For Better For Worse

Worse: Constantly waking up the night before because I’d thought of something I was terrified of forgetting.

Worse: Having a werewolf’s hairdo.

Worse: When the Banjos were late and Katy said, “I don’t want to worry you but Banjo Man only got his test last week and the roads are really wet.”

Better: When the Banjos answered the phone and it was just that Banjo Man hadn’t seen the gigantic sign warning that the Tullygarley Bridge was closed.

Better: Bert looking like Daniel Craig.

Worse: The third taxi being a tiny bit late.

Better: Teasing the driver of the third taxi by telling him that Mrs The Wee Manny and I were heading in to tie the knot in a civil partnership.

Better: My two beautiful daughters and Bert waiting at Ardeevin.

Worse: Where’s Zoe?

Better: My three beautiful daughters and Bert all together….

Worse: The look on the Registrar’s face when Jazzer and the youngest Miss Banjo got a serious fit of the giggles during the legal bit.

Better: Actually feeling all solemn and happy during the legal bit.

Better: The beautiful tea, cake and yummy buns reception that Zoe and Dave hosted.

Worse: Bert, after changing into Levi jeans, looking like Jeremy Clarkson

Worse: Swisser having problems with the plumbing at Z & D’s.

Better: Dave’s advice to Swisser. The look on her face.

Worse: Francis Joseph Banjo’s incontinence. Bonnie’s sulks.

Better: Maya and Gracie’s contribution to the ambience.

Better: Great crack in the minibus on the way to the Londonderry Arms.

Better: The beautiful meal at the Londonderry Arms.

Better: The fire, the service, the speeches, the company, everything.

Worse: Thinking of the people who weren’t there.

Better: The Wee Manny being a perfect gentleman. Clint smiling more than I’ve ever seen.

Worse: The long journey home in that dreary old minibus.

Better: The fun we had when we got home. Billy’s shredded suit (don’t ask), more champagne.

Worse: Hearing Bert say to Banjo Man, “Hey Banjo Man! We can do wife-swapping now!”

Better: Having a husband with a sense of humour. He’ll need it!

So....

...here I sit. It's only an hour or so until we tie the knot. I despair of my hair and Bert says I look like a werewolf. Despite this he seems perfectly happy to go through with it. Brave man.

Why can't marriage licences be like other legal paperwork? You send in your particulars, jump through a few boring bureaucratic hoops and hey presto! you're married. Why does there have to be so much fuss?

Maybe I'll understand it tomorrow.

BTW Hannah is for wearing a dress. That'll be the first time since she made her First Communion.

State Of Play

We went to a sixtieth birthday party on Friday evening. It was a fundraiser held at the local Rugby club. As we parked up I said to Bert, "Y'know this is the first time I've ever been here sober?" I have to add that it was the first time I'd been there in teens of years and that I remained sober for the entire night. Designated driver y'see.

The same could not be said for the Wee Manny who was a very naughty boy indeed. I said to him, "I hope you're not going to behave as badly as this at my wedding?" Although I have no doubt that he will be just as full of rascality as he was on Friday. The thing was it was way past his bedtime so no wonder he was fractious. He likes to be tucked up by 7:30 usually.

I woke up at 7 the next morning feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. But it was raining. Three hours later it was still raining. Twelve hours later it was still raining. Our spring, normally a little trickle, had formed a lake, there were two new rivers running through a field down our road, some of the neighbours were standing ankle deep in water, the water had brought down a tree on the Granagh Road, there were horses standing at the edge of lakes that used to be meadows. In Ballymena the Wakehurst playing fields were under water and the folk at the bottom of the Toome Road were flooded again. I heard that Ahoghill and Portglenone were closed off due to flooding.

Despite the rain I had to go into Ballymena yesterday. There are certain last minute things a bride-to-be must buy. I was in the Hospice shop buying second hand champagne flutes (£3.95 for 11) and the volunteer ladies were bemoaning the poor takings. "Sure," said one to the other, "Only a mad person would come out on a day like that," then they went sort of quiet. No doubt they were looking at the mad person who was browsing the book shelves while she was waiting for her glassware to be wrapped up.

