Beware The Green Butter

This guy I know, he's usually pretty clean-living, at least that's what he tells me, sorted himself some of that green butter, made himself some cookies and settled down with a nice cup of tea and half a special cookie. Thought he'd have a nice relaxing evening watching TV in the stoned zone. But things didn't go according to plan. Maybe that butter had more of a kick to it than he was expecting. First off the TV was giving him visions and fits, next thing the phone rings just as he's slipping into a pretty paranoid state. Turns out the guy ringing him up is conducting a telephone interview for a job he's really keen on. He does his best but all through the conversation he's thinking,

This person has to be thinking that I'm the most insane, loony mentalist he's ever spoken to in his entire life.

Guess what? He still got the job.

Eleven Months Later

I left Tinkerton and hostel work eleven months ago with the intention of working part-time and studying for a diploma in teaching ICT. Things didn't go exactly to plan. I ended up accepting the offer of a full-time job and keeping on with the course with less free time to study than I'd envisaged.

At one point I got so stressed that I was on the verge of quitting the course but our teacher would have none of it. So I struggled on and it was tough, especially towards the end.

Now I've got the diploma (heard today) and I've also got six months experience of a new and challenging job under my belt.

Thanks to our teacher, a wonderfully supportive bunch of fellow students, Bert for putting up with me, my family for encouraging me and CD for letting me work on assignments in quiet moments.

Ronni

Ronni has been on my blogroll for quite a while now. Her post on the 20th of August is short and devastating. As she puts it, 'If you are a praying person, pray for us'

Rosie & Pearlie Got Sore Paws

Between one thing and another Bert has had a tough week. There has been a lot going on with Pearlie (she broke her wrist) and we’ve been trying to get more help from social services. On Friday, between arranging to take Pearlie to A&E and meeting with her social worker, those dirty, rotten, scunging devil-dogs gave him the slip for the first time in a fortnight. We do try to keep them from running off but they know when we’re distracted and pick their moment well.

About three hours into his hospital sit, Bert got a phone call from Alber’,

Your Paddy is running about the Lisnahuncheon Road and he’s that black with glaar you’d hardly know it was him!

There was nothing Bert could do until he got home. He went out as soon as he’d eaten and managed to gather Paddy up but Rosie was nowhere to be seen.

Paddy was in a really funny mood. He didn’t want to get into the van and when I got a hold of him he pissed himself.

We waited patiently for Rosie to return. Bert had to go out and at 8pm I set off to look for her. Up the Loan Hill, Killyless Road, Lisnahuncheon – I called for her until I was hoarse but no Rosie.

When Bert got back he went out too but wasn’t able to find her either. I was really worried thinking that she might have been hurt, or shot, maybe put her shoulder out again – something must have happened to her.

Next morning I was out again, mainly checking the roads in case she’d been hit by a car. I brought an old towel with me to wrap her in if I found her body.

At 8.30am Bert went out. Fifteen minutes later I heard him coming back. I knew he’d found her but whether dead or alive I didn’t know. But as soon as I saw him get out of the car and head for the boot I knew she was alive. His body language told me.

The poor bedraggled thing had caught her front paw in a snare and had lay in a hedge the entire night. Bert returned to the place where he’d found Paddy, walked into a field and went straight to her. He said she wagged her wet, scraggy tail when she saw him. In took a while to get the snare off but amazingly her leg wasn’t too badly hurt at all. It was swollen but started going down within an hour. She had a feed, a big drink of water and jumped on to the sofa for a serious wound-licking session. Then she slept for the rest of the day.

She’s still resting today and has only chased the cat a couple of times.

And what of Pearlie? She’s enjoying a week’s stay in residential care. She could only get a week, and so far she says it’s not too bad. She says the food is ‘alright’, the other women are ‘a bit odd’ and there’s a man she’s got her eye on. She asked Bert if he’d mind her taking up with a boy and he said he wouldn’t as long as he was a decent sort of a boy.

Lost Dog

Earlier today I had to reduce the number of chickens on the sidebar to 7. One of the banties has disappeared.

I'm terribly worried that I'm going to have to drop on the dog count too. Rosie has been missing since 10 o'clock this morning.

Slippytit* and the Bare Bear

I’ve got bears on the brain right now. Ever since I decided I was going to get Zoë a replacement Paddington Bear to make up for the one that I donated to a jumble sale many years ago. OK – he had spent the last several years of his stay with us as a nudist, while a panda wore his duffel coat, his hat was lost down the back of the sofa and his Wellington boots had become a part of family tradition as each daughter eagerly awaited her turn to fill Paddington’s shoes. But now that the frenzy of fundraising for worthy causes (Women’s Aid and the like) had left me, I had come to regret giving Zoë’s bear away. After all I hadn’t even asked her if I could. And a Paddington in good condition can fetch more than £80 on EBay these days.

So I decided to get an old dilapidated bear and restore him to his former glory and present him to Zoë. I spotted a shabby nude one on EBay and thought I’d try for him, decided I’d pay up to £20 and started watching him. The last twenty minutes were nail biting. I watched the auction obsessively. He was going to be mine for £16. In the last five minutes I upped my bit to £21.45. In the last seconds I breathed a sigh of relief. In the closing seconds some total bastard sneaked in and snatched my bare bear away from me for a paltry £22.45. The word ‘incandescent’ was invented for such moments.

*Funnily enough the robbing bastard EBayer's handle wasn't Slippytit, but it wasn't far off it.

Chocolate

I really like chocolate. But since I started eating sensibly at the beginning of July, the entire amount of chocolate I've consumed is less than I used to eat in a day. I had very little self-control around it, so for now, it's best for me that I rarely eat it at all.

But I still buy it - loads of it! I buy gigantic bars from Lidl's and Cadbury's and even Mars Bars. And give it all to Bert. He's not like me. He can nibble a bit of chocolate and put it down and leave it for a day, or even days - if he forgets about it. I could never do that and I never, ever forget that I have it.

So why do I buy it? I think it's because I want to control it. If I buy Bert lots of chocolate then I'm not going to be surprised by stumbling upon a bit of chocolate he's bought for himself and, of course, wolfing it down. I keep asking him how much he's got left and has he eaten any recently. Bless him for he tries to avoid eating it in front of me. So he'll go get it when I'm on the computer, or something. But I hear the rustle of the wrapping and my chocolate receptors go on full alert.

Why am I writing this post? Because it is supposed to be taking my mind off chocolate. But it's not working...I want some.

James Blunt: He's A.....

D asked me today what I thought of James Blunt. Something happened, maybe that was when Gracie rolled in a dead fish or some such thing, and I never got round to saying. Anyway, for the record, I can't bear the wee get.

