Clint Micawber

"Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery."

Clint says the reason people keep wanting to sell Bert things (like herds of Irish Moiled cattle) is because he has too much money.

There’s nobody trying to sell me anything. Which is just as well because all I have to my name is £222!

Is that all then? What you do with all your money from the house then?

Them sheds don’t come cheap y’know!

S’pose not. You do have a lot of sheds.

I’m not worried. As long as I’m solvent. It’s like thon Micawber boyo says – as long as you don’t spend more than you earn you’re all right.

You a big fan of Dickens then Clint?

Och! I wouldn’t say I was a fan as such. But if it comes on I’ll sit down and watch it.

A Rare Breed

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there was Bob and that palamino from Greenmount.

Bob was a lovely horse.

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

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

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

What do you mean?

Far more likely they were going for dog food.

Don’t be depressing me.

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

I May Be Some Time

Going off on holidays now. Nowhere special, just Cullybackey. Going to hang out with Matty and my dogs, the hogs and Bert.

There will be no access to the internet for a while so see you when I get it back, or return to work, or build me a PC out of Chep blue pallets, whichever's soonest.

So long.

Talking Ballymena

Mad Person: Well of course I'll not be going to that party. He says it will be all the family and neighbours at it. Not wild enough for me.

Nelly: They're all a bit staid, are they?

Mad Person: STAID! What do you mean by staid? Is that a Ballymena word?

Nelly: No. It's a proper word. It's in the Oxford English Dictionary.

Mad Person: Oh! EXCUSE ME! In the dictionary is it? Well. I'VE never heard of it!

Nelly (soothingly) Of course it does sound like it ought to be a Ballymena word.

Mad Person (soothed) Yes. It does.

Lost

My laptop is very ill and may have to go into hospital.

There will be very little posting until it has recovered.

First Impressions

We've known Banjo Man for a long time now. But when we first knew him I thought he was a quiet, shy and serious lad. Something like how he appears in this picture taken (by Zoe) more than a dozen years ago.

But that was then. And this is....

A Sage Speaks

One of Bert's friends said that he never has sex. The reason he never has sex is because,

Nine out of ten men over sixty die during sex

The thing is, Bert's friend is still only fifty-six. He must be weaning himself off.

Daniel O'Lovely

In her most recent post Hails waxes lyrical about the great Daniel O’Donnell. She makes the true observation that Daniel is very much beloved by elderly ladies. This worries me. At what point of the slide into old age does Love of Daniel begin? Does the Queen adore O’Donnell? Is Vivienne Westwood a fan? Are Patti Smith and Deborah Harry planning future musical collaborations with the Donegal man?

But I think Daniel Adoration is associated not just with age but also with simple-mindedness. Because it’s not just certain elderly ladies that make up Daniel’s fan base, it’s…. now how do I put this?

Q. What is the current P.C. term?

A. Developmental Disability.

Or as legend has it, in Ulster Scots parlance, The Wee Dafties.

I worked for years with the developmentally disabled and one thing that I noticed was that, whenever they could choose for themselves, their general taste in music was crap not pleasing to my ears.

Usually they’d favour the worst sort of country and western music (think George Jones), the most anodyne so-called pop music, really dreadful heavy metal or Daniel O’Donnell and some other similar sad sap whose name escapes me.

Occasionally you’d get a classical music fan but he or she would be incapable of verbalising musical choices and I often thought that these choices were imposed upon them by parents or staff who just wanted a bit of chill-out time. For the music chosen would be soothing rather than challenging.

But to return to the fascinating subject of Daniel - at one of the places I worked staff organised a holiday for a group of residents in Donegal. They hired a minibus and spent their days searching for Daniel O’Donnell taking in the beautiful Donegal scenery. Eventually they tracked down the O’Donnell residence but, sadly, Daniel was not at home. They did meet his mother and his aunt and were invited in for tea and scones. It was the highlight of the holiday. For the staff that is. The residents did not have much to say about it. Except for the one who always vomited when she got excited. Or thought no one was paying any attention to her. She said, ‘Daniel’s Mammy was great Nelly. She gave us photos and scones. I boked mine up and Agnes ripped her photo!”