Wind Yer Necks In Boys!

The fellows on the site are threatening to give me a 'doing' tomorrow. For those who might not know a 'doing' is a form of ritual humiliation visited upon a person who is about to embrace the matrimonial state. It can involve flour, water, balloons, bondage and a host of other embarrassments.

Obviously I've informed them that under no circumstances need they dare come near me. After all I am old enough to be their mother and it would be most undignified. I have cited Health & Saftety regulations, the wrongness of wasting their employer's time and the promise that if one of them lays as much as a finger on me I'll be bringing charges of sexual harassment and assault.

I think they've got the message.

The Wedding Present

As Bert and I are having a (relatively) fuss-free marriage we have been telling friends and family that we do not want presents. After all we have been together 21 years and have all the household goods we need.

But some folk just cannot be told. Look what Clint presented us with yesterday!

The wedding present is the one to the fore of the picture

So if you bloody insist we'll accept the following:

• A breeding pair of donkeys
• A yellow Triumph Dolomite
• A flock of Jacob sheep
• A spinning wheel
• Gold
• Champagne

Encounters

I bumped into Joe in B&Q yesterday. He gave me the loveliest smile and I have to confess I was pretty bowled over. For the first time I realised that he really likes me. (And I'm getting married next week.) I walked out of that store on a cloud.

He called to the office today and treated me to another of those gorgeous smiles. We cuddled. He snuggled into me. I smelled his hair (so clean) and kissed him. (I'm getting married next week.)

We hung out together for thirty minutes or so. I was lost...got no work done. Finally I came to my senses. It was after one o'clock. I handed him back to his Dad.

I think he needs his nappy changed.

Farting Machines

cattle, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

They're to eat more kangaroos.

Why?

Because they don't fart as much as we do.

Why?

Because they have a different sort of digestive system that the likes of us.

Can you imagine the fencing problems?

Be mighty.

What do they say Skippy tastes like?

Supposed to be truly yummy.

So if they eat roo meat instead of cattle and sheep that reduces the amount of methane that goes into the atmosphere?

Apparently so.

What about their farting?

You mean like Nelly... and Matty?

Yes.

Maybe if they ate more Skippy burgers they wouldn't fart so much.

Maybe. Or maybe we should just get rid of all the windy bastards. What's so special about bloody humans anyway?

Puppy Dog Tales

Seems that everybody but Nellybert is having some Baby Dog Joy.

Clint is getting himself a border collie,

She's only a few weeks old

Zoe and Dave have Maya...

Maya messing about in the vegetable garden

...and yesterday Kerry Sister and I travelled to Ballycastle to pick up Glenamairgie Hannah who is going to live with Teresa on the Dingle Peninsula.

She's a Border Terrier, bred to go after foxes

Clint Has No Cock

Poor Clint. Foxy made off with his three remaining roosters, each one of them reared from an egg. That's Son of Corky, the Lakenvelder and the Barnvelder all gone.

Meanwhile down in Seannachoill the Kerry Sister and Brandon are being tortured by the incessant crowing of their neighbour's eight roosters. Kerry Sister tells him, "Paudeen, you're the talk of the parish carrying feed to eight useless roosters."

"Am I? " says he, delighted at the idea.

We may get a few good County Antrim foxes exported to the Dingle Peninsula to take care of the problem. I'd be glad to part a few of them.

Now what to do about the flock of sheep that spend a lot of time in the Kerry Sister's garden munching her vegetables and flowers? I've suggested they invest in a large freezer for starters.

Seven Degrees of Separation

Last weekend we went for dinner with a couple of friends from Portglenone. And very enjoyable (and yummy) it was too. I couldn't help noticing that our hostess was looking exceptionally well. She had a great haircut and the sassy, confident air that a great haircut gives a gal.

"Great haircut," says I. "Thanks," says she. "I got it cut in London last week."
"And only by Kate Moss's hairdresser," says her better half. Turns out that the friend she was over seeing is mates with a guy who is a hairdresser to the stars. And the person whose hair he'd cut before hers was Miss Moss.