Today was one of those days when you remember exactly what you were doing a long time ago.

In 1977, on this day, I was in London. I was working as a chambermaid in the Inverness Terrace Hotel in Bayswater, living in grotty rooms in Holland Park (bet it's not so grotty now) and it was in a friend's flat in Paddington that I heard that Elvis was dead.

I must confess that I wasn't a huge Presley fan and it took a while for his death to affect me. It was 2004 before I realised what we had lost.

Dodging About

Last night a few of us went to the Feile An Phobail to see Lee "Scratch" Perry. It was a good show. Mr Perry cuts an eccentric looking figure on stage. He pimps his hat, his shoes and the mike but, as I didn't bring my camera, I haven't the evidence. Probably just as well I hadn't a camera as it meant I had more of a chance to just enjoy the performance and, as Bert said,

If he'd stand still a minute 'til I get a good look at him. He's dodging about up there like one of our wee banties!

What?

By local standards Mr Bolan would be considered a well-spoken fellow. Indeed, some Spides might even consider him to be a tad la-di-da. Yet it seems that in sunny Cambridgeshire his accent, with its thick Norn Irish brogueiness, defeats the understanding of many of his co-residents. I have an opinion about this. And this is it.

Certain peoples, and I think that the Southern English are among these peoples, consider themselves to be a cut above. It's not really English unless it is spoken by the worthy people. Accents, of any kind, are unacceptable. They cause the brow to furrow and the eye to glaze. And I think that these people who have such trouble understanding the Irish, the Welsh, the Indian, the Brummie, the Scot, the Chinese, the Geordie, all the Johnny Foreigners are simply being arrogant, up themselves and snobby gets.

I experienced this incomprehension a lot when I visited the deep South. In Mississippi and Louisiana I quickly learned not to ask the white folks for the rest room or directions of any sort. Small Mom and Pop stores were the worst. Those people just didn't understand one word I said. They looked at me with deep suspicion and not a little resentment. Instead I'd ask black women for directions if I needed to find something in a shop or figure out where the toilets where. Those women had not the slightest difficulty understanding our North Antrim accents and were more than willing to help us find our way about.

I've often wondered about it since. Were the white folks, often a minority in the rural areas, a remnant of the worthy people who set the standard on how English should be spoken, the people who shouldn't have to make an effort to understand the way that other, less worthy people spoke, or am I just a paranoid bitch?

Could Be Worser

62%How Addicted to Blogging Are You?

Los Angeles Singles from Mingle²

Found at Ed's place.


Ganching - you must do this

The Rich Are Different

I just watched a YouTube clip where Britney Spears hit a parked car. At first I sympathised as this was a very similar accident to the one I had that time I clipped the BMW. But the manner of the accident was where the similarities stopped.

In Britney's case the witnesses were a roving pack of paparazzi. In mine witnesses included the raging owner of the car.

In Britney's case all the focus was on her and her sports car. Nobody gave a toss about the parked vehicle she dunted.

In Britney's case she got out of her car in her skintight purple dress and showed off her knickers to the grateful paps. In my case I got out of my car in my dowdy office clothes and kept my knickers well out of it. Don't think showing them would have helped anyways.

In Britney's case she then swanned into a health food shop, surrounded by sycophants, gay admirers and snappers, and bought a load of vitamins. In my case I trudged dejected and alone into Kells Centra and bought a tub of cottage cheese. Nobody cared enough to put me on YouTube and I had to give that tosser £530.

And I know I'm the last person to give driving advice, but - honestly Britney! You'd handle that car a whole lot better if you'd get that effing Yorkshire Terrier out of your arms!

Food, Glorious Food!

I've lost 15 lbs. It's taken 5 weeks to lose, which is maybe a bit too fast, but I can't help it. I'm not starving myself.

Here is The Diet

Lots of - porridge, fruit, vegetables, lean meat, fish, Ryvita, cottage cheese, eggs, natural yogurt. coffee, tea.

A little of - milk, honey, gin, nuts, olive oil, white wine.

None of - cheese, bread, shop-bought biscuits/cake.

I'd be lying if I said I was being a total purist but that's about it.

Brazilian

The Wee Manny and Mrs The Wee Manny were here for dinner last night. As ever, it was a crazy evening. Craziness and the Wee Manny go hand-in-hand.

Among the many tall tales that he told was the one about the woman who got drunk at a training day and showed some of her work colleagues her 'Brazilian'.

And you know what a Brazilian is, don't you Nelly?

I have a pretty good idea Wee Manny.

It's when a girl shaves her pubic hair into the shape of the map of Brazil.

Is it?

By the look of that map I'd say she'd want to be encouraging the growth in the region of her right groin area Say round about the Peruvian and Colombian borders.

Swisser says she's having hers shaved into the shape of the map of Ireland.

Ploppy Pants says,

North and South?

Swisser says,

All of it. I believe in a united Ireland.

Ploppy says he's getting his shaved in the shape of Ulster. And that'll be the six counties Ulster. Of course.

Advice Not Taken

We were all given a great bit of advice the other day. I did not take it.

I went to work yesterday morning with a bit of stomachache going on . Naturally I put it down to something I'd eaten and soldiered on. Unfortunately by lunchtime it was quite a bit worse and I mentioned to one of the site foremen that I was feeling yuck. He diagnosed wind and recommended a good gallop around a field. But when I turned grey and went into cold sweats they hauled me off to A&E.

I have to say that, despite their newness to the job, the medical staff treated me very well. Perhaps Katie wasn't too adept at the old needle into the vein thing and Alicia hadn't a clue how to adjust the trolley bed but apart from that and the long wait it wasn't too bad. My heart was fine, and so were all the other tests. I think that site foreman's original diagnosis might have been correct.

Thanks to my boss, CD, who took me to hospital and waited the whole time I was there. He's off to climb Mont Blanc this morning. You take care of yourself up there CD.

It's all My Fault

Cadbury Schweppes say that the current downfall in profit margins are down to the rising cost of milk.

Some financial commentators are saying that the company expected too much from the new markets opening up in China. Seems the Chinese just don't care for chocolate.

I'm saying that their profit losses must have something to do with their extra added ingredient - salmonella.

But Matty says it's all my fault! It's true. I've not had chocolate for nearly a month now. I'm turning Chinese!

The Artist Currently Known As 'Gorgeous' Gage

The orchard before

This morning Bert had to get up at 8am because Sammy 'Gorgeous' Gage was coming to level the orchard. Bert hates an early rise at the best of times but when the digger man comes, not only does he have get up, he also has to work like a navvy the whole day.

Of course it was raining, which didn't help his mood. It was only a fine mizzle but Bert didn't like the look of it. He's like a cat - hates getting wet.

