out of bed
Unless, of course, I am hung over
Then I pretend that I am dead

Loudon Wainwright III (Dump The Dog)

I like that title very much. I remember feeling like that – last Sunday morning I think it was.

Another of Loudon’s numbers that resonates with me at the moment is ‘The Acid Song’, which is, if you don’t know it, all about a bunch of folks, who are well old enough to know better, taking acid in a bar. It is obvious that Loudon knew what he was on about. Now it wasn’t acid that I ingested on Saturday but a natural herb that taken in quantity can have a hallucinogenic effect. It can also induce paranoia; and a deep, deep nausea. All in all a very unpleasant experience and one that you’d think a woman of my years would have grown out of long ago. I think I’ll take the advice Loudon offers at the end of The Acid Song’.

So the next time you wanna go out there.
When you feel like feeding your head
Think twice before dropping acid.
Hold out for mushrooms instead.

A Dull Tale

This past two weeks I have been using up what remains of my holiday time. Today I am mostly arseing about and starting to think I’ll be glad to get back to work on Thursday.

Today I took the dogs to Cushendall in an effort both to entertain and exhaust them. Fetching sticks out of the water saved the bother of having to bath them. That digging carry-on leaves their undercarriages in a pretty filthy condition. Pictured below are the two feckers fighting over a stick.

We managed to keep them about us today but while Paddy seems content enough the bitcher is itching to be off. She has no mission tonight.

Tussling

Cushendall Bay

The First Daughter and a Bitcher

Digger Dogger

We lost a good pack leader when Danny died last year. Rosie, the fat bitcher, has become the dominant dog, and in my opinion is making a poor fist of it. She and Paddy sneak away at every opportunity and by the cut of them when they return I reckon they go to the digging grounds after rats, rabbits and maybe foxes or badgers. When they are in that digging zone they hear no human call and all a human hears is an excited 'yip, yip' in the far distance.

So what are we to do? We're used to dogs trotting around the yard after us. This is a recent phenomenon - maybe two months or so - and they are so sleekit. One moment they're here the next they're gone and often don't return for 6-8 hours.

We are really worried about them as they could get shot. It's lambing season now and Johnny Farmer doesn't like dogs on his land. The truth is that unless sheep take to living in burrows they'll hold no interest for the digger dogs. Any person steeped in country ways or even with a bit of common sense got any suggestions?

When Dogs Were Good

There's No Fool...

…. like an Old Fool. The less said about Saturday night the better. All I will say is that I thought I was old enough to know better. That and the title explains all. Now I’m saying no more on the matter.

Yesterday I took Matty and the First Sister to the Gourmet Farmer’s Market in Templepatrick. It was a first-time visit for all of us and we liked it, so thanks Z, for telling us about it. Matty bought a very pretty Sylvac vase for a tenner, which pleased her greatly. I bought squashes and fruit and very yummy savoury breads. The First Sister bought a lime- green pressed apple juice which looked like it could lead her to a severe dose of the skitter. (You can take potty-mouth to the gourmet market but you can’t make her talk nice.)

Today I am cleaning the house in preparation for the valuer’s visit this afternoon. I haven’t much time so have resorted to lots of sluttish shortcuts. For instance all the toilet lids down saves cleaning them and I’m only washing the bits of the floor that show. I do feel guilty about it and can feel the spectral presence of Aggie and Kim breathing down my neck.

Taken To Drink

...which is what Nelly is up to this afternoon. Clean living gets to you after a while. The green butter dumplings are stewing away and we're off to the Wee Manny's tonight to discuss real estate deals. No better time to get totally stoned. At least we'll all be on the same wavelength.

Yer Ma's Yer Da!

Last weekend wasn’t just about teasing Nelly for her pathetic mothering skills. We also had a good laugh and one of the things that amused us was talking about this post from Ed, which I had of course committed to memory. With every new point that was made the cry went up ‘Yer ma!” KaBo said she'd heard this at school “Yer ma’s yer da!” A while back Zoë linked to this Spide Generator on her blog. If you want a cheap laugh why don’t you give it a go?