According to some recently reported research by Microsoft the whole world is only 6.6 contacts from every other human being on earth. Now I've found that Nellybert is just two degrees of separation from Kate Moss. Which doesn't surprise me one bit. Kate and her ilk get about a bit and their movements are well documented so it's easy to trace our connections to them.

Take the Queen, for instance. She meets a hell of a lot of people so each and every one of us must know at least one person who has shook the royal hand or been to one of her garden parties. Same goes for the Pope. Sure through knowing His Edness I'm only one degree of separation from the last two pontiffs. And that makes me two degrees from that fucker Bono. And three from Nelson Mandela. Unless the Pope has met him too and that's bound to have happened. Through the Kate connection I'm four from Mandela for sure. Except I forgot - Laura's cousin Khail had an audience so that's just one degree to Mandela. And two to Leona Lewis who sat beside him for a photograph. Sheesh! I could go on and on.

So tell me this fellow bloggers -

How many degrees of separation are you from...?

1. Muhammed Ali
2. Kate Moss
3. Ian Paisley
4. Kevin Bacon

Rainy Weather

Three rabbits unfortunately drowned in this weekend's downpour

Bert and I had planned to go for a long walk today. We’d even pre-booked the party animal (Hannah) for an early return from her weekend on the tiles, thus ensuring that Pearlie Blue would have somebody to moan at. But rain stopped play. A wee bit of a shower wouldn’t deter me but Bert, him being made of candy floss, melts in the rain.

Instead I took a solitary walk along the river path hoping to see massive flooding. I wasn’t completely on my own as I’d a couple of dogs with me. I like walking on my own as it gives me an opportunity to do a bit of serious thinking.

So what did I think about? I thought about global warming and wondered if it was really happening and, if it is, does it really matter? I thought about God and does it exist? I thought about money and what would happen if we stopped caring about it. And I thought about why it seems to be fine and dandy for horses to shit wherever they like and yet it’s a big sin for a dog to take a dump out of doors. Nobody expects horse riders to dismount and shovel those great steamy turds into plastic bags do they? I call that not fair.

Time Races By

This week has flown past. What was I doing? When did I ever get time to blog before?

I went to work, I played a few games of Scrabulous, I drank at least one gin every night (maybe that's what I'm doing wrong), I tried to keep my house tidy and I read a book.

You know what it is. Having Pearlie staying with us is sucking up all my mental energy. She is such a negative person that she totally drains me. 

I have a new tactic in my battle to stay sane. There will be no more reasoning with her, no more negotiations and no arguments. Instead I will be bland, pleasant and very, very boring. Yes! That's it. I'm going to bore her to death. 

Kanh to Moser, Moser to Kanh

--- On Tue, 29/7/08, mr.kanh Bobo wrote:
From: mr.kanh Bobo
Subject: I,m writing to know how far you have gone with the Bank
To: marymajellabyrne@yahoo.co.uk
Date: Tuesday, 29 July, 2008, 12:23 PM

Dear Nelly Mary Moser,

I,m writing to know how far you have gone with the Bank, have you send the Form to the Bank pls up date me so i can know what to do, so you have to be fast in what ever you are doing.

Have a nice day.

Thank's,

Mr. Kanh
+226 78 32 65 26.

Dear Mr Kanh, I have decided not to proceed in this matter. I cannot be convinced by a man, purporting to be an educated person, who is careless with grammar. I'm unable to tolerate misplaced apostrophes. My advice, if you wish to succeed in a career of fraudulent scammery, is to pay more attention to your ps and qs, not to mention your commas, periods and apostrophes.

I wish you ill luck in all your endeavours.

Sincerely yours, Mrs Nelly Moser.

Shock! Horror! Crocodile Tears!

Since becoming one of Pearlie's carers I have, on more than one occasion, been accused of being 'hard-hearted'. Thankfully no-one under the age of eighty has, so far,  been my accuser. 

