An Announcement

As Hannah is currently hanging out in the fleshpots of Bangkok and will have no time to update her family and the wider world of Yet Another Change of Plan, it falls to me to announce that She Is Not Coming Home For A While Yet.

I'm only a little bit sad. Much more glad for her that her adventure continues. Probably just as well really as she'd have cost Nellybert a fortune in heating bills, spuds and sodas.

Flickr Groups

I got kicked off a pretentious group on Flickr today. Apparently my photograph did not meet their pernickety standards. Has anyone else had any negative experiences with Flickr groups?

Eels! Eels! We Like Lots Of Eels!

Yesterday evening while excavating the freezer I found a bag of frozen eels. Bert was ecstatic for he'd forgotten we still had them. He has only recently discovered the joy of eels and he cannot believe he lived until the ripe old age of 48 before tasting them. Those of you who know him personally will hardly be surprised he took to the Lough Neagh delicacy, as eels, like most of Bert's favourite foods, fall into the category known as 'close to minging'.

That's not to say I don't enjoy a bit of eel myself but in moderation only. I couldn't gorge myself on them nor eat them on consecutive days.

Bert fried a huge panful of them, ate two helpings and set aside a large portion for today's lunch. I merely nibbled on two small pieces.

When I returned from work this evening I asked him,

Did you have a nice day darling?

He answered,

No. I had a terrible day.

Why? What happened?

Well you know the eels I was keeping for lunch? I refried them and they were just perfect. My mouth was watering for them. I was even singing an eely song while I was buttering my sodas and making my tea.

The one that goes, 'Eels! Eels! we like lots of eels!' sung to the air of the Bavarian Drinking Song?

Aye. That one.

What happened? Did you burn them?

Pearlie rang over wanting me for something.

Oh God! Were you over there for ages and burned your eels useless?

No! They were out on the plate waiting to be eaten.

Oh dear. Not...?

Yes! I came back over and there was the plate sitting where I'd left it. Not an eel in sight. The plate was spotless!

Bonnie...? Aye! She's the only one big enough to have reached it. Not one solitary eel left....

We All Do It

Bloggers can be divided into two groups - those that write about shit i.e. Dan Tobin, Twenty Major and those that are far too nice and ladylike ever to write about such matters - I'm thinking about bloggers such as Ganching and Mr Bolan here. Of course there are bloggers that simply write shit but we won't go there. There are none on my blogroll - maybe on yours?

So it was today that I was thinking about all the euphemisms that are used to describe the act of evacuating one's bowels -such as doing number two, having a poo or taking a dump.

I like the expression 'coiling one down'. What's your favourite?

Best Diet Book Ever

Aaargh! No weight loss this week either. I've stayed the same and that despite trying really hard. I only drank alcohol once, I had hardly any chocolate and I walked every day. I was complaining to Ganching about it and she said,

Sure didn't Shauna spend eight months losing and gaining the same 4 lbs before she got her weight loss back on track. By the way have you got your copy of her book yet?

Thank God! It was in the post when I got back from the weigh in. Just when I needed a bit of inspiration. I wonder did she spend eight months stuck over the same four pounds?

Phone Calls from Abroad

Firstly and secondly from Hannah who may, or may not, be coming home next weekend. If she does that will be great for me for I will see all my girls for Christmas. If she does not then that will be good too for it will mean she is continuing with her adventures in Thailand.

Thirdly from Glen, who we waved goodbye to a fortnight ago. He and his family are starting a new life in Brisbane and, so far, they're getting on just fine.

It's been a busy weekend. Got the car through the MOT on Saturday, which is always nervewracking. And not just having to drive up the ramps at the PSV carwash. I said to the bloke there,

Does anyone ever actually fall in?

He says,

Oh aye. Young girl last week in a Ford Ka, my boy waves at her to go this way, she goes the other way and drops in on the driver's side. Totally jammed in. She couldn't even get out.

I'm sure she was terribly annoyed about it?

Not one bit. She rolled down her window and says, 'I made a right balls-up of that, didn't I?'

I envy such nonchalance.

After making my ride legal again I visited London Sister at Matty's and we went for a bit of a walk. Bumped into and chatted to everyone who lives on Matty's road which took up a bit of time. Then today we went to Swisser's for a delicious tea. It was four course, organic (so she claims) and totally yummy. So here we are, Sunday evening again. Where the hell do weekends go to?