How come when Clint had Gorgeous in, it never rained?

Because Clint's a good man who says his prayers every night.

Huh!

The orchard has been a bit of a disaster area for some time now. When we were having this house renovated all the rubble ended up in it and since then Clint's been dumping stuff there as well. When you climb over the rubble there are two poxy apple trees then there's a low bit with six foot nettles. It's a bit of a wild life haven - mostly rabbits with myxomatosis so hardly worth preserving. It has to go!

Gorgeous arrived bright and early and I headed off to work leaving them to it.


At lunchtime I set off for a brisk walk to the graveyard. When I'm working I try to walk for at least half an hour every day. As I've said before the village hasn't many good walks. And you have to watch your step as it's the dogshit capital of the borough.

In the graveyard car park I saw this poor remnant from a cockfight. I find it hard to understand how people can take pleasure in breeding fowl just to watch them tear each other to bits. And, call me pi if you like, I thought it was disrespectful to use church property for such a purpose.

The orchard project: Day 1

Home again and I take a few minutes to watch 'Gorgeous' at his work. As I remarked to Bert, that man is an artist with a digging bucket.

Then I went out for a bike ride and managed to ride up one of the hills! So pleased.

That Last Post Was Just Me Whinging

Despite being of advanced years I still get that boring thing where you feel really moody and down for a few days every month. Which is part of the reason why I was feeling so sorry for myself when I wrote the last post.

I was mean about Swisser and Jazzer too. I do love them and they love me - it's just that they love Bert more. He is much more lovable than me, not being prickly and moody and stuff...

And I had a shitty day at work on Friday which spoiled my (lonely) weekend so it's little wonder I took to the licorice and the wine.

Then I went to the FlabFighting weigh-in and didn't lose an ounce which was a bit of a bummer. So I went home and ate an entire chocolate cake. Did I fuck! I went home and jumped on my bike and went on a three mile ride. Well - I say ride. About a third of it was downhill, a third of it fairly flat and the remaining third was hills and I have to confess I walked up a good part of those. Still it was more intense exercise than I'm used to and it was a start.

Did I ever tell youse that before I met Bert I regularly went on twenty mile bike rides? Occasionally longer runs too. God I was fit then. And did I ever mention that it wasn't until I met Bert that I started smoking regularly. Spliffs of course - but that got me started on tobacco. Then when I gave it all up, over three years ago, I piled on the weight. A couple of people told me that after two years my metabolism would steady and I'd lose it again. So I ate like a savage for two years and just kept getting steadily fatter. It took another year for me to decide to do something about it. You see I was very anti-diet, fat being a feminist issue and all that. Hadn't attempted one since my early twenties. But fat is a serious health issue when your tonnage is well into the teens of stone.

Did that bike ride again this evening, still walked up most of the hilly bits. My aim is to cycle the hills eventually. I think I can do it.

After the bike ride Bert and I did a bit of digging and weeding and raking. Then we had dinner. He had pie and I had chicken and vegetable stew. He had chocolate buns and I had melon. He drank a Guinness and I drank tea. I'm getting so strong I think I could beat him at wrestling. Especially after he'd had Guinness and pie and a spliff. And if I fought dirty. Yes. It should be easy.

I Don't Actually Have A Life

Thursday Bert announced that he was going to the Midlands Music Festival with Billy and Glen. Great I thought, you go Bert. Then I got depressed. Since Pearlie has been ultra-dependant Bert and I can't actually go anywhere together. Not even for one night. Which is OK for Bert because he's got a big network of fellows that he can go off with.

But not me. I knew I hadn't any close female friends. Swisser and Jazzer are more into Bert than they are into me. And both of them drive me mental a lot of the time. There are other work-based friends but they're into painting themselves orange and going to vile night clubs and that's just not me...

I haven't got anybody, apart from Bert, that I want to go away with. And it would be just so sad to go away on my own - or would it?

Who Killed Little Orphan Andy?

Observant readers may have noticed that I have added a couple of extra items to my sidebar. These are 'number of chickens' and 'weight lost since 02/07/07'. Expect both of these items to change regularly.

For instance, when I added it, the number of chickens was set at 10. Two days later I had to change it to 8. Foxy got one of my new half-game pullets and, it appears, Little Orphan Andy. At least I think it was Foxy. Bert has other ideas.

Foxy definitely got one of Clint's geese, a big one, and two young roosters. Alber' was hired to come lamp Foxy. Alber' shot two. A big daddy and a young one. So we can assume that there are quite a few more stroking about.

Bert said we cannot be certain Foxy took Little Orphan Andy. He says it could have been a buzzard, or a rat, or a weasel, or even..........

Happy Birthday Mother Mine

Mum Celebrating Easter Sunday, originally uploaded by ganching1.

Matty is celebrating her 81st birthday today.

And no.. she didn't go out for a burn. She went out for a nice sedate lunch with her friend Sheena, Zoe and myself.

What Type of Irishman Are You?

A while ago I found, and bought, a complete 10 volume set of Arthur Mee's Children's Encyclopaedia. I think I gave some charity shop a fiver for it. At the moment there's someone selling a 1930s set (like mine) on Ebay for a ton but I'm going to keep my set because it provides Nellybert with a great deal of pleasure, education and entertainment.

Last night I dragged it out of the attic and started looking for interesting colour plates to upload to Flickr. I was diverted by a very interesting article on our own wee country. Last weekend Ploppy Pants really annoyed me by spouting some Orangeman rubbish about how the Scottish planters civilised County Down and County Antrim. Apparently it was a wild and tangled forest before the Scots came, cut down the trees and showed the savage Irish how to be farmers.

As I'd been looking for some killer facts to refute Ploppy's argument, I started to read. And was utterly diverted by these fascinating paragraphs about the people of this country.

The Three Types of Irishmen

There is a very primitive type still to be met with in the west. It is the one that was formerly used in Irish caricatures by unfriendly observers. The forehead is low, the mouth and lower part of the face are large, there is an inclination to a squat figure, and the general effect is that of a survivor from an early period in human history.

Then there is the tall, often blue-eyed, engaging Irishman of easy address and good-humoured air, who would wile a bird from a bough by his fluent tongue, ready for adventure anywhere.

And there is the business man, chiefly from the north, who carries in his speech and form and features signs of being a stiffer and less pliant breed, as from Norse, Scotch, or English forefathers. (Arthur Mee: The Children's Encyclopaedia, Volume 5, p3061)

Ploppy is definitely a mixture of the first and third types. For he has a simian appearance, a dour outlook on life and couldn't wile a bird from a bough if his life depended on it.