I wonder if those ladies were really Daniel’s relatives. Perhaps he keeps lots of stunt Mammys and Aunts on the payroll to enhance his image and keep stalkers at bay. Or maybe the Mammys and Aunts are just stalkers/mentalists basking in the Daniel glow. Who knows! There has to be a PhD thesis on the O’Donnell phenomenon in there somewhere.

P.S. Interestingly, to me anyway, Daniel's beard wife is called Majella. That's my middle name. Nelly Majella Moser.

It's All About The Ears

Danny (pictured right) and Paddy (below) looked very similar. The main difference was the ears. Danny's stuck up and Paddy's flopped.


We only had Paddy for a few months when Danny died. For a good while afterwards I'd look at Paddy and think to myself that his ears looked really stupid.

Then the other evening I came across a picture of dear old Dan and I found myself saying to Bert,

Didn't Danny's ears look really stupid?

About Time Too!

When someone recommends a blog to you and you read all six and a half years of it's archives in three days and it inspires you to carry on with something that you should have done ages ago then you really should add it to your blog roll. Like, immediately. Afraid it's taken me the best part of three months to get round to it but it's done now. So welcome Shauna, in your Dietgirl incarnation, to the garden.

Shauna's got her Dietgirl book coming out in January 2008 and I'll be buying it for sure.

But that's not the only thing I've been putting off for ages. Here's something for the laddies. I know there's nothing you'd like to see more than a bunch of (allegedly) heterosexual men dressing up in women's clothing. So here's some pics from New Year's Eve, 1999.

Obviously I told Bert I was posting this. I do have to live with him after all. He said,

I don't look bad at all do I?

I said,

You think?

He said,

Better than those other two gypes anyway.

Judge for yourselves.

Clarkson, Paddington & the Teletubbies

Zoe, Ganching and I went to the Saturday market in Ballymena yesterday morning. As always I was on the lookout for a bit of pruck. Specifically I was looking for an enamel bucket, preferably with lid, to store pig scraps in. I did not find one. What I did find was a spongeware mug with pig design. Not big enough for swill but cute enough to spend a fiver on.

Since the great Paddington hunt I've also been keeping an eye out for a naked and neglected Gabrielle bear to dress up. After all I do have the pattern sourced at great expense from Texas.
But no luck there either. I did find a couple of nice bits of SylVac for Matty (she collects) which I'll keep for her Christmas present.

I was checking my spongeware mug on Ebay this afternoon to see if I'd been done up like a kipper. It seems I paid a fair enough price for it after all. While I was on I had a look to see if there were any bare Paddington Bears going for a song. There wasn't. But I did learn something new.

I never knew that Jeremy Clarkson started his working life as a travelling salesman for Paddington Bears!*

Seems the very first Paddington Bear was created by Gabrielle Designs in 1972, a small business run by Jeremy's parents Shirley and Eddie Clarkson, with the prototype made as Christmas presents for the Clarkson kids. Although the original Paddington Bear didn't wear boots, Shirley Clarkson dressed her bear in Wellington boots to help him stand upright. The earliest bears wore Dunlop wellies until the Dunlop company could not keep up with production. Gabrielle Designs then produced their own boots with paw prints molded into the soles. Gabrielle Designs eventually went into liquidation, although by this time the Clarksons had sold the company. This means that the original Gabrielle Paddingtons have become quite desirable.

One of the reasons cited for Gabrielle Designs' downfall was the huge popularity of the Teletubbies toys. Paddington just couldn't compete with that craze. Of course it's a while ago now but I remember feeling very baffled to hear grown men and women talk about their quest to buy a Teletubbies toy for their children. The queues for Teletubbies even made the evening news.

I've yet to see the Gabrielle Paddington at the market or in the charity shops but I often see those grubby Teletubbies. I wonder what they're going for on Ebay?



Just checked. Around 99 pence.

*As I read this on Wikipedia it may be lies. I once read on Wikipedia that Jermaine Jackson's son went to Hogwarts and injured Harry Potter during the course of a Quidditch match.

Shoes & Pigs

I went straight from work this evening to Junction One to buy shoes. I'm at that awkward stage around clothes. I really don't have a notion what size I am any more and keep buying clothes that are too big for me far too soon. But shoes are good. Size 6. No change there.