Endangered Species

Hen Harrier or Harry - which would you save?

Only Doing Her Job

I heard a fierce growling noise in the kitchen this morning and went to investigate. There was Holly de Cat with the sweetest, prettiest baby mouse in her slavering jaws. It was still alive. She glared at me defiantly, as if to say, don't you dare take my prize away from me. I hesitated. Holly let the mouse go and it staggered off a few inches before she snatched it up again. She growled and glared at me again. I thought hard about saving that little mouse's life.

Then I wised up and went to work.

Street Violence

I have never heard tell of the Embassy Club in London but I imagine it to be a venue similar to the Flamingo Ballroom of yesteryear, only smelling less of sheep and silage and maybe not as classy.

For didn't Mick Jagger and Engelbert Humperdinck grace Ballymena's Flamingo? I'm sure they've never darkened the doors of the Embassy Club.

And obviously I thoroughly disapprove of violence. The last time I was in a catfight was nearly 40 years ago when Bernadette from Toomebridge attacked me in Paddy Smyth's Bar in Antrim town. I didn't know her from Eve at the time. Apparently it was something to do with her cousin's boyfriend but, thankfully, the bouncer took my part and carried Bernadette roaring down the stairs.

But to return to the Embassy Club in London, the venue where poor Charley from Big Brother was duffed up by this harridan. You couldn't help but admire the ruffian. Skirt up to her arse, the highest of heels, hair trailed back in a Croydon facelift, as orange as a pumpkin (except for the feet) and she's still able to trail Charley down the street without losing her fag! Awesome!
What could that girl do if she was properly dressed in combat gear and a decent pair of army boots? I'd not cross her.

Incidentally the last I heard of Bernadette she was going to jail for the attempted hijacking of a bus. I'm sure the girl from the Embassy Club could have made a better fist of that too.

Ups & Downs

I gained one pound this week. The lady at WeightWatchers (a new one to me) said mournfully,

Whatever happened?

I did not say,

I need a good shite.

Instead I pussyfooted around and muttered something about hitting the gin rather hard over the weekend.

Despite this setback I fit into and look damn good in three different skirts that I haven't been able to get into in over four years.

Airport Activity

Bert had a fair bit of airport activity this evening. First he had to deposit the curly one (above) to catch her flight to Stanstead, then a sojourn at the Wee Mannys for an hour before picking up the smiling one (above) and her beau on their way back from Edinburgh.

From Whence Nelly Blogs

Also seen at Coffee Helps and I Didn't Quite Catch That

Dem end Blest (contd.)

Katy said, that during the conference speeches, Bert was doing 'lion yawns'. I don't doubt her for I was nearly nodding off myself. The only thing that kept me awake was my amusement at Violet sitting next to me. She was convinced her mortar board was going to fall off as she walked to the stage. I tried to jolly her along.

And if it does, would that really be so dreadful? You just pick it up, put it back on again and keep going.

But knowing my luck I'll trip and fall on my face when I'm picking it up!

You won't. It's not going to happen.

Little did I know of the potential pratfall that lurked underneath my own Jeff Banks wrap dress!

You see while getting dressed I had pulled a pair of tights from the drawer and I'd noted that they were a bit roomy. But never fear for I'm wearing a long dress and high boots. A slight Nora Battyness around the ankles will never be seen. And then I forgot all about it.

Forgot all about it until I was descending the steps of the stage and embarking on the long walk back to my seat. That's when I felt the whisper of descending nylon at the top of my legs. Grab them and haul them up? Not an option. Instead I grinned even harder, figuring that the intensity of my joyful smile would detract from the appearance of polka dot tights appearing under the hem of my dress and draping inelegantly over the top of my boots.

Thankfully it did not happen, although the tights were mid thigh by the time I took my seat. If you happened to be at that ceremony and you noticed one of the graduates clutching at her dress during the procession - that was me. And the reason I raced to the ladies was not because of the usual reasons - it was to tie a big knot in the waistband of my tights.

Dem end Blest

graduation 008, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I was really looking forward to meeting my old classmates at today's graduation ceremony. After all, the last time I saw them I was thirty five pounds heavier. I was looking forward to their gasps of astonishment at the sight of the new and more streamlined Nelly.

Imagine my horror when I found that I was expected to wear this shapeless yoke. And as if that wasn't bad enough....