Here are some modern examples of the three types of Irishmen -



From left to right, the squat primitive, the silver-tongued charmer and the stiff Scottish type.

So what type of Irishman or Irishwoman are you?

The Height of Style

Matty: D'ye know I was thinking today about the time I went to my first ceilidh.

Nelly: What age were you?

Matty: I was thirteen. D'ye know what I wore?

Nelly: Tell me.

Matty: I had on this green jumper I knit myself and a sort of sleeveless gymslip thing over it.

Nelly: You never! What sort of a gymslip?

Matty: Well it wasn't really a gymslip. Just the shape of one. It had been a sailor dress but I took out the sleeves and the collar and stitched it into a vee-neck. I was always fixing up clothes. Hand sewing too.

Nelly: What colour was the dress thing?

Matty: Navy blue and the jumper was bottle green.

Nelly: Oh my God! What a combination.

Matty: And d'ye know what I wore on my feet?

Nelly: What?

Matty: A pair of wellington boots.

Nelly: (screams) You never! What colour were the wellies?

Matty: Black. And you know this - I was danced off my feet.

Ten Things

TEN THINGS I DON'T DO EVERY DAY

I donned a hard hat and hung around a building site.

I washed a hen’s feet in warm soapy water and applied Benzyl Benzoate.

I heard who died in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

I laughed out loud at Big Brother.

I persuaded my hypochondriac mother to make a doctor’s appointment.

I ate a tomato that I pulled off the vine.

I told a caller, No. We don’t actually have a London office.

I started reading a SF paperback by Poul Anderson.

I fantasised that I was choking Peaches Geldof in front of a delighted and cheering audience.

I blogged about ten things.

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TEN THINGS I DO EVERY DAY

Eat porridge.

Watch chickens.

Poo.

Listen (reluctantly) to Bert playing the clarinet.

Housework.

Read blogs.

Water something.

Read something other than blogs.

Wear something.

Just be generally lovely and sweet and adorable.

Potter's World of Owls

On Saturday afternoon Bert, myself and a selection of Banjos went to World of Owls in Randalstown to plant climbers. These climbers were mainly Clematis montanas, and they're going to help give the owls a bit of privacy. When they grow. If they grow.

I uploaded a few pictures over in Flickr.

It was a very owly Saturday. Ballymena's Tower Centre had a Harry Potter themed day and one of the 'attractions' was a display of owls from a local school of falconry. I don't think the owls were Potter fans for they didn't look too delighted to be there.

So I suppose loads of you, besides Ed, bought and read the latest of those damn books that have made JK Rowling, Daniel Radcliffe and the rest multimillionaires. I shan't be reading it just yet. Maybe if I'm ever serving a jail term I might get round to it. Despite my reluctance to read it I'd like a private email telling me what happened and who died.

What Sort Of A So-Called Man....

...would have Rihanna's Umbrella on his mobile phone?

Personally I find it offensive, when I'm obliged to ring someone up, to hear, instead of a perfectly sensible ringtone, the downright gayness of that ubiquitous dross.

Has he no shame?

But then what would you expect of a man who acts the complete maggot just because I touched the bumper of his BMW with my dented Polo.

Danced with aggressive rage he did.

Later when I was speaking with him and arranging to pay for the damage done I remarked to him that he was a sight more civil now than he was when the incident occurred. He said that if it had happened the other way around I wouldn't have been too nice either.

I don't think so mate.

Fuck Facebook & Google Reader

Sod work and chickens and housework and visitors.

Damn and blast gardens and lists and dogs and diets.

To hell with killer sudoku and Big Brother.

How would a body ever get time to blog?

Little Plum

The Chicken-Blogging continues...

We've had the bantam rooster for a while now and have not named him. There have been a few attempts but none stuck.

Since Dede's dog Pickles had the tail feathers trailed out of him the other day he has presented a bedraggled backside to the world. This morning Bert referred to him as 'Little Plum' after the incredibly non-PC character from the Beano. Why Little Plum? Because, like Plum, he's little and he's only got one feather!

Of course, now that he's got the really great name, Foxy's bound to have him.

Orphaned!

Before I had chickens I used to admire Foxy. I'd hear people like Pearlie going on about how evil he was and how he should be killed at every opportunity and I'd think,

She's mad. Imagine wanting to slaughter the beautiful, clever fox for the sake of a few manky hens.

How I've changed my tune! Foxy got Bernie today. Again! And now her little chick is an orphan.

Bring on Alber' and his lamp and his .22 for war has been declared on the vulpine horde.

Little Orphan Annie or Andy. We're not sure yet.

Billy's Rissoles

After I’d spent three miserable years at St Louis’ Convent my parents relented and allowed me to leave after the third year. It’s very likely I wouldn’t have been allowed to stay anyway as I’d made a very poor show in my Junior examinations.

So it was off to Antrim Technical College to do a pre-nursing course. It was still school but compared to the Convent it was heaven. At that time the ‘tech’ or Further Education College was more formal than it is today. Boys could go from age eleven, everyone wore uniforms and it was said that Mr Bell the headmaster even used the cane! But only on boys.

At lunchtime we could actually leave the building and go into town. And sometimes if we got chatting to boys in O’Neill’s Café we didn’t bother going back in the afternoon. Of course, being painfully shy, I didn’t chat much to boys. But I liked being around when chatting was going on.

The Tech was where I first met and got to know Protestants. If there was sectarianism and bigotry around I can’t say I ever experienced or even noticed it. This was 1968 and the Troubles were just about to begin. We had a very enlightened teacher of Current Affairs and she grounded me in the background of Northern Ireland politics pre-1968. It’s probably one of the most interesting things I’ve ever learned at school. Before I met Winifred Law I thought that Gerry Mandering was a politician who Nationalists didn’t trust an inch.

This wasn’t quite as bizarre as my previous miscomprehension of world affairs when, as a somewhat younger child, I’d thought that the Viet Cong had trained gorillas fighting for them and that the Americans, whilst very brave, hadn’t a chance of winning. I used to avidly watch the news hoping for a glimpse of these gorillas.

All this came back to me as a result of talking to my Aunt Maud yesterday. Maud’s brother Billy ran a café in Antrim that we went to occasionally. O’Neill’s Café was where the boys hung out but at Billy’s you could get rissoles. Those rissoles were so good.

I asked Aunt Maud,

Did your Billy tell anybody his rissole recipe before he died?

No. He never did.

That was a pity.

There was one thing he put into those rissoles that he never told anyone. But I think I know what it was.

What was it?

I think it was powdered onion soup.