When I got home the Pig Cartel were standing around watching the herd eat. Pigs love eating. Two of them needed injections but wouldn't stay still to take them. So I jumped in and caught the first pig while Joe jagged him. The second one was harder to work with. He took two of us to hold him still. Joe jagged him and he squealed.....like a pig.

Bert was terribly proud of me.

Putting In An Evening

Bert cut his finger on a saw the other day and couldn't play the clarinet. It was very pleasant. The finger must be healing now because he's scraking away on his claro at this very moment.

I've spent the evening uploading photographs to PhotoBox, cleaning my bookshelves and playing with the book application on Facebook. I had a long phone conversation with Ganching in which we talked mostly about blogging.

I said to her,

So what are you doing tomorrow?

I'm taking Matty to the doctor.

What's wrong with her?

She has a watery eye.

Her hole! I mean.. that's good she's going to the doctor. That watery eye has definitely been annoying her.

On Ballycastle Beach

That photograph was taken a few years ago. Shirley was relatively happy that day. She came through a lot that summer.

A year today since she was murdered and no one brought to justice yet.

A Tourist Attraction

You'd think they'd never seen pigs before. The amount of visitors we've had since the porkers came has increased dramatically. And Clint is practically living with us.

Those of you who know him will remember how he used to talk incessantly about potatoes. He knew every variety of spud grown in Europe. He was a blight expert, ploughing was his passion and soil an obsession.

Then there was eggs. He started of by hauling them around the country. Who knew the hazards attached to egg transportation? Then he got some, and so did we, but Clint wasn't content with a few ex-battery hens about the place. His craving for fowl grew...and grew. Turkeys were next, then geese. The local foxes were in fowl heaven.


Of course if you've got a lot of poultry you need a lot of sheds. It started with one. But one wasn't enough. Soon Clint's yard was thronged with sheds. You could hardly get through it.



Now it's pigs. Clint has no room for them at his own place just yet. Too many sheds in the way. So they're here in the meantime. Two for Clint, two for his mate and two for us. Where will it end?

Back in the Good Old UK

...and I can discard the burqa.

It was as Mr Bolan said, (he is a genius, I swoon at his feet) a blip, not hackery.

I flicked a tiny smidgen of breakfast TV this morning. On channels 1 and 3 the talking heads were discussing 'problem gambling' on the internet. Each sofa consisted of a breakfast TV couple, an 'expert' and a female 'problem gambler'. The channel 3 specimen was middle-aged and respectable. She hid her gambling from her family and friends. Apparently, like 'problem drinking', if it takes place at home, it can appear quite genteel. At first. Until the bailiffs come.

The channel 1 bint was cut from a different cloth. She was brazen. Got herself into tens of thousands of pounds worth of debt then started stealing from work to fund her gambling addiction. She was quite blase about it all.

The presenter said,

But you robbed a bank of twenty-five thousand pounds!

The hussy replied,

That was my gambling addiction that lead me to do it.

Like that made it OK. I couldn't understand why she was sitting there. Shouldn't she have been in jail? Then I got bored and flicked to Dora the Explorer.

They were still on about internet gambling on Radio 4 while I was driving home from work. Apparently there are 250'000 'problem gamblers' in the UK. Some government type announced,

250'000 problem gamblers is an unacceptable number!

And I thought to myself,

I wonder what number of problem gamblers would be acceptable?

Let's face it - if everyone was as keen on gambling as Nellybert the bookmakers, internet casinos, lotteries et al would soon go bust. We don't even do the lottery. I've bought one scratch card in my whole life and have bet on the Grand National maybe twice.

Me. Sitting in the antenatal clinic. With a lethal weapon.