Nosy Neighbours

This evening as we were preparing dinner the phone rang. It always does. It was the farmer up the road. He told Bert he’d seen a van heading into the abandoned house next door and that it was sitting there with the lights off.

I was immediately suspicious. Bert and I had recently chased thieves of the property on two consecutive days. The first time I was out and Bert had heard banging noises. He went down to investigate and found a couple of young fellows in the act of taking lead of the roof. They did a runner when they saw Bert but managed to get a fair bit of the lead. The very next day we were both at home and heard banging again. I went down to see what was going on and there was a middle-aged, fair haired chap on the roof prising the remaining lead off with a crowbar. I asked him,

Does C… know you’re doing that?

Ah. Sure he does now. We’re after doing a job for him.

I don’t think so. C… would have told us if there was someone coming to do work for him.

Well he has us doing this for him. Y’can ask him and he’ll tell you. But anyway we’ll go now. Start the car now Pat!

The other fellow was a small weasel-faced man and he was in a great hurry to get off. The other man came off the roof and was affability itself despite his unnerving grasp on a great big crowbar.

Sure ‘tis a fine day altogether. D’ye have a job yourself?

I never answered him, instead saying,

There were boys here yesterday stealing lead off that roof. And that’s what you’re at too! Now clear away off before I call the police!

Stealing? Not a-tall. Sure I wouldn’t steal a thing. Tell me now d’ye have any oul bits of vans for sale a-tall?

But Pat was revving the motor and keen to be off. And between your man’s crowbar and the chance that Pat would run over me I was starting to feel a bit nervous and wondering where Bert had got himself to.

So being the good citizen I phoned the PSNI, gave the car number and as good a description of the two skitters as I could. Not that it would have done one bit of good for they’ll never be done for it. The police officer didn’t exactly say I was mental tackling them but he did advise against any further behaviour of that sort.

Afterwards Bert and I agreed that it would only be a matter of time before someone came back for the lead they’d left behind.

I noticed yesterday that the roof lead was gone. That’s about ten days it lasted. There is a bit over a front window left. There’s been a dig at it but it’s right at the front of the house and would need to be an evening job.

And wasn’t tonight a great night for the job. Dry and moonlit. Perfect.

Are we going down there to see what’s going on?

Wise up. I’m cooking mince.

But I headed off anyway and he after me, soon ahead of me on those big long legs. First thing I checked was the remaining lead. Still there. Bert’s in the gate and round the back of the house all light-footed in his deck shoes. He’s soon back.

There’s something going down. A van and a car. Some sort of confab going on.

Better leave it alone then. Maybe it’s a drug deal or something.

It’s some sort of a deal.

I was very curious. Lead stealing is one thing but some sort of major crime thing going on next door is far too scary. I approached the boundaries of next door from another angle, hid behind a pine tree and pricked up my ears. Heard absolutely nothing apart from twigs snapping. Took fear and returned to the house and the preparation of meatballs.

So what do you think is going on Bert?

Dunno. Maybe it’s just a couple in for a ride.

You think?

But why two vehicles?

Because that’s what people do when they’re having a sneaky affair. Meet up in separate cars. It’s what they do up in Tobernaveen Forest. Hey Bert! D’ye think next door has become some sort of dogging venue?

Maybe I should just go down there and check it out again.

This Is The World's Most Flawed Study

Standing in the queue for the weigh-in at Weightwatchers is extremely boring. I have considered bringing a book or a paper but cowardice prevents me. My fellow flab fighters would, I’m sure, take a dim view of that sort of thing. So I fall back on the old favourite – people watching. And to make it more interesting I conducted a quick little observation survey. As I’ve said before a good few of the women who attend Weightwatchers aren’t particularly chunky. I wanted to prove that to myself. My sample consisted of the twenty women who were in the queue in front of me. I excluded the two men as I find it hard to gauge the fatness of men. This was my method: I rated women on a scale of 1-5 thus -

1. Slim
2. Curvy
3. Chubby
4. Overweight
5. Fat

The total score was 55 making a mean of 2.75.

I didn’t work out their BMIs because I can’t even figure out my own and I certainly didn’t consider their waist to hip measurement. But even so, I drew the conclusion that people who attend Weightwatchers regularly certainly aren’t that fat. Which must mean it works.