But am I hard-hearted? Are there some things I just don't 'get'? Take this incredibly dumb programme I watched last night - it was all about the "Canoe Man' John Darwin and his buck-toothed wife who, between them,  defrauded insurance companies and government agencies of fairly large sums of money. Straightaway no pity there, nor for their stupid sons, who feel betrayed at the duplicity of their parents. I hope the dosh they got for selling their story to the News of the World went some way to ease their pain. 

Did I feel a sympathetic frisson for the silly woman who went into a business venture with Canoe Man after meeting him online during 'war games'?  Not one bit did I care about her trauma at his general weirdness or his insistence on removing his trousers in public. After all she freely admitted she got him run out of town leaving her with their dilapidated 'business venture' to manage all on her ownsome. So what if he sent her death threats. She was silly. She deserved it.

But the full blast of my cold-hearted scorn I reserved for the 'heart-broken' family 'devastated' by the fact that John Darwin appropriated the identity of their brother who had died in infancy. There they sat weeping crocodile tears and saying things like 'what kind of scum could....' about a child they'd probably not given a thought to in decades - if ever.  Of all the selfish, shitty things that John Darwin ever did, I reckon that one was pretty far down the list. But then I don't have a brother who died half a century ago and a chance to get on the telly and sob about it.

Tell you who I did feel sorry for - the lifeboat crew who spent all that time futilely searching for the wanker and who had to go back to harbour feeling that they'd failed someone.

The Last Weekend...

...included a wonderful meal in Portrush, a horrendous scene with Pearlie Blue in which the H word was invoked, a day in the garden, a meeting with Maya, a close encounter with a bull and the theft of lilies. Back to work tomorrow.

Beware of the Bull

Everyone who lives in a farming community has heard a story or two of a farmer killed by a bull. And it usually is a stockman who is killed as ‘civilians’ like Stepbar would tend to be wary, very wary, of bulls. It’s the farmer that gets complacent, especially if the bull is perceived to be quiet.

When I was a child I always scanned fields for any sign of a bull before climbing that five-barred gate. Even if I didn’t spot one I’d always keep an eye out and have my escape route planned. You’d only take younger children into a field if you were 100% certain that the field was bull-free.

It wasn’t the stories about gorings that scared me – it was personal experience. We used to stay with our cousins near Toomebridge and their father kept a very cross bull. Once when the bull was confined to a shed he spent an entire day roaring and crashing against the door in his desire to be out again and among his harem. The door didn’t look strong enough to hold him and I was terrified he’d break it down and kill someone. I think there was a story that he did break out once and my aunt looked out the door and saw the bull peering into the pram of one of my younger cousins left outside to take the air. My aunt raced out and snatched her baby from under the bull’s flared nostrils. Despite this early fright, or maybe because of it, my cousin grew up to be a respected breeder of Limousin cattle and works with bulls on a daily basis.

When I was about eight Daddy bought a Hereford bull called Mulderrick Hero affectionately known as Ferdinand. He was a handsome fellow and said to be quiet. Indeed the whole time we had him I never saw him do anything more frightening than lightly paw the ground with a foreleg. Despite this he terrified me. Daddy didn’t keep cattle dogs – he kept children and when the cows (and Ferdinand) were on the move we were made to go out and ‘kep’ them. This was very traumatic as we had to keep an eye on the bull, who might, I thought, decide at any moment to toss me in the air at the point of a horn and then trample me to death. Truth be told we had a lot more to fear from The Cross Cow who was a complete devil when she had a calf at her foot and fairly temperamental even when she didn’t.

Once, soon after Ferdinand came, the TB man was on the yard to test the cattle. I took refuge upstairs because I was sure the bull would go mad and crash through our front door and kill us all. I reasoned there was no way he’d get up the staircase. I knew he’d want to but wouldn’t be able to get the stairs to bear his weight. I spent the whole time looking anxiously out the window and praying that Daddy wouldn’t be killed.

I was a very anxious child. I also had serious concerns about the lions breaking out of Bellevue Zoo but that’s another story.