As anyone knows there is nothing more mind-numbingly boring than waiting in a queue at the local outpatients. Thankfully this is not something I have to do on a regular basis, but in the days when I was incubating bambinos I spent manys a dreary hour at the (block booked) antenatal clinic. There were too many squealing toddlers around to concentrate on reading, so I used to bring my knitting. Many the baleful look I received from the other pregnant mothers which I interpreted as distaste for the multi-coloured stripey jumpers I was knitting on circular needles. I now know their antipathy was for my reckless disregard for their health and safety. Perhaps they might accidentally trip and fall upon my needles, causing them to spontaneously abort. Maybe I'd take a pre-eclamptic fit and put somebody's eye out in a frenzy. Or I could have ripped the stripey woolly off the needles and used them to garrotte some obnoxious child. It's no wonder Congleton War Memorial Hospital in Cheshire has, on health and safety grounds, banned knitting needles from its waiting rooms and wards.

W.T.F?

About Me

Name: Nelly

Location: Cullybackey, County Antrim, Afghanistan

Daughters - 3, Parents -1 surviving, Siblings - 6, Significant Other - 1, Dogs - 3, Cats - 1, Chickens - 7, Weight lost since 02/07/07 - 26 lbs

OK. So who could have added that little extra to my profile?

Not Suitable For Vegetarians

Ahem! Nellybert, Clint and The Pigman have gone into the bacon rearing business. Two each. Ours are the spotty ones. I must try very hard not to get too fond of them.

The Last Request

daddy, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

On his 84th birthday my father said,

I want you to do something for me.

So what d'ye want me to do?

I want you to take me to Leitrim to see Deirdre.

Aye. I will. Some day soon.

It never happened. He took a stroke just a couple of weeks later. This weekend was the first time I went back to Leitrim. It was his birthday weekend.

I May Be Some Time

Obviously I don't get out enough.

I'm going to visit Leitrim Sister this weekend. It's a three hour trip yet I feel as if I'm embarking on a Polar Expedition.

An Urban Myth

Bert's cousin visited Pearlie yesterday and told her this tale.

There's this woman works with our Ruth told me that she knows of this man who fixes bicycles who spilled a tin of WD-40 on his hand. Now this old boy had bad arthritis in both of his hands..

.
And I'm thinking, that must have been a bit of a handicap to him and him working at bicycles.

Anyway the next day the oul boy notices his hand is as supple as anything and there's nothing like the pain so he wonders...

Oh dear God - what's she going to tell her now?

Maybe it was the WD-40. So he sprays it on his other hand and the very next day he could move his hands anyway he wanted and he hadn't ache nor pain!

And Pearlie says,

Bertie! Away out to the back shed and get me some of that oul WD-40 stuff.

And Bertie does.

And lo and behold - within the hour Pearlie's wrist has loosened up and she has hardly ache nor pain.

And I say,

That stuff'll likely give her cancer!

And Bert says,

Sure what odds at her age if it gives her some relief?

Illegal Dog Alert

I was perturbed to receive a letter from Ballymena Borough Council on Friday informing me that my dog wasn't licenced, despite my having been notified that the licence was due, and that I had better produce this dog licence by 19th September, 2007 - or else.

Bert thought it was funny but I was raging. Actually he thought it was funny because I was raging. Because I hadn't received a reminder letter and anyway, which bloody dog was it? The letter didn't say. I knew it wasn't Bonnie for we've not had her for a year yet. Paddy? His licence was due in March. Surely it hadn't been overlooked for nearly six months. Mind you the tone of the letter was rather haranguing - so maybe Paddy was the illegal.

I looked up the dog licence file. It was Rosie. She'd been unlicenced since 30th August, 2007. Seven whole days. The shame of it. Never mind. She's legal now. I paid the fiver.

How Social Workers Relax

Bert and I were horrified when these two pyromaniacs set our bonfire compost heap alight.

What Bert Calls Work And I Call Playing

That big old evergreen was doing nothing to enhance the garden so we decided it had to go. Bert just pulled it out with the tractor. And trailed it to the bonfire site. Or what would be the bonfire site if bonfires weren't illegal. So we don't have them. No sirree!

When the tree came out we found dozens of rotten eggs. Dympna had been laying there for ages and we hadn't realised. I tried to think of a use for them but couldn't think of anyone I wanted to pelt.

Never Again!

Thank you for all my birthday greetings. I must draw a veil over last night's excesses - i.e. a week's recommended units of alcohol in one evening.

Had to phone in stupid this morning.

And felt under par the entire day.

CD was very understanding. When I asked for a day's annual leave and explained why I wanted it at such short notice he just laughed and said that was fine.