When Bad Hair Happens To Good People

There was a bit of reminiscing at the Bo reunion last weekend. As is traditional this mostly took the form of stories about my careless style of parenting. I actually asked ZoBo if she remembered any nice stories about me but she said she didn’t – they were all awful. The picture I’ve posted of the littlest Bo was taken about 17 years ago and this is how it happened.

We were at the Wee Manny’s house and some alcoholic drink had been taken. The Wee and Mrs Wee both wore their hair short and cut each other’s. A discussion arose as to which of them was the better stylist. Both agreed that the Wee was the better of the two. At that point I mentioned that little HanBo needed her hair trimmed. Would you let a half-cut man trim/hack your precious child’s hair? I think not.

Small Banana

Clint Has Left The Room

The first person that I knew with Internet access at home was Bert’s oldest friend Clint. All we knew of the Internet in those days was that there was a vast amount of information and access to free porn. Oh yes … and chat rooms. So for a while Clint was the Internet expert. When he first used a search engine he typed the word ‘potato’ and was so excited by the results that he surfed the web for four hours steady. By the end of the week there wasn’t anyone else in Kells who knew more about spuds than Clint. So this night Bert went over to visit him and to view this new-fangled surfing the web. Clint showed him how to log on to the Internet and look at the huge amount of information on potatoes that was there for the asking. Bert marvelled at all this. Then he asked –

“D’jever luck at the porn Clint?”

“I wudnae waste ma time. Sure I’ve plenty o’ vidyos.”

“What about the chat rooms?”

“D’ye wantae see the chat rooms?”

“Aye. I wudn’t mine seein’ them.”

So with that Clint started tapping away at the keyboard. He found a chat room and logged on. Within a moment Debby was requesting Clint join her in a private room. He, shocked, hit the back button, logged off, switched off the computer and pulled out the plugs at the socket. “That’s enough o’ that nonsense. D’ja want tay?”

Favourite Place To Be In Norn Iron

This comes from Stephen who says “In the spirit of Fridays everywhere I would like to start a meme, a Northern Ireland meme. The deal is this, post a photo of a place your favourite place to be in this part of the Emerald Isle, it can be anywhere.”

As I hardly ever get out I have posted the view from my front door. If you squint carefully you will see Slemish mountain.

Front Door Early Morning

For Men Only

I’m seeing, hearing and reading everywhere that men also have a hormonal cycle and suffer a male menopause. It appears that transformation from Lover Boy to Grumpy Old Git could be caused by a fall in testosterone levels. I got wondering why it is that you don’t hear a word about the male menopause for ages then suddenly it’s everywhere! Are the drug companies at their work again?

With increasing years the level of testosterone in the body gradually declines. In the middle years many men experience tiredness, loss of libido, poor erections, loss of muscle mass, mood swings and irritability. Some believe that these symptoms are a result of lower testosterone hormone levels and that giving men replacement testosterone therapy helps to overcome these symptoms. Link

I’m not saying there’s no such thing as the male menopause because I know a lot of Grumpy Old Gits and I’ve started to notice that some of our younger male friends are partying less and moaning more. I thought I’d devise this simple little questionnaire to help you measure your hormonal age*

Choose one statement from each part that most closely resembles your current situation.

Strength & Vitality

You push furniture around a room with your head. (2)

You can push furniture around a room with your head but only when you’re drunk and if you haven’t anything better to do. (18)

The only time you push furniture around a room with your head is when you’re receiving a jolly good seeing to. (25)

Sexual Orientation

You only love your Mammy (3)

You don’t like girls. (7)

Girls don’t like you (11)

Girls like you (16)

You like boys (21)

Sleep Patterns

You like a nap in the afternoon. You’re cranky at bedtime and up with the lark. (3)

You are a creature of the night. (17)

You’re up all night (21)

You like the odd early night and late morning (25)

You’re up at the toilet all night and you nap all day. (79)

Would Be Rude Not To

You could entertain yourself for hours. (14)

You entertain each other all the time (23)

You entertain each other fairly often (34)

You entertain each other once in a while (45)

Mood

You are a proper Sunny Jim (1)

You gripe a bit at bedtime (6)

Schooldays were the happiest… (14)

First love is the sweetest…(16)

…After the hurly burly (30)

Someone’s parked outside our house! (35)

My name is Victor Meldrew (65)

Total your scores and divide by five. The resulting number corresponds to your hormonal age**. For further information consult your GP who will likely tell you to go and boil your head. Not that I’d agree with that point of view as I really like the idea of a male menopause. It’s companionable.