Lop Crazy

Bert and I went out into the hen run and cut down briars and branches and saplings. We had a bonfire. The Buff Sussex chickens came out of the hen house to watch us. I had the Wolf long-handled loppers and Bert had the grape. The hens watched the fire. We burned lots of briars and branches. Bert said I was lop crazy. I liked the Wolf loppers very much.

Putting Pen To Paper

I've heard a lot of talk about how the email, the text message and the phone have killed the art of letter writing. Apparently there is nothing so delightful as receiving a proper letter among the circulars, bills and other assorted rubbish that plops on the doormat of a morning.

Imagine opening this cheery missive that wended its way from Scotland to Cully back in February 1965.

My Dear Friends,

Sorry for being so long in answering your very nice letter but Rowena* will have told you I was not in great form. Hattie is keeping fairly well. She didn't get much time to nurse her Aches & Pains since Xmas as the Dr has been in our house very often. The twins took Gastric Flu & Chicken Pox and Jackie has been off work for a week with Broken Ribs got at his work. I do hope Bertie has got over His Trouble. We have the Measles in our village just now. I do hope ours don't take them as they have had enough at present.....

And so on and so on....

Although she did finish by asking when they were coming over to visit. Personally speaking I'd not have gone near her Plague House but then I'm an uncharitable, unsympathetic bastard. At least Pearlie & Matty say I am. Except they don't say bastard.

Names, except Bert's and I do wonder what His Trouble was, have been changed to protect this unfortunate crew's privacy although they are all bound to be dead by now anyway.

Arte y Pico Awards

Yayyyy! According to D@ve at d@\/ e’s bl@\/\/g Nellybert is An Institution! We love it.

Nelly's Garden was one of the first Northern Irish blogs I ever read and still do read. It's a blog which is nearly like what might be called an institution, definitely an addictive read. Nelly's one of the few bloggers that I've met in real life and hopefully will meet again soon, maybe the next accompanied by Bert.

So before getting on to the part where I pass on the compliment - the rules are:

1. Pick five blogs that you consider deserve the award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. The award winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of the Arte y Pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.

So, without further ado, I present the Arte y Pico Award to...

DietGirl
What can I say about Shauna? Just this - she is an inspiration. Despite it's title, her blog is not really a diet blog at all. It tells the story of how an Australian girl, halved her weight, doubled her confidence, got fit and healthy, moved to Scotland, fell in love, got married, went kick-boxing, kept on enjoying her food, climbed mountains and wrote a book. Did I say how, during all this, she never once got 'up herself'? One of the most life-affirming blogs on the internet.

Waiter Rant
Waiter Rant is wise beyond his years. He's only a young thing but because he's a waiter he feels his age. He is a natural philosopher, a good guy and a dog lover. I always get a frisson of pleasure when I see he has updated his blog. He too, has got the book deal and I feel his blog might be coming to the end of its natural life. If that's the case I'll miss him.

Ronni's Rants
Ronni hails from Texas. She's a lady near my own age and she is one of the most honest, bravest bloggers I've ever read. She blogs her way through tragedy and joy. Sadly there has been more of the former than the latter these past months. Ronni keeps on going. She is formidable.

The Musings of Mel
Mel's is a very new blog but it looks very promising. I know Mel personally and she is one of the nicest, sweetest nutters you could ever hope to meet. Her blog reflects that too. And as you know I do like to encourage new talent.

The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure
The Blog of Hannah, who gives a rather different slant on life at Nellybert's, or Thailand, or wherever she happens to be. No harm in a bit of benign nepotism is there? I just wish she'd pay more attention to grammar. But you know mothers - we're never satisfied.

And that's it. There are more I'd like to have chosen. There are some that I'd have included only they've been chosen before so I'll spread the love onwards and outwards.

New Shoes

Bert has gone to Leitrim for the weekend leaving me in sole charge of Pearlie. She has a new ruse. She writes me lists of 'things to do'. Her last list had pad, cardigan, teeth, towel, drink and book on it. Such is the life of an immobile old lady.