Tractor Tales

Bert and a few of his friends went to that Gig on the Bann in Portglenone last night. They said it was good, but not as good as last year. I picked them up outside the Wild Duck sometime after midnight. We did not see any tractors in Portglenone itself, just the one young reveller in Ahoghill returning from a night out.

When Bert was sixteen he used to take this girl out for a spin on his dad's wee Fergie. It was a pity he cowped it, cutting capers to impress his lady friend. Thankfully Bert and his date were unhurt but the tractor was wrecked. It would have been worth a fortune today. But that's young boys for you. They're at everything.

Bert's Top Birds

We know he fancies Nigella, Isabella and Nicole.

He recently admitted to a yen for knee length skirts, twinsets and pearls. (So womanly.)

Then last night, while we were watching Family Guy, he turned to me and said,

"You know, I fancy Lois even more than I fancy Marge Simpson."

!!!!

Then he said,

"Who do you fancy most? Homer or Peter?"

A Slattern's Tale

Bert is having a couple of his friends to stay on Saturday night. As I was coming downstairs this morning I was thinking how much they needed hoovering and, indeed, how squalorous all my floors were. I wondered if I might get away with just a 'lick and a promise', then it occurred to me - rather than doing a skimmy clean, which is all I'll have time for, why don't I just leave it as it is. If I skim-clean they might think, 'Look at the dust on those banisters, those cobwebs in the corners. That Nelly is a throughother skitter!' But - if I don't clean at all they'll think, 'God! Nelly just doesn't give a damn. This house is spectacularly dirty. She obviously has far better things to do with her time!' Then when they find that their beds are actually quite pleasantly fragrant they'll be delighted.

On the other hand, they'll probably be so drunk they won't notice a thing.

Hurrah! Hurrah! I Bought A Smaller Bra!

I may be a matron but I'm glad to report that my bosom is less matronly than it was. The reappearance of something vaguely resembling a waist means that even though the girls are smaller, they look bigger. Yay! Result.

Dreaming of Old Friends

Did you ever have a dream where you felt that you resolved something? This morning, just before waking, I dreamt that I met an old friend in an antiques market in an unfamiliar city. We encountered each other at a stall selling old fabrics and lace. Her grown up daughter was there too. There had been difficulties between my old friend and me and after some initial awkwardness we both realised that these didn't matter any more. I woke up feeling happy.

Perfect Porridge

Bert said a very dirty thing while we were watching Nigella the other night. It made me laugh an awful lot but it's far too rude to repeat. Nigella was lasciviously scoffing a bread and butter pudding that she'd made with croissants, double cream and bourbon and she commented, "That was everything I'd hoped for and more," and he said, "That's what she'd say after I'd...." I cannot finish what he actually said as some of my more gently reared readers, i.e. Fresh Blade, Hails, Manuel, Beowulf and Ganching would be very shocked because what he actually said was even worse than what might first spring to mind. No doubt more worldly readers such as Ed, Mr Bolan, Cybez and Grannymar will get it immediately. Meanwhile the likes of Bliss and El Capitan will be thinking, "Who da hell's Nigella?"

Nigella's not the only one with awesome recipes and, with Hails in mind, I'm going to give you Majella's* recipe for Perfect Porridge.

Porridge for Two People

Put one cup of porridge, a handful of sunflower seeds,one cup of water and one cup of milk in a saucepan. Bring to boiling and cook for a couple of minutes whilst stirring occasionally.

Serve into two bowls. Add one spoonful of honey per bowl and slice a banana between the two bowls. You can also use another soft fruit such as peaches, strawberries or blueberries. Add milk to taste.

Steep saucepan in cold water making sure to wipe porridge off saucepan rim.

Carry one bowl to bedside of Nigella-fancying lazybones and then eat own portion.

Go to work and hope that aforementioned slugabed will wash saucepan.

So there you go - my recipe for non-exploding porridge and a tip for an easily cleaned pan.