*The questionnaire is only valid for male use. If females do it they may get skewed results. For example my own hormonal age was 49!

**The questionnaire is bogus.

Three Youngbos

Three Bos

Five Bos

Five Go Wild In Norfolk

Zoë and I returned from Norfolk this afternoon. It was a wonderful few days, which I totally enjoyed. When kids grow up and leave home reunions can be rare and that makes them even more precious. And to top the lot with dream topping my ex Mick, their dad, was there too. The last time I saw Mick was in Amsterdam nearly two years go on the occasion of Hannah’s 21^st birthday. But that was all quite frantic. This was much more relaxing.

When Katkin moved from Manchester she got Bert to help her with the move so he’s been to Norfolk before but it was my first visit. I liked it very much. It’s obviously a lot flatter than Norn Iron but is unspoilt. There are miles and miles without houses then when they come they are sympathetically built either of flint or red brick and fit in with the landscape. For anyone who’s not familiar with Norn Iron it looks like a giant got a great big bag of assorted houses (heavy on the tasteless ones) and scattered them over the landscape. Bert said it’s because we had no natural building materials apart from fieldstones so we built houses from ‘any ould shite we could get’.

So to get back to Norfolk it’s got pleasant countryside, sweet villages and friendly people. And it’s freezing. Next time I come during the summer.

The best bit was being with my girls and meeting Katy’s lovely other family and seeing Mick and Linda. The second best bit was finding a copy of Tristram Shandy* in Burnham Market and thrashing everyone at Millionaire.

*I’ve been looking for this for ages now. Since it was serialised on Radio 4 recently it’s been selling out of second hand bookshops everywhere.

Shopping for Handbags

...which proves I've got a girly side. Today I bought a rubber handbag (kinky, I shall keep rude things in it) and a purple suede one. Boys-a-dear that TK Maxx is a powerful tempting place. I only went in to look at the handbags for the rubber one was not enough for a greedy bag addict. You should have seen what I came out with. Actually if you are related to me and plan to be in Norfolk this weekend, you will.

Lemon Jelly

I was listening to this yesterday and it's given me an idea for a post that might persuade some of my more reticent readers to comment.

How many of these places you been then? How many have you got a connection with? Such as knew somebody from there, parents came from etc. etc. Don't tell porkies. You know it's not big and it's not clever. (I do love a cliche)

You've been on the go ever since you were born and I imagine few people in the world today have travelled as much as you have. Now why?

Well I dunno.
I suppose some of us are cave dwellers, some of us live in houses, some of us like to be loose footed.
I'm a ramblin' man.

I'm a ramblin' man.

Paris, Tibet, Sydney, Naxos
Rangoon, Rotterdam, Runcton, The Cayman Islands
Malawi, Mauritius, Haight-Ashbury, Patagonia
Kingston, Kentish Town, Codrington, Koh Samui
Felixstowe, Fingrinhoe, Valmorel, The North Pole
Brixton, Antwerp, Gujarat, Prawle
Uganda, Shennington, Sudbury, Sri Lanka
Ecuador, Edinburgh, Stockholm, Abu Dhabi
Lexington, Lindos, Tokyo, Harlem
Ipanema, Nicosia, Granada, San Jose
Damascus, Mandalay, San Francisco, Atlanta
Adelaide, Angmering, Arumpo, Amsterdam
New York, Kabul, Rwanda, Kyoto
Manchester, Prague, Mendhurst, Toronto
Madrid, Melbourne, Dublin, Dakar
Boston, Oslo, Tooting, Belfast
Botswana, Tonga, Rayburn

I'm a ramblin' man

And you're going to keep on rambling?