Billy’s rissoles were made from carrots, onions, sausage meat and his secret ingredient. This mixture was shaped, dipped in flour, then beaten egg, then coated in batter and deep-fried. One rissole was enough for two people. Maud said that Billy never made much money of his most famous dish because he ‘made them too big.’ She also said he was very particular about his batter and ‘went mad’ if anyone opened the fridge door while it was chilling.

When I got home I got on the Internet and googled Antrim +Billy’s Café. I found this page and then spent hours looking at the whole site. Fascinating stuff for anyone who remembers pre-Troubles Antrim. I found myself looking at pictures of girls I remember from school, teachers from the Tech and staff from my time working in Holywell Hospital. I even saw a picture from the 40s that was taken down Matty’s road. The site is basically a digital photo album but it is also a labour of love to be greatly appreciated by old-timers like me. I can’t wait to tell Aunt Maud about it. She’ll be getting a ‘puter for sure.

Diet Blog

God! I’m so depressed. Tonight I joined WeightWatchers. I’ve been thinking about it for ages now. It was every bit as grim as I’d feared.

That was two weeks ago. Tonight I signed in to be weighed for the first time since embarking on the weight loss project. Tonight it wasn't so bad. Tonight I was told I'd lost 7.5 lbs!

I was as gleeful as a gladioli and as chuffed as a chaffinch but.... being as realistic as a reindeer I know that I won't lose at this rate every fortnight. Just as well because if I did I'd be the same weight as Victoria Beckham by New Year's Eve. It's true! I did the projection. Then I'd have to become a footballer's wife and Bert would hate that. He can't stand soccer.

Men Annoy Me...

...but they do have their uses.

They take control of barbecues. Of course this will often involve wearing sausages on their heads and waving dangerous knives about in the presence of impressionable children.

They build fences to keep the chickens in. They boast about how wonderful these fences are but don't have very much to say when the chickens fly over, wriggle under and step through their wonderful fence.

They make that garden seat I've wanted for three years now. It only takes three of them all day. Of course, after such a harrowing and exhausting day's effort, helping a woman to feed the dog pack and catch the chickens would be out of the question.

They amuse the youngest child. However when the women return from hunting and gathering to find the small child brandishing a real and very sharp spear and informing his mother that Bert says he can keep it 'forever' it falls to me to disappoint a small child by saying, 'Yes. When you're 18 you can keep it forever.' Then I get called a 'spoilsport'. By Bert.

The Head Chef

Nellybert always insists that only the sanest, most sober person be in charge of the barbecue.

Are You Worthy Of Cake?

Traditional Twelfth Day barbecue today at Nellybert's. And it's Swisser's birthday. Happy Birthday Swisser! I made a cake. Chocolate Almond Cake with a berry topping. Of course it was just one cake and no way is it going round everyone so we sneaked off to the kitchen, a bunch of us girls and drank Ethiopian coffee and ate cake. The password was 'Are you worthy of cake?'

Those worthy were Swisser, Nelly, Leitrim Sister, Erin, Bert and Ben.

Bert is always up for a bit of girly cake action and Ben helped to bake the cake.

Pickles: A Gosherd's Nightmare

We're looking after one of Leitrim Sister's dogs at the moment. Pickles is a nice wee dog - or so we thought. The first thing she done as soon as she arrived was....

a big shit on our new landing carpet. Oh well. It was a firm one and easily enough cleaned. I laughed it off. Never mind.

But today she did something much, much worse. She had a go at our poor bantam rooster and left his tail feathers looking very bedraggled. Poor rooster had to go into hiding as he was so ashamed. He's got one tail feather left.

Clint says Pickles is banned from his property,

She'd make short work among my goslings!

As Bert said, she's a gosherd's nightmare.

Clint arrived up this evening with his new chainsaw. Everything razed at his own place and still not sated!

The hedges up the side of thon lane's a disgrace and the morrow the Twelfth!

I had to be firm with him because the tropaeolum speciosum is in bloom and I didn't want him devastating it. I allowed him a wee bit of a tidy up so when the Glenhugh Accordian Band walks past tomorrow morning they'll not be thinking ill of us.

Tropaeolum speciosum

Don't You Know Who I Am?*

While channel-hopping last night we came across some sort of a mish-mash of a programme that included Michael Parkinson and Sir Elton John. According to Parky, Elton is a self-deprecating, humble sort of guy. I wonder did I pick that up right? Because he apparently had a major hissy fit at the concert for Diana the other week. Of course this was all probably mis-reporting and a complete parcel of lies. Sir Elton screaming,

"Get out of my f***ing way. Don't you know who I am? I've been working all f***ing day and I need to get to my f***ing dressing room."

I just can’t see it. Can you?

Anyway we watched a bit more of this programme that featured Elton through all stages of his career. God! - he has been around forever. Bert says to me,

You have to give him this. He has written some good songs.

And I said,

Yeah. But would you ever deliberately go out and buy his music, or download it or even bother listening to it?

And he had to agree that this was so.

I don’t expect ever to own an Elton CD. Hell! I wouldn’t even buy one for 50 pee in a charity shop. But at least when you hear him he’s not as vile as……

Coldplay!

I was out buying my papers this morning when my ears were assaulted by that woeful dirge, ‘Yellow’. I always thought that Chris Martin had a very unpleasant, whingeing tone to his voice but it was only today that I realised ‘Yellow’ is the most vile and hateful piece of so-called ‘music’ that I have ever heard in the whole of my life.

At least Sir Elton is good for a laugh.

Elton is determined to reach his recommended 10,000 steps per day.

*I was going to call this post 'Chris Martin Is A C**t' but I thought it wouldn't be very ladylike. Even with the asterisks.

Warning! It's A Bit Of A Turkey

The sexy link I promised you.

What I'd Have Given For A Magic Wand

I had a really tough day at work today.

But Bert's day was atrocious.

He took a lot of criticism from various parties recently for removing all but one of Bernie's eggs from under her and replacing them with battery hen eggs. The one bantam chick hatched two weeks ago, two of the hen eggs were duds, one died in the egg and the surviving chick hatched today. It is a grotesque. So that was the first big annoyance of his day.

Then the Man from the Ministry landed in (as arranged) to examine plant passports. Yes Ed, some plants have to have ID cards already. Bet you didn't know that. Of course Bert had forgotten he was coming, hadn't hoked the paperwork out, and got himself into a terrible flooster.

Plant passports located, Ministry Man placated and Bert thought he'd have a nice relaxing toot on his clarinet. He went to retrieve it from the turf box (because that's where you keep clarinets, Acker Bilk swore by turf boxes) and raised it to his lips. That's when he noticed that it was covered with cat shite. Holly had evacuated in the lovely turf coom and all over the bell end of the claro. As Bert says, she's a bad wee bastard.