*Majella is my middle name - Nelly Majella Moser

Rolling Back The Years

While cupboard clearing over the weekend I came across a couple of journals that I kept when I was 25/26. I was obviously writing with a view to posterity, little realising that posterity was going to laugh its leg off at Nelly the Pompous Ass. In those days I was preoccupied with my babies, housework, my social life, poverty and drink. I wonder if there was a connection between those last two? Although the eldest of us had left home, me in my council house and London Sister and Ganching at uni, there were still a lot of us hanging about the old homestead. We seemed to do a lot of bickering and fighting in those days. No doubt, we assumed, that our parents found this pleasant and amusing. I note, on one occasion, when Vancouver Brother was seriously winding up (not so) Jolly Joe that Ganching 'was demented at them'. Happy days indeed.

A quarter of a century passes and I'm back keeping a journal, only this time it's online and, hopefully, not taking itself just as seriously. So what was going on in Nelly's Garden three years ago? I was wishing Hannah good luck in an interview but for what? I cannot remember. I wonder if she can. My hair, courtesy of Nice'n'Easy, was a youthful shade of brown and I was working in Spide City. I had recently given up smoking and was stacking on the weight.

Still in Spide City two years ago and getting ready to make the move up the road to the new house. We were all still grieving for Daddy. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary going on. Oh yes. I was on a diet but it didn't last and it obviously didn't work.

This time last year I'd moved to Tinkerton, was hating it, and making an escape plan. We were in our new house nearly a year. Hannah was planning to come home, meeting Bonnie was still in the future and Shirley Finlay was in the last days of her sad, short life.

In the past year I have found myself a new job, a new qualification and a new dog. This is going to be my fifty-fifth year. I wonder what it will bring?

Shades of Blue

Bert went to the Bluegrass Festival in Omagh yesterday. I’m not a fan so I stayed at home. Anyway somebody has to take care of the livestock, i.e. dogs, cats, chickens and Pearlie. I took a bit of time off to visit the Slemish Market Garden in Ballymena’s Ecos Park. Plenty of plants, fresh fruit and vegetables, a bit of craic with Frank and Linda McCooke and, best of all, no bluegrass!

I gathered up some beautiful (mostly blue) perennials and some freshly dug Sarpo Mira potatoes. That’s another thing about the Slemish Market Garden that I love – they are always trying out interesting vegetable varieties. And to add to the abundance I was given a free sample of fresh chillies for Zoe. Frank remembered that she likes them.

So that was my weekend – mother minding, pet tending and gardening with a dash of cupboard clearing thrown in for extra excitement value. I’ll have to remember to give Zoe those chillies. She’ll like them. Frank said “they would burn the bake of ye!”

A selection of perennials from the Slemish Market Garden now in my garden

Twinset Twins

So the twins didn't win Big Brother. Bert was rooting for them. Ever since he saw them in the twinsets and pearls he has been in love with both of them. Not in a lustful way, you understand, just heartfelt admiration.

Those wee lassies look far better in those cardigans and skirts than they do in their normal clothes. They look that womanly.

Should I start dressing in twinset and pearls?

Aye.

So it was a bit of a gunk when Swisser landed up just as Nellybert was settling down to watch the Big Brother final.

Oh do you watch this? I haven't seen one second of it.

Bert says,

I don't watch it. Nelly does.

Look at those pair! Two wee slappers. I couldn't bear to watch them for two minutes. They'd give me a headache!

Bert (defensively)

Those are two of the nicest wee lassies that have ever been on Big Brother. There's not a bad bone in their bodies.

Really?

Well. I don't actually watch it but I know everybody that's in it and what's going on.

Who's that sleaze with his arms round those two slags?

Nelly says,

That's Brian. He's a favourite to win it.

Ugh! He's so sleazy pawing round those two.

He's only nineteen!

Nineteen! Who told you that? He's 40 if he's a day!

He's only nineteen! Actually he's 20. He had his birthday while he was in the house.

Good God! Look at them all getting off with each other! This is so contrived. They can't possibly be in genuine relationships. They're just doing it for the extra publicity.

Well maybe so but they're young, cooped up together, they're bound to fancy each other.

Huh! I cannot imagine fancying anyone at work!

Speak for yourself.

What do you mean?

Well you work along with a lot of dried up old academics. I work at a building site.

Happy Birthday Zoe

Zoe, originally uploaded by hootchinhannah.