Oh yes, hehe, I have to.

And It Scared Me

That picture Fang was so scarey it scared me too. Which is the reason why I am posting this cute photograph of Paddy and Rosie interviewing a new friend. It was taken yesterday morning.

The fellows meet a new chum

Fang

An Embarrassing Event

Today I took Matty to visit Dad but first we went to the Mid-Antrim Animal Sanctuary charity shop where I bought a denim skirt, a sexy fall off the shoulders angora sweater and a Nicole Fahri top all for the sum of £8. All poor Matty got was a Ruth Rendell and she was a bit sad about that. So as we were planning to have coffee at Ditty’s in Castledawson it was just so near to Magherafelt we thought we might as well hit its one and only charity shop – which was having a 20 pence an item clear out. I won’t go into the details of the furry hats, linen shirts and intellectual reading matter that I acquired but I only spent £2.

By this time we were pretty peckish so headed fast to Dawson City. At first things went well. We had baked potatoes and coffee to accompany. There wasn’t much conversation as we fell to the spuds but I was enjoying listening to the business meeting going on at the next table between the head honcho (Mr Ditty) and a bunch of suits.

Then drama erupts. Matty spills her coffee. None of it went on the suits or myself but the table and floor were swimming in it. My poor old Mum was mortified. Mr Ditty raises an imperious arm and hails moppers and wipers. Swarms of them arrived. Mr Ditty continues talking buns to the suits. Matty is nearly in tears, poor thing. While the mess was being cleaned up I spent my time soothing her, telling her “never mind, an accident, nobody died.” She was all calmed down and at her replacement cup of coffee when it dawned on me. I was going to tell her but I’d have had to shout (she’s deaf) and I didn’t want everyone to know. So I sloped off to the counter

“Excuse me. I need to speak to someone about the spill we had.”
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“Um. It’s a bit embarrassing. Can I tell you in private?”

With that I was led away by a nice, motherly woman.

“You know that spill we had?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’d taken my tooth out. It was wrapped in a napkin.”
“Oh.”

It was at this point she started cackling. She headed over to the counter and informed all the staff (four of them) that my false tooth had been gathered up and thrown in the bin. There were roars of laughter all round. A customer sitting at the counter nearly choked on her coffee. The only person who didn’t get it was a Slovakian waitress but she’d only been here a few weeks.

So that was how I found myself behind the scenes at Ditty’s hoking through the bin bags. Two of them helped me and it was one of them found it.

It’s good to bring a smile to people’s faces even if Nelly’s own smile left something to be desired. A tooth.

So what with all that carry-on and the size of the tip I left I expect to be well remembered the next time I’m in Ditty’s of Dawson City.

My Funny Valentine

I Fall For Bert All Over Again

Have I ever told the world that I love Bert very much? Is it terribly corny that I’m telling you all on St Valentine’s Day? Bear with me while I explain.

I told Bert yesterday that I would not be getting him a card because it was all far too silly. Then I went to work saying “See you tomorrow then”

Work was OK. It wasn't exactly Chillage Village because the clientele were being their usual annoying, prat-like selves so I was perversely pleased when postie did not bring any of them cards this morning.

So perhaps it served me right later that morning when I slipped on a wet floor in the kitchen area and went on my beam end with a resounding crash. My backside, being very well padded, came to no harm but I really hurt my left wrist, which I’d thrown out to save myself. I also banged my right elbow and hurt my right wrist.

Hmmm. I wept a little and felt very sorry for myself then being an optimist started to look on the bright side. This was the perfect excuse not to have to clean the flat that had been vacated the previous day by a complete minger.

Then I started to feel sorry for myself again. I’m just about to have two weeks holiday and I am injured. Optimism surges again. Oh wise up – you’re not that injured, ignore it, it will go away. So I bravely continued with my work – administrative and support work only and I worked like a Trojan. Filed an accident report and a risk assessment, made sure I completed all the paperwork for the booking out and put the day in rightly. The wrist was pretty sore but not so bad that I felt the need to spend half the day in Antrim Area waiting for an x-ray. Driving home was a bit rough. It would have been OK if I could have done without reverse and fifth gear and I really wished I’d an automatic.