But more about me - If I'd a magic wand today I'd have magicked me up a plumber or two. They were scarce on site and very much in demand. I've never felt as stressed at this job as I did today. Happily I did not turn to comfort eating and have kept my healthy eating on track for four whole days now.

The best part of my day was making a little sex-film down at Clint's house. I'll put the link up tomorrow as I haven't edited it yet. Slightly NSFW but sure it's the weekend!

Doncha Wish Your Boyfriend Was Not Like Bert?

Holly de Cat guards Bert's Claro With Her Life

Happy news to report. Bert's endless clarinet practice seems to be paying off. I can just about bear to listen to it now. My urge to ram the claro up his arse is easing. That's what happens when a boy buys a girl a well-chosen present.

At work the Best Site Foreman in Ireland was mightily impressed with Bert's present.

I've seen those in Montgomery & Murdock's. They look the part alright. Are they a good job?

An awesome job Best Site Foreman. Red up those floors in a quarter of the normal time.

Something tells me some other lucky lady is going to get a lovely surprise.

Making Up

Last night Bert and I had a little tiff. I only asked him why he'd taken and used the freshly laundered (office) tea towel out of my bag when there was a pile of clean ones in the scullery as always. Why would he do that? Why's he always poking about in my bag anyway? It's not right. Pearlie made a very poor job of raising that boy.

Now from Bert's point of view he'd be thinking that I should be delighted he even knows what a tea towel is for, let alone be using one. I'm supposed to be pleased he's using my clean (office) tea towel to take something out of the oven and clarry with grease.

So he has a bit of a rant in which the words 'whinge', 'girn', 'yap' and 'nag' are mentioned. And because my spoke was meant only as advice and guidance I couldn't help but get a bit upset and consequently went to bed in a big huff.

But he knew he was in the wrong and shouldn't have over-reacted so. And he must have felt a bit mean because he bought me a present to make up for it. He couldn't wait to get me home this evening to show me what he'd bought me.

My Present

The finest mop and bucket that Montgomery & Murdock had in the shop. I have to say I was touched. And the best bit was that he'd already road-tested it. See that shiny floor.

Fighting the Flab

God! I’m so depressed. Tonight I joined WeightWatchers. I’ve been thinking about it for ages now. It was every bit as grim as I’d feared. You know how you sort of hope it won’t be like FlabFighters in Little Britain? Well it was. Apart from the abuse.

The class leader was rigged out in an outfit that I’d have considered dressy for a wedding. She had more glamour in her coral tipped toes than I have in the whole of my body. She started off with a welcome then a scold. Apparently, as a class, we collectively lost a little more than a stone. Unfortunately our collective weight gain was over four stone. I’m sure that was me.

Rarely have I been so bored. I know I’m seriously overweight, I know I want to do something about it, but talking about it is just so tedious and dreary. And the thought of no drink, nor chocolate, nor home-baked goodies for even a week just makes me want to cry.

I cannot bear to admit to my weight just yet. Just this….the last time I was even close to the weight I am now I was nine months pregnant with Hannah.

Talking Trash

Sixty per cent of my American co-bloggers come from Texas. Yes Ronni, yes El Capitan, yes Walrilla - I'm talking about you'all. Then this morning I discovered that a columnist on the Houston Chronicle had linked to a post I wrote a while ago on the subject of littering. I have to say I was surprised and pleased - of all the blogs in all the towns in all the world, he had to link unto this one.

Here's a comment from Leon Hale's post that I particularly liked. Especially as that is exactly the sort of office I work in. Not that the Moonchaser boys would ever litter. The Best Site Foreman in Ireland wouldn't put up with that sort of thing!

Mr. Hale,
People being what they are, you'll never whoop this problem.
Half of the people in the world are builders, fixers, and cleaners. The other half of the "people" are destroyers. The old saying,"You can't have anything nice, somebody will come along and ruin it for you", is true. Park your brand new car in the parking lot at the store, and some brain damaged kid will come along and 'key' it for you. Build a new building, or fence, and some little darling, who's mother, and mystery father, are proud of his artistic talent, will paint it for you in the middle of the night, without being asked.
Two years ago, when they clear cut, except for a line of trees along the road, and turned the acreage across the street into a moonscape, to build a tight little bunch of McMansions, all huddled together, with yards the size of a postage stamp, we had the lunch wrapper along the fence expereance. Called the builder, like they care. Ha. No response. They're only responsable for the trash on their property. So 'Ol Miss Sandy started to collect their lunch trash in a trash bag, same as you did. Didn't take her long to fill the dang thing up. Then on a nice pretty Sunday afternoon, while the sales office was full of potential new home buyers, (who always wonder what kind of neighbors am I going to get) 'Ol Miss Sandy walked in and deposited all of that lunch trash on the salesman's desk. She took her bag back home for the next time. Now it was on their property, and they were responsible for cleaning it up.
Long story short, next day after lunch, they had one of their trained monkies cleaning up along the road. Ol' Miss Sandy is a joy to live with, just don't get crossways with her. Old folks, just have no patience. Used it up raising kids.

Posted by: Bob Windish at June 23, 2007 09:11 AM

Incidentally I have a cousin lives in Houston. (Hi Jo!) Do you think I'd like it in Texas?

Another Coffee Blog...

I received a nice comment this morning from this blogger. She kindly gave me a credit for encouraging her to Keep. On. Blogging.

Now and again I check out Technorati to find out what bloggers have been saying about the local neighbourhood. Sometimes it's just something as mundane as where the local lodge is marching this Twelfth. Then sometimes it's something interesting like people crunching their motors into gateposts. And immediately I'm in sympathy...

Apparently our new blogger is working her way through my site which is sort of exciting/scary. She's up to July 2005 and is a big Harry de Cat fan. Oh dear. Sadness lies ahead.

Anyway New Blogging Chum - welcome to Norn Iron Blogerati and Keep. On. Blogging!

Trendsetters

Those of you who keep an eye on current fashion trends will be aware that panama hats are very 'now'. Took youse a while to catch on didn't it? Here at the Dreen we think panama hats are so 'last year' and here's the proof.

Rathenraw's own Banjo Man photographed at the Dreen in June 2006. As you see he is wearing last year's Chav-in-the-Country look by Man At Primark. But it's the finishing touches that complete the outfit - in this case a bottle of Stella and a Panama Hat.

And here is Bert rocking his signature pared-down summer look. Jeans are by Pack Man, Panama Hat model's own. Photo taken in July 2006.


So what is the Dreen Look for this summer? Grab yours while stocks last. It's the next big thing!

Like Granny

Granny Byrne, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't just stop worrying about being fat, get myself a big roomy coat, a felt hat, some sensible shoes and stuff my handbag full of religious tracts and letters from missionaries. And be formidable. And scare people.