I went shopping for shoes yesterday and found nothing suitable. Today, while sorting out the pruck in my bedroom, I found shoes I'd bought several months ago and had forgotten about. They are eminently suitable. Whatever that means.

Looking after Pearlie on one's own is very tiring so that is all I am able to write now.

Except - is it true what Caroline says - that They are going to take the Internet off us. Say it's not true!

Our New Chickens

pullets, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Barry's Uncle Stanley's What?

When Bert looked at this page from his 1964 English exercise book he said,

I'm sure Teach was impressed with that!

Then,

But I don't even have an Uncle Stanley!

This is what I think he must have meant. I take my clue from the illustration. You must agree that his artistic talents were evident even at the tender age of five. Obviously his writing skills weren't quite as developed though.

Barry's Uncle Stanley got third prize at Balmoral Show for his penis. It got a yellow rosette.

I'd love to have seen the chap who got first prize!

Deuteronomy 22:5

All I said was,

Would you ever consider wearing trousers instead of skirts? They'd keep you cosy and warm.

And she said,

I dinnae want tae weer troosers.

Later she said,

C'meer. I want tae tell you something.

And I said,

What do you want to tell me?

And she said,

It says in the bible, somewheer, that a man shouldnae weer weemin's clothes nor a woman weer men's clothes for it is an abomination unto the Lord.

And I said,

That's a load of hooey.

And she narrows her eyes and says,

D'ye think so?

And I say,

It says a lot of stuff in the bible I'd pay no heed to and neither do you.

And she says,

Oh?

And I say,

Well you eat bacon and you didn't have Bert circumcised. And when did you last make a sacrifice at the temple?

She says,

I'll hae to hear what Mr Uprichard has to say about it.

And I say,

Ask him if he'd like us to bring a goat over for him to sacrifice?

Happy Orangefest

Pardon?

Tonight whilst giving Pearlie (82) my advice on proper behaviour towards her carers the benefit of my wisdom she says to me in a fairly insolent manner,

Whatever.

Got to admire her spirit.

A Funeral

Over the years I’ve been to many funerals. Young people, old people, people my own age, murdered people and people who died from drug overdoses or the ravages of alcoholism. Once, in our local chapel, during the funeral service for an old lady, one of her relatives, a middle-aged man, collapsed and died during the proceedings. A few days later we were all at his funeral.

One of the hardest funerals I ever attended was that of my own father three years ago. That was harsh but it was very beautiful too.

Today I had the privilege of attending the funeral of one of my father’s oldest friends. He and my father had married sisters and they’d all been going about together since they were in their twenties.

It was a very sad day for my aunt and my cousins. But for the rest of the huge congregation the service was an inspiration. There is something very fine about celebrating the life of a man, or woman, who has lived well into their eighties and lived in an exemplary fashion, loved and respected by their family, their friends and all who knew them.

Have I Too Much Time On My Hands?

Perhaps I have as I find myself replying to emails that start like this -


--- On Thu, 10/7/08, ismael_hassan03 Gazeta.pl wrote:
From: ismael_hassan03 Gazeta.pl
Subject: I NEED YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE.
To:
Date: Thursday, 10 July, 2008, 2:56 PM

Dear Friend,

I am Ismael Hassan from Burkina faso.I know that this mail will come to you as a surprise as we have never met before, but need not to worry as I am using the only secured and confidential medium available to seek for your foreign assistance in a business. I am contacting you independently of my investigation and no one is informed of this communication............

Dear Ismael

I couldn't be less surprised that you have contacted me as I receive around 10 emails per week inviting me to help with unclaimed funds lying around in Burkina Faso banks.

You say you need my urgent assistance? I suggest that what you really need is a kick up your hole.

Nelly

Long Runs The Fox

Remember how Bert went out fox-hunting on Saturday night? He stalked Foxy, got a shot at him (it was a him) and thought he'd missed. Last he saw of the Ginger Bastard was him disappearing over a hill.

Last night we both went out but we didn't see anything. We just took a look at a deserted hole where Bert had seen cubs a month or so ago and where most of the chickens from The Massacre ended up.