This week I lost 6 lbs. That’s what laying off the booze and the heavy winter trousers does for you! Afterwards I raced off to Lidls as did the fierce looking woman with the pony tail. Since last week she had dyed her hair and dipped herself in Sadolin. She never cracked a smile and I avoided making eye contact.

This post has ben inspired by His Handsomeness.

Happy Birthday London Sister

Happy Birthday our London Sister.

She still has that sweet smile. Better haircut though.

Connections

As others have commented, it is indeed, a small world. This past weekend Bert and I had two ‘dos’ to attend. The first was one of Glen and Mary’s leaving parties. They are going to Brisbane to live and are leaving tomorrow morning. The second do was for Laura who recently turned 21. Her mum, Mrs The Wee Manny, decided to throw a party for all the oldies who’ve watched Laura grow up. Or, to be more accurate, the party was for all the oldies that got totally wasted with Laura’s parents as she was growing up.

So I was socialising with a mixture of current friends (a few), old acquaintances (a few) and people I either hardly know or didn’t know at all. But, this being Norn Iron, there were a few connections.

There was the girl whose company I was in for the first time ever. She is the wife of a guy whose mother stole a lovely boy of me more than thirty years ago. She is also the daughter of a work colleague of the Mary who is emigrating to Australia. As well as all that she is the sister of the famous Dirt Bird who is one of my darling Hannah’s best friends.

The lovely boy who dumped me thirty years ago for Dirt Bird’s sister’s mother-in-law is the father of another lovely boy who is friends with Laura the Wee Manny’s daughter. Laura The Wee Manny’s daughter is going steady with an even lovelier boy in whose grandparent’s pub my aunt lived during the war.

In yet another connection Laura’s very lovely boy is the son of a man with whom my ex-husband worked with and was very friendly with when he lived in Norn Iron.

At one do there was a bloke whose older brother is the secret father of a fellow whose company we were in at the other do.

And then there was this Charlie bloke at Glen’s do whose father owns the pub where, twenty four years ago, the Wee Manny first introduced me to Bert and Mrs The Wee Manny. Incidentally this fellow was in the same class at primary school as Zoe and in the same class as Fresh Blade at grammar school.

And that was just the connections I either knew about or discovered. I wouldn’t doubt that if I’d had time to properly investigate the matter that I or somebody belonging to me was connected to every single person I met on those two evenings.

Seven Dog Years Later

I'm Gorgeous Me, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Bonnie has been living with us for one year now.

Pleasing Pearlie. Not.

Friday

Nelly: What's your ma want for her tea?

Bert: Two boiled eggs.

Nelly: Do you want me to do them?

Bert: No. They have to be perfect.

Saturday

Bert: So she said she wanted a fried egg and a bit of bacon. I cooked it for her perfectly. Just the way she likes it. Crispy bacon, runny yolk. Made her toast, cut the crusts off for her. Brought it over to her, set it own in front of her and said I was going to make us both a cup of tea. Told her I'd sit with her while she was eating.

Nelly: Fair play to you there.

Bert: So I made the tea and brought it into her. She's sitting there glaring at her supper like it was rank poison. I says to her, "Are ye not going to eat that?" She says, "Ye put it on an oul coul plate! Ye might have heated the plate!"

Well I Have Had Most Of Them (Hypochondriac? Moi?)

NameThatDisease.com - Test your disease knowledge

Much better than Ed's score.
Moral victory my (glaucomic) eye!
On a level with my fellow disease expert Mudflapgypsy. Perhaps we should open a clinic?

Bonnie on Slemish

On the first Sunday of my holiday I suggested to Bert that we take the dogs up Slemish. It was about time I tackled it for I hadn't been up there for nearly twenty years. I was sure it would be a piece of pie now that I'm so fit and everything.

Well. Not really. It was tough enough. I had plenty of puff but it was hard on the legs. At least I wasn't scared of falling off like poor old Bonnie. She was not terribly confident on the steep, clambery bits. I guess she's never been on a mountain before. By the time we got about two-thirds up she was starting to find her feet. We decided it was time for a brief rest and a look at the view. And a photograph.

It was at this point that Paddy and Rosie a.k.a. The Dirty Rotten Scunging Devil Dogs decided it was time to give Nellybert the slip. One minute they were there - the next they were gone. But we thought we'd fall in with them at the top. We didn't.

Slemish might not be hugely high but it's fairly long. Bert went one way, Bonnie and I went another. No rotten dogs.