Just like Granny.

The Prime Minister(s) and I

Winston Churchill – Winston had almost completed two years of his third term in office when I made my appearance. He had suffered a stroke a few months before I was born and this was kept from the British public as was the custom in those days. While Winnie was recovering from ‘exhaustion’, and little wonder for he’d had a tough old time of it with wars, rebellions and uprisings, I was learning to walk and talk and relishing being an only child. It was not to last.

Sir Anthony Eden – While Eden was making a horlicks of the Egyptian situation and fending off amorous overtures from France I got me a little sister who, while initially unwelcome, grew on me over time. While Eden was getting wrong footed by Harold Macmillan the sister and I were being terrorised by a pet ram. Thankfully the parents had the savage beast served up with mint sauce.

Harold Macmillan – Harold oversaw my golden childhood and I remember him well. I was under the impression that he was from the County Antrim him being a Mac and all. The years from four to ten were wonderful for me. The sun shone all summer long, in winter the snow was deep and crisp and even and Christmas was magical. There was always something good on television even if it was black and white. I acquired a further three sisters and a brother but I didn’t mind. As far as I’m concerned Mac never said a truer word than, ‘You’ve never had it so good.’ The Profumo Affair went right over my head.

Sir Alec Douglas-Home – Another brother appeared and life started to get a bit grim. Not the brother’s fault of course – more the 11+ and ‘working hard at school’ and ‘getting to the convent’ and bloody puberty. Douglas-Home lasted a year. People were getting tired of the Conservatives.

Harold Wilson – While Harold was getting the permissive society underway I was watching from the sidelines. Hating school, hating growing up, and navel-gazing - it all passed me by.

Edward Heath – British prime ministers were starting to impact on us Norn Ironers more because by now the Troubles were well under way. When Heath took office I was sixteen – when he left it I was pregnant with my first child. Of course Ted, allegedly a friend of Dorothy’s, had nothing to do with the pregnancy.

Harold again - One Saturday night about twelve weeks after Harold Wilson took office for the second time he was on television talking directly to the people of Northern Ireland. This was during the UWC strike during which time Loyalists brought the province to a standstill. During his speech he called us ‘spongers’ and referred to the murder of my father’s brothers that had taken place the previous night. Three months later my first daughter was born.

James Callaghan – Callaghan oversaw the Winter of Discontent and I had my second daughter.

Margaret Thatcher – Oh dear. We didn’t like her one bit. Started of calling her Milk Snatcher then taught our children to chant ‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Out, Out, Out!’ but fuck the bit of her listened to us. During the Maggie years I got married, divorced, didn’t buy my council house and was a mad feminist. Then I met Bert, got my A levels, and began studying for my degree. Hannah was born in the middle of the Falklands War.

John Major - I completed my degree, passed my driving test and got all my kids to college. Went back to work myself. Meanwhile John, who I secretly fancied and admired, did sterling work in Northern Ireland.

Tony Blair – So delighted when he got in but my happiness didn’t last. During the Tony years I lived in the country, worked with homeless people and moved to this house. Tony went to war. I started this blog. Two of my sisters married a Glaswegian. Not the same one. Daddy died.

Gordon Brown – Since Gordon’s been Prime Minister I have gone to work, shopped at Lidl’s, made a plain dinner, watched people screaming at each other on TV and sipped Laphroaig.

What about you?

A National Treasure

I didn't get a moment to blog over the weekend because I was so busy. Starting on Saturday morning we were inundated with visitors which meant that Bert was unable to clear off leaving me on my own to clean the house. Sometimes I wish Bert would fix up a shed for receiving company in. He could tell the visitors that Nelly was not 'at home'. Of course I would be 'at home' - I'd be 'at home cleaning'.

Or he could be honest.

I'm sorry but today we will have to drink our coffee and smoke our cigarettes in this comfortably appointed and 'all mod cons' shed. Today the house is out of bounds. It's Nelly's housework day and she is very dangerous to approach during housework. Think of a bull elephant in must and you will get some idea of her current mood.

Then there were people coming for dinner so including Pearlie and Lizzie that was six delicious meals to prepare. The main course, a dry chicken curry, was close to disastrous but the dessert, rhubarb and ginger crumble, was wonderful. Maybe I should just order in the savouries and concentrate on puddings. Pearlie refused crumble on the grounds that she 'wouldn't like it' even though she regularly eats those vile, doughy and shop-bought excuses for rhubarb tarts. Still her loss was Bert's gain.

Another highlight of the evening was the discovery of Bernie the Bantie's newborn chick. Years old Bernie is and this was her first baby. That rooster has certainly been earning his keep. It's amazing what a bit of the oul cock can do for a girl.

I spent most of Sunday morning crying. Why? It's my age.

To cheer me up Bert took me to World of Owls in Randalstown forest. There were no long-eared owls which was a slight disappointment but as I reasoned to Bert, why have long-eared owls when they know everyone's got their own. What? You don't? Sad for you.

We got talking to Mike who runs the project and before we knew it we were offering him ornamental trees for the sanctuary but hauling trees to a forest is a little like taking coals to Newcastle. Mike said he'd been advised to plant clematis montana around the aviaries to afford the birds a bit of shade and privacy. Did we know anywhere he could get clematis montana? Funny's enough.... So we'll be back and this time I won't have left my camera at Matty's.

Another thing that happened at the weekend was I got invited to have my blog archived by the British Library. I thought this sounded a bit odd so I checked it out. I discovered that at least two other Norn Irish blogs had been invited too. These are BreastFeedingMums and Peregrine's Bird Blog.

My own breast feeding credentials are impeccable. Katy and Zoe were both breastfed until 14 months and Hannah.... maybe a week or two longer....

And then there's my newly awakened interest in birds. Is there some kind of pattern emerging here?

Naturally I consulted Mr Bolan as to the wisdom of taking up this invitation. He informed me that it means I am a National Treasure and t'were no harm in it. So I did.

One Hardy Snipe

I've been on my own in the office this past two days as CD was off doing the 4 Peaks Challenge. I was worried about him as he'd had a bit of a chest infection earlier in the week.

I received this email yesterday,

Nelly, you won't believe it! I just won the irish mountain, first out of 250 people!

Tapped out on his Blackberry from the top of Slieve Donard.

Of course I passed the news around. The (award-winning) site foreman said,

Boys-a-dear! That's one hardy snipe!

So Generous, So Sharing

Hardly anybody ever reads my other blog and I've just got tagged on it so as I've taken a lot of trouble compiling my post I thought I'd provide a link.

Afraid I haven't tagged anyone as you lot don't let on about your other blogs.