When I got home Bert was out. I noticed a large bag sitting on the kitchen table but I was too busy reheating pizza, saying hello to the dogs and feeding Harry de Cat to pay attention to it. It was from the chemist and I knew Bert had been to the dentist that morning and he always buys a shopful of dental hygiene products when he’s been to the dentist.

But at last I had a look. It was one of my favourite perfumes. And it was being hugged by a little teddy bear. Bert has often bought me perfume but in nearly 19 years this is the first time he’s ever bought me a soft toy because we reckon we’re far too sensible for that sort of sentimental nonsense. But … I’m melting inside. I haven’t even taken it out of its wrapper and I know I’ll treasure it forever. I’ll even knit it a jumper.

I still haven’t seen or spoken to Bert this St Valentine’s Day and I’m just about to tell the world – I love him so much. I love him despite the tin-whistling. It’s not because of the teddy bear. That just reminded me.

Site Meter

I put Site Meter on this blog last night. It was really easy to do even for a technophobe like me. Now I can keep a check on the embarrassingly few visitors that I have. Seems to me that people would far rather schlep over to Cully to see me in person than come visit my blog. And it's Bert who is the one they're really coming to see. I'm just the grumpy, glaring person in the corner who keeps sloping off to hit on her own blog.

Plain Stove

Flooded Pathway

Blackthorn

A Wet Walk

I've shaken off my winter languor at last and today was my fourth day in a row out walking. It rained heavily yesterday so the Maine was high and parts of the path were flooded. But this was no problem to a woman in wellies. The dogs get to have legitimate scunging and we all three get a break from the noise of Bert's infernal peeping on the tin whistle.

I need a new oven. I'm bound to be the only woman in Cully who cooks on a South African six-ring gas oven. They are not designed for fairy cakes and pizza - they're for simmering a nice stewed goat or haunch of buck. I suppose I'll have to wait until we move.

Bert and I are having a big dispute about fireplaces. Because the house originally had four fireplaces he wants a fireplace in the kitchen. And the sitting room. And in a conservatory. I don't really want a fireplace in the kitchen but have said yes on condition it is one of those stand-alone closed in stoves. Now we are arguing about the size of the hole that is to be built to accommodate this. We decided on 4 x 4 foot now we're arguing about the depth. I say 22 inches, he says less than this so that we can build a fireplace surrounding it. Oh get me a puke bucket quick. The reason I want one of those stoves is that the whole thing can be as unobtrusive as possible. I just know it will be rarely lit. The last thing I need is an empty grate full of orange peel and cigarette butts.

Now I'm nearly as old as Queen Camilla and I have some very old-fashioned ideas. I don't think men should be allowed in my kitchen at all unless they are eating, cooking the dinner or doing some other useful thing. They shouldn't be let to hang around kitchens when they are doing nothing or playing tin whistles. And providing sources of radiant heat is only encouraging them.

I'm for posting a few pictures now. Two are from my walk and one is of the type of fireplace I want. Isn't it lovely?

Long Fingers

Did you ever see such long fingers as the ones on yer woman. ET wouldn't have a look in.

Hello Poser

Jeremiah

Jerry and Nelly's Evening Oot

Returning from work on Tuesday last I spotted Jeremiah heading homewards with three heavy bags of rations. I turned the car and offered him a lift up home. Jerry is a long-time buddy of my Dad’s who used to help him on his farm a long time ago. Naturally Jerry was asking after Dad and said he’d love to go to see him so I offered to take him down. Hence our date.

I was a bit worried that Jerry would find it hard seeing Dad in a nursing home and unable to talk properly but I needn’t have. The two of them were so pleased to see each other. The lovely thing was the way Jerry was with Daddy. He did not talk down to him but gave him his complete attention. It was total man-to-man respect. Afterwards Jerry said he thought Dad looked great, much better than he’d expected. He also praised the nursing home saying that it seemed like a lovely, homely place. That’s always good for a daughter to hear.