My oldest daughter's birthday. Happy birthday love. Hope you're having a great day.

In The Midst Of Life

As I said I forgot all about my blog's anniversary - a trivial enough thing in the wider scheme of things.

On Tuesday morning I received two emails telling me that someone I had been close to many, many years ago had died, in his early sixties, from a heart attack. I'd only recently resumed contact (through Facebook) with his daughter and his first wife and had sent him an email hoping to hear how he was doing. I knew he was retired and, according to his daughter, was living the bohemian life in Spain.

Later that same day Matty told me that one of my many second cousins, Peter Cassidy, had been murdered in Zimbabwe. I'd never met him, not that I recall, but Matty remembered him with fondness as a small boy, during the war years, when he'd been evacuated from Belfast to the Randalstown area. She was quite upset about it. Peter Cassidy was a journalist and, according to African newspaper reports, met a truly horrible end.

It was Mervyn's death that was most on my mind even though it must be nearly thirty years since I last spoke to him. I was eighteen and straight off the farm when I met him, his then wife and their little daughter. We were all student nurses together in Holywell Hospital. I was as green as a goosegog and thought they were two of the most worldly and experienced people I'd ever encountered and consequently was madly attracted to them both. They'd met John Peel! He'd stayed in their flat in Bristol. This was before I knew that John Peel stayed in millions of people's flats. They were hippies, they drank cider, ate different and interesting food out of wooden bowls, had a great music collection, were Bohemians! Mervyn wasn't conventionally handsome but he was funny and intelligent and I sort of hero-worshipped him. Such passion usually ends in tears and we did eventually grow apart.

I still credit the both of them with helping to open my little country mind and introducing me to an alternative world. It was their relationship with their adored daughter that inspired me and got me longing to become a mother. And they even introduced me to my children's father.

I'm just so sorry that Mervyn didn't have longer to enjoy his retirement.

There Should Have Been Seven

Family and Familiars 1, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Bert's Aunt Lizzie was disappointed that Pepe missed out on this photo call but it was hard enough getting six of them on the sofa at once.

From the left the dogs are Gracie, Paddy, Scruff, Rosie, Macy and Bonnie.

They weren't all keen on the picture being taken. Paddy felt the whole thing was beneath him and Bonnie was terribly worried that Macy was going to attack her - again.

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Yesterday was my blog's third anniversary and I forgot but there's a reason for that. I'll explain later.

Still A Big Strong Healthy Girl

My Aunt Polly would never dream of calling anybody obese or fat. She'll say something like,

Not a-tall! That young girl's not fat. Sure she's just a big strong healthy girl. Fat! Not a bit of it!

Or,

What does the doctor mean that child needs to lose weight? Sure that's a big strong healthy baby! There's not one thing wrong with that child!

Meanwhile, as I mentioned previously, I'm looking for the perfect wrap dress - the ideal solution to a slowly diminishing body shape. The last one looked great in the photograph, but then what dress wouldn't look great draped round a size 10 tailor's dummy? Drape it round a big strong healthy girl like me and there's too much bosom, too much leg and not enough drape and skim over the love handles. I'll have to keep on trying. Maybe the next one will be better.

And maybe this weekend I'll keep off the wine and cake and then on Monday, maybe, I'll lose another pound or two.

The Search for Paddington

After missing out on my second Paddington, to fellow EBayer Slippytit, I decided to use Bid Assistant. Then Elly told me about Auction Sniper so I signed up for that too. Using both won me two Paddingtons, which was fine, as I secretly wanted one for myself anyway.

Macy inspects Paddingtons

The first to arrive (the cheaper one) needed a new coat as his own was a bit moth-eaten . No problem as I've purchased a pattern from an Ebayer in Texas. The first Paddington also needed boots but that shouldn't be a difficulty. The second one was perfect, apart from a wall eye, and he's the one that's gone to Zoe.

So that's why I didn't do that meme Ed* was at. Far too samey when nearly all the letters of the alphabet turn up EBay sites. I'm not obsessed or anything. When I find the perfect wrap dress I'll quit. But that's another story.

*Like Ed, V turned up Caroline and Z, Zobo.

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.