He went out again tonight.


Seems he got Foxy after all. After stalking him and taking a shot Foxy took to the beaters over the hill. Bert assumed he'd got away.

By the lies of him it looks like he keeled over stone dead as he ran. Took the bullet in the lung. He was a handsome beast, tho' battle ravaged with ripped ears. He was well nourished with a belly full of frogs.

A battle won for Nellybert. The war goes on.

Fox Hunt

Bert nearly got Foxy last night.

There Bert was, crawling on his belly through nettles and ditches and there was Foxy strolling nonchalantly about, occasionally jumping in the air and pouncing on a frog. Bert had her in his sights and he took aim.

Bert nearly got Foxy last night.

But nearly isn't good enough. Sigh.

Then to make matters worse he strolled home, rifle slung over his shoulder to be met by Swisser arriving in the yard. She was overcome by lust at his gunslinger image. Said he reminded her of whatshisname out of all those spaghetti westerns - a scruffy gunman 'rotten to the core' and now she's decided that's how he should outfit himself for our wedding.

Sigh.

Daily Pearlie Report: Day Whatever

6:30pm: Nelly in bad books. Refused to exercise Pearlie's leg by pumping it up and down. Said, sarcastically, "I'll have to have a word with these physiotherapists".

6:45pm: Let off leg-pumping duties as leg has 'gone cold' and will 'likely have to come off.'

6:50pm: In good books. Filled hot-water bottle and tenderly placed it under condemned and soon to be amputated freezing leg.

7:15pm: Got gold star after rushing in to room bearing small bowl of mashed potatoes and declaring, "You have me that distressed with all that talk about your leg coming off that I've gone and put too much butter in your potatoes!"

And ,after saying her plate 'too full' , (there's always something wrong) she scoffed the lot. Apparently there's no such thing as 'too much butter'.

Chicken Fat

I've made a couple of changes to my sidebar. Chickens are down to four since Foxy grabbed the last of the game roosters. It was that one called The One That Everybody Hates. Guess Foxy didn't hate him. Since then Plum and the remaining three ex-battery girls have been roaming free. It's not as easy for the Vulpine Fucker to grab them when they're running loose.

Meanwhile Bert has been getting the hen run ready for 16 Buff Sussex hens. We're going to try electric fencing to see if we can keep the Ginger Bastard out.

The other change is the removal of the Weight Report. I'm a tad over eleven stone now and I've been there for months on end. It's a year since I decided to get some tonnage off and it's boring now. I don't want to be skinny for I like my face too much. I can hop over and nip under barbed wire fences, climb five bar gates like a teenager, run up mountains and other stuff youse young ones wouldn't believe an old girlie could do. I fit in 14-16 clothes and I feel all right. This diet is officially over.

Dream Holiday

A friend of mine who is a diesel mechanic decided to have a holiday in the sun. He'd never been on a package holiday before but after a long damp winter lying under lorries in a cold shed he thought he deserved a break.

About a week before he went he had a dream.

I dreamt I was on a beautiful tropical beach. The sun was beating down and a balmy breeze was riffling the air. The sand was soft and white and the beach was fringed with coconut trees. The sea was dark turquoise. There were a few other people around but not too many. I was in my bathing trunks and the sun was warming my skin. In front of me was a trestle table and on it was a big old engine that I was stripping down. I breathed a deep sigh of contentment and thought to myself, 'Holidays are great. I should do this every year from now on.' 

Facebookin'

I owe Dan Tobin of Surgical Strikes for inspiring this post. In case you’re wondering he’s the only person I ever begged to be Facebook friends with me that actually gave in. What I like about Dan, apart from his awesome sense of humour, spot-on writing skills and innate decency, is his compassionate, kindly heart.

I have 60 Facebook friends. There are 24 among them that I’ve never met in real life. Thirteen of that 24 are blogfriends.

I suspect that at least two of the 24 I’ve never met don’t actually exist.

I’ve played Scrabulous with 16 of my Facebook friends.