We called at Aunt Bella’s pub where Jeremiah had a Cream of the Barley (Bella remembered his tipple) and a Guinness. I had a cup of tea with Aunt Em in the kitchen. It was a good outing. Jerry is great crack and told me some stories from the old days that I’d never heard.

This is one about my Granny. Jerry said Granny used to have great bantering sessions with a Protestant man who lived near the Creamery. As Jerry put it this boy was a great one for the Orange. Every Twelfth of July he’d put a Union Jack up at the Creamery but this particular year some skitters pulled it down on him. The next time he was in Granny’s pub he asked her if she knew anything about it and of course she said she didn’t know a thing. So he told her he was going to sicken them and get the flag painted on to the road. Granny said, “That’s great. We’ll be able to trample over it when we’re going to the chapel.”

Here’s another story from the old days. My father’s Uncle James was a medical student in Dublin when the great flu epidemic broke out. He was working in a hospital, caught the flu and died from it. All his effects were sent home to his parents and they included a genuine skeleton, which was part of a medical student’s kit at the time. For years this skeleton was stored in a box in the attic of the pub. Later it was moved out to one of the sheds. As children I remember us having great searches for it but all we ever found was the skull. It was pierced by a big hook and hinged at the jaw with wire. Now this is the bit that is hearsay but it’s a good story anyway. The ‘bare bones’ of it are true anyway.

Aunt B didn’t like this skeleton being around so she asked her son to bury it in the garden. But he only put it in a shallow grave. Later it was dug up by a neighbour’s dog who proudly took a human femur back to its owner. She, naturally, phoned the police – cue murder investigation. As I say it is hearsay. All I know is that as a family we prefer to keep our skeletons in the cupboard – except for me, of course.

Brown Eyed Girl

She's Got Squinty Een...

..so I have to post a picture that shows her beautiful brown eye I mean eyes.

Katy the Wag

Katkin's Comment

K sent this comment by email. It refers to the recent runaway scunging devil dogs. I liked it.

Mum, you should have better control or tell bert to entertain them.

They probably go because of the noise of his whistling. Love Katkins

I've Got A Date!

I have mentioned before that Thursday night is Music Night here at Nelly's house. Bert gathers up his crew of musicians and they go deedly-deeing and bluegrassing for hours on end. Then they play darts. Meanwhile I get total control of the TV remote and maybe while away a few minutes on the computer.

But this Thursday is different as I'm going out. I've got a date. I literally picked him up in the village on my way home from work this evening and we've planned a drive (to Randalstown), then we're calling in at Aunt Bella's for a drink. My date will be on the beer and I'll have tea as I'll be driving.

Now those of you who know me as a happily partnered woman might be surprised that I'm going out with another man, an older man, but it should reassure you all to know that Matty approves and Bert has no problem with it.

I'll let you know how it went after the event. After all I might get stood up. But if he doesn't, and if he lets me, I'll post a picture too.

Scunging Again

Those scunging devil dogs fecked off again. They only seem to do it when I'm at work so I suppose they must find Bert a bit dull to hang out with. Rosie has just returned and she is bogging. All her white bits are black. Paddy is still missing. Bert had been out looking for them for hours but had to give up when it got dark. It is very worrying because one of these days Johnny Farmer will shoot them.

Somebody Smart

Can somebody smart tell me what that computer language stuff is doing on my blog.

Bert's Malaise

Bert has been sad all week. He had horrible dental treatment on Tuesday, which left him feeling pretty rotten. He is still not smoking but is at the stage where he believes his life holds less meaning because he is not sucking in nicotine. I tell him that this will pass and he will rejoice in his tobacco free existence. But when Bert is down he thinks he will never know happiness, joy or contentment again. Even now when birds are singing, early flowers are blooming, the days are lengthening and global warming is underway, he believes he will never feel the heat of the sun again.