Return of the Owls

Can you imagine how happy I was when I opened the door at around 11 last night and heard -

this


The young owls are back!

We watched them swooping and diving over the stubble of a recently cut field. Hunting for themselves now. But maybe Mom still brings them the odd carry-out?

http://www.owlpages.com/sounds/Asio-otus-6.mp3

Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport

Your Slanguage Profile

Aussie Slang: 100% British Slang: 75% Victorian Slang: 75% Prison Slang: 50% Southern Slang: 25% Canadian Slang: 0%

What Slanguage Do You Speak?

My Leeks

"My Leeks"

What you gon' do with all that veg?
All that veg agin your hedge?
I'm a gonna, get, get, get, me soup,
Make me soup, gonna make me poop.
My leeks, my leeks, my leeks, my leeks,
My veg, my veg, my veg, my lovely little leeks (Check ‘em out)

I grow these brothers yearly,
I start ‘em good an’ early,
I treat them really nicely,
They grow all by themselfes.
Thompson & Morgan-o,
Suttons and Burpee gro’
Dobies, they all be growin'
All my money I be spendin’
And time I’m spendin hoein,
You love my long cucumber,
My lovely little peas,
Black-eyed and green and runner,
And so I keep on rakin'

And hoein’ an transplantin’

You can keep on rakin’
It gets you hot and pantin’

You know just what I'm needin'

Some help with all that weedin'

My leeks, my leeks, my leeks, my lovely little leeks
You love my little leeks (I'm plantin’),
My leeks, my leeks, my leeks (I’m rantin’)
My leeks they got you (pantin’)

Paddy's Day

Paddy likes to sleep late. He might get up around mid-morning to pop outside and attend to the needful. That finished it's time for his nap. He'll snooze off and on until sixish, only stirring to bark nastily should a vehicle enter the yard. It's only after he's had his supper that he really comes to life.

It's Not Your Wadi

Of all the vile children that are portrayed on television advertisements the Mi Wadi crew have to be the most loathsome. If those ads had been around when I was a teenager I doubt if Zoe, Katy or Hannah would ever have been born.

It's not your Wadi! It's My Wadi!

Selfish, spoiled hateful little Celtic Tiger Cubs. I fantasise about pouring their disgusting Wadi down the toilet in front of their very eyes and then making the wee bastards drink buttermilk. Or good plain water.

On the other hand I'm quite fond of those young lads in the car ad who are mature and staid beyond their years.

Think I'll have a little nap.

Might join you.

Although I can't, for the life of me, remember which car they're selling it's bound to be a family saloon.

Bert the Republican

Bert is perusing yesterday's paper.

I see oul Cherie wouldn't curtsey for the Queen.

Didn't she?

Oul Maggie curtseyed.

But Maggie's a traditional Tory. Did you see how she and the Queen were dressed almost identically?

Probably got their outfits in the same place. Top Shop likely.

Likely.

So oul Cherie won't curtsey for the Queen. I don't think I'd curtsey for her either.

Cough! Splutter!

What!? What'd I say! Do men not curtsey?

Time On My Hands

I hardly know what to do with myself these days. Hannah has gone to Thailand, the owls have flown away and my course has finished. Maybe I should start a blog?

Oh! I’ve just remembered. I’ve got one of those already.

Class of 2007...

...or those of us who didn't have to rush back to work or other commitments.

Funny things exams. Throughout the year you go to your classes, you produce good coursework, you read your expensive text books and you revise like crazy. Then you go into an examination room with nothing more than a dictionary and two new biros and put down a parcel of shite.

Displacement Activities

One of my colleagues on the course spent the weekend ironing. Twenty-six shirts to be exact! Worse still twenty of those were her husband's. Anything rather than knuckle down to the psychology of education.

I'd been doing quite well at the revision. Of course Friday was a bit of a disaster what with Hannah preparing to go to Thailand and me, as a consequence, on eggs.

Thursday was a good revision day and yesterday too. I'd even given up on Big Brother to study. Today was my last crack at it so why did I take the urge to start a crime thriller and plant a flower bed?

The situation so far - I feel I know nothing, I'm halfway through the novel, feel sure the acupuncturist dunnit and the new flower bed looks lovely.

Despite this all crossed fingers, positive thoughts and prayers for tomorrow would be appreciated.

Human Watch

IMG_0752, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

They always come out about this time of the evening.

You could set your watch by the wee fat one with the camera.

The long thin one wasn't about for a few days but I see he's back now.

It's great when you see the old ones. They don't come out much.

What do you mean? Sure the fat one is old.

No. I mean the really old ones. The ones with the sticks.

Thank feck we're good and high up. I heard about that old one and her stick!

The wee fat one must have about a million photos of us now.

Bon Voyage Hannah!

Hannah started off on her trip to Thailand this afternoon. I am going to miss her so much.

Oh well. Nothing else for it now - back to the revision.

UPDATE, Sunday 16:50 - Hannah has arrived safely in Lopburi.

Nice Evening Isn't It?

siblings, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

We must be the most peered at, gazed upon, papped owls in the county. Mum says we shouldn't encourage the humans and that long eared owls are supposed to be shy and elusive. We keep telling her that this is the 21st century and everybody wants to be famous now. Today Nelly's blog, tomorrow Bill Oddie.

We didn't like the look of that pair who were here yesterday, We hid in the trees and they barely got a glimpse of us. Horrible yappy dog they had too. The one with the beard kept throwing rocks in the undergrowth trying to flush us out but we weren't bothered. Nelly was ripping at him.

Wonder what's for supper tonight? Vole? Mouse? Or frog? We're starving!

Cheep!

Never Too Busy...

Bert's Cousin Margaret: Are you busy?
Nelly: Yeah.
Bert's Cousin Margaret: Really busy?
Nelly: Really, really busy. Revising. I've got this exam on Tuesday y'see. Why?
Bert's Cousin Margaret: Too busy to show me the owls?
Nelly: Never too busy to go see the owls...

The Bastard Got Bernie Too!

Bernie, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

That's it! Fox-hunting to be reintroduced at Nellybert's. It's not as if they're scarce.

The Damage Done

While I was in Norfolk Bert phoned me to say that there had only been 'one breakage'. Well, excuse me but, I think that a salt and a pepper cellar constitutes two breakages. When I told him what they'd cost he said, "They seen you coming," and "The cat done it."

I was really peeved about it and let him know I was and then my three children all moaned at me for moaning at Bert and that reminded me of what I'd done to his van door* the night of the party and he was really nice about it - just laughed it off, so I phoned him back and said it didn't matter about the TG Green salt & pepper set and he was pleased.

And Foxy got my darling gammy-legged Patsy Hen. The bastard!

*We don't talk about that.