Well - cut a long story short, we spent hours looking for them. Bert spent most of it walking down the mountain, round the back of it and up the other side. Eventually he located them. But could only grab Paddy. He unceremoniously leashed him up and dragged him down the mountain. I spotted the capture from the foothills. We both hoped Rosie would follow but she didn't.

With Paddy safely jailed in the van and Bert resting up, I took my turn at trying to find Rosie. I was helped by a young man who, was out with his four-year old son. Together we tracked up the far side of Slemish. After about half an hour's walking the child spotted Rosie. She was just sitting there waiting to be rescued. I told the little boy that he was my hero and it was high fives all round.

So that's why only Bonnie got her picture taken on Slemish unless this counts...

Rosie seconds before giving us the slip.

So that's it then. We're never taking those two out together again. Unless they're leashed. But it wasn't all bad. At least little Taylor got to be a hero. And after twenty years I get to go up Slemish twice in one afternoon.

I Blame The Government

Bert was appalled when he heard what I spend on going to Weightwatchers just to get weighed.

£5.50 per week just to stand on a weighbridge! Give me £5.50 a week and I’ll buy scales and weigh you!

But it’s not the same. Knowing I’m going in there motivates me.

And do you know that if you miss a week they make you pay extra. And if you miss a whole bunch of weeks you have to pay the joining fee all over again. That’s about £14.

It takes ages too. You wouldn’t believe the amount of people go to those classes. And some of them even stay for the lecture/talk/whatever. Instead I go to Lidls and stock up on fruit and cottage cheese.

While I’m standing in the queue waiting to pay and waiting to be weighed I watch my fellow Weightwatchers. There is one young woman who has been there since I started. She’s really big and, so far, I haven’t noticed her reducing in size. But she probably has. Three months isn’t very long when your target weight is probably half your starting weight.

There are other people who attend regularly and who aren’t even slightly fat. One woman, who I know slightly, is actually quite thin but for some reason she thinks she needs to be thinner.

There is another woman, not particularly big, who has got big bald patches behind her ears from trailing her hair back into one of those severe facelift pony-tails. Like me she gets weighed and goes to Lidls where I examine her trolley and notice that it’s full of fizzy drinks and crisps. They’re probably not for her. After all the chocolate biscuits in mine are not for me. They are for Bert. I don’t smile at her as she is too scary looking. I think she might have been the sort of girl who used to get into cat-fights at the Flamingo.

Some of the women in the Weightwatchers queue discuss what Weightwatcher biscuits they’ll be buying. I think they’re mental. You wouldn’t catch me eating their overpriced junk. Back in July I ate some of their low fat yogurt and felt quite ill.

This week for the first time ever I actually put on a pound. I was not disheartened. I blamed society and my heavy winter trousers.

Be Wary of the Hog Farmer!

Don't be deceived by the hog farmer's friendly face. His pigs will eat anything! He says if he was to collapse in a heap in the pig pen they'd probably eat him.

Currently they're enjoying their expensive pig meal, horse chestnuts, oranges, apples, avocado and banana skins and porridge. We haven't yet tried them on the bodies of our enemies but I'm informed we'd need at least sixteen porkers to take care of that kind of business.

Things Change

I've been reading a lot of Barbara Trapido recently. In Noah's Ark (1984) Noah is preparing for a trip to New York and he asks his wife if there are any cartons of orange juice that he can take with him, as he never gets enough to drink on the plane. His wife then reminds him to bring scissors to open the cartons. How strange that sounds now. Noah might find himself in Gitmo if he tried doing that today.

Then in Brother of the More Famous Jack (1982) Jane Goldman smokes a cigarette and drinks a glass of wine. And she's pregnant! No one blinks an eye in 1982. Nowadays her unborn child would be placed on an At Risk Register.

It was in the early 80s that we thought we were all going to die in a nuclear accident, disaster, war, whatever. Maybe we still will. Who knows? If we survived that then our lives would be blighted, our babies blinded by genital herpes. Once Aids came along herpes was never talked about. Now Aids, in this continent anyway, is hardly mentioned and we're all going to die from obesity or die out because of chlamydia or contraceptives in the water supply.

And yes - I do worry about global warming and the environment. But not that much. Because in twenty years time we'll all be worrying about something else altogether. That's if we're still here.

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.