Meanwhile I have had a good week. Kerry Sis has been staying with Matty this week and I have seen a good bit of her. We met for lunch on Monday, went to Belfast on Tuesday. On Thursday we went for a walk and yesterday we met up for pizza. Z&D and Bert were also there. This morning Z, Kerry Sis and I went to the Saturday market. I only bought fish and oranges. This afternoon I return to work which will be nice for Bert as it is a strain for a pessimist to have to hang out with an optimist. He will be able to play his whistle to his heart’s content and hang around the house in dirty boots. Later he will kick of his boots and cook fish. Perhaps Ian and Swisser will visit and they can sit around talking keek until way past their bedtimes.

If anyone has any practical suggestions on how to cheer Bert up feel free to advise. His likes include parties, days and nights out and general buldoys involving drink and silly talk.

Happy Birthday DD

Another Quiz

Another quiz I found the other day was copied from Acid Man via chez

This one tests your personality type and these are my results.

Wackiness: 58/100
Rationality: 50/100

Constructiveness: 72/100
Leadership: 60/100

You are a WECL--Wacky Emotional Constructive Leader. This makes you a People’s Advocate.

You are passionate about your causes, with a good heart and good endeavours. Your personal fire is contagious, and others wish they could be as dedicated to their beliefs as you are.

Your dedication may cause you to miss the boat on life's more slight and trivial activities. You will feel no loss when skipping some inane mixer, but it can be frustrating to others to whom such things are important. While you find it difficult to see other points of view, it may be useful to act as if you do, and play along once in a while.

In any event, you have buckets of charisma and a natural skill for making people open up. Your greatest asset is an ability to make progress while keeping the peace.

Of the 87955 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 6.1 % are this type.

If that’s all true then I’m obviously in the right line of work but it sounds like I should also be putting myself up for Union Rep. Actually I think the results are a bit skewed as they don’t appear to have factored in lethargy. This is the person I would be if I wasn’t so damned lazy.

And You Are...?

On Growing Older

That photo of dear old Danny and myself must be well over a decade old from when I was in my mid-thirties or thereabouts. Now I’m in my (very) early fifties and often find myself pondering my impending old age. So how happy I was to discover this quiz, which I copied from Lawyer Guy. Apparently I act 27, so perhaps I'm not so middle-aged after all. I think it was the White Stripes that cut it for me.

But I still have to decide what kind of ould doll that I want to be. These are some of the possibilities that occur to me.

Momma Bear – eternal mother figure. Provider of hot meals, clean laundry, baby sitting services, soothing cups of tea, ample bosom and a comfy lap. Momma loves her family, her grandchildren, cooking, cleaning, chatting and baby-sitting. Her heroes are her children and Princess Diana.

Old Biddy – umbrella waving, shopping trolley pulling, queue jumping, moaning Minnie who smells of damp tweed and pee. Old Biddy loves going to the doctor, shopping, complaining, ancient tweed coats, woolly hats and mangy cats. Her heroine is Margaret Thatcher.

Old Hippy – flowing skirts, beaded and scarfed, home grown herbs, dope smoking, sandal wearing, earth mother and anti blood sports green. Old Hippy loves gardening, candle making, arts and crafts, world music, joss sticks, tarot cards, eclectic furnishings, patchwork, mongrel dogs and Glastonbury. Her hero is The Goddess. And she grieved for weeks over John Peel.

Glamorous Granny – designer clothes, stilettos, botoxed, face lifted, wig wearing, Rigby & Pellered, perfumed. GG loves lying about her age, jewellery, expensive presents, other women’s envy and younger men. She admires Catherine Deneuve and Liz Hurley.

Good Old Girl – short skirts, leather trousers, too much make up, lots of cleavage, frightens young men. Good Old Girl loves dirty talk, cigarettes, alcohol, parties, Bingo and sex. She looks up to Barbara Windsor and fancies George Clooney.

I definitely don’t want to be an Old Biddy and I’m far too lazy and poor to be a Glamorous Granny so it will have to be elements of the other three. It’ll be a toucher deciding, that’s for sure.

Danny and friend