Thirteen of my Facebook friends are also my Flickr contacts.

Eight of my Facebook friends are related to me by blood. Three more are in my extended family. One of the three is my ex-husband. All my children are my Facebook friends and two of my six siblings.

I’ve only worked with two of my Facebook friends although I am friends with my current boss’s wife. None of my former school or college friends are Facebook friends with me. Boo hoo! But one previous tutor is.

I’ve known 14 of my Facebook friends for over 20 years. Six of the 14 are my children, siblings and ex-hubby. Two others I found through Facebook after having been out of touch for more than 20 years.

I’ve babysat seven of my Facebook friends. This number doesn’t include my three daughters but it does include one sibling.

Nineteen of my Facebook friends have slept in my house. Of those seven have shared my bed. Six platonically as only one of those was married to me. None of my former lovers are my Facebook friends. Neither is my present beloved.

I’ve stayed with fifteen of my Facebook friends and shared a meal with 27 of them. I’ve had drinks or coffee with eight of the rest. I’ve taken drugs with 18 of my Facebook friends but it’s been a good while since that happened. I’m fairly sure some of them might still be up for it.

Butterfly Buns

Saturday Evening

NELLY: The Van and Truck Man will be here soon. D’ye want anything?

PEARLIE: Aye. Get me a wee cherry cake.

NELLY: Righty-o. A cherry cake.

PEARLIE: No. I dinnae want cherry cake. Get me a ween of thon wee butterfly buns.

NELLY: Butterfly buns. OK.

PEARLIE: D’ye know what they are?

NELLY: Aye. I do.

PEARLIE: They’re wee buns with the top cut off and cut into two and stuck into butter icing like two wee butterfly wings.

NELLY: Aye. I know the kind you mean. My mother used to make them.

Sunday Afternoon

PEARLIE: I’ll just take a cup of tay and a wee bun.

NELLY: One of your butterfly buns?

PEARLIE: Aye.

Five minutes later

PEARLIE: And can you bring me a tayspoon?

NELLY: OK. (Returns with spoon and gives to Pearlie)

PEARLIE: And a knife.

NELLY: Righty-o. (Returns with knife and reaches to Pearlie) Don’t be telling me you want a fork next!

PEARLIE: No. I want you to cut the top of that wee bun.

NELLY: (Starts to cut top of butterfly bun) I thought you especially wanted butterfly buns?

PEARLIE: I did. That’s not enough. Cut out all the butter icing. I dinnae like butter icing.

NELLY: (Doing it and giving top of butterfly bun to eagerly waiting border collie) But you specifically asked for this sort of bun.

PEARLIE: Aye. I like the plain part of the bun but I dinnae like that oul butter icing.

Nelly leaves room miming neck-wringing gestures.

A Lazy Sheep

The Scene: A kitchen in County Antrim. A clock on the wall shows the time at twenty past ten. A woman stands at the sink washing dishes. A man enters the kitchen. He is dishevelled and is scratching his head.

Bert: Boys! Is that the time. I thought it was only about nine!

Woman Who Speaks In Proverbs: He that lies long abed, his estate feels it.

Bert: You don’t say. Is there any porridge going?

Woman Who Speaks In Proverbs: He that gapes until he be fed, well may he gape until he be dead.

Bert: Wee cup of coffee then? Ah well. Sure I’ll make it myself. Thank God it’s Sunday anyways.

Woman Who Speaks In Proverbs: Every day is holiday with sluggards.

Bert: A man’s entitled to a bit of a lie-in on a Sunday, is he not?

Woman Who Speaks In Proverbs: Idle folk lack no excuses.

Bert: Sure I have plenty to do tomorrow. No harm in a wee rest today.

Woman Who Speaks In Proverbs: For the diligent the week has seven todays, for the slothful seven tomorrows.

Bert: You sure know some fancy words.

Woman Who Speaks In Proverbs: Sluggards are never great scholars.

Bert: Change the record, why don’t you? Tell me this – d’ye think I should get this hair cut soon? It’s starting to annoy me.

Woman Who Speaks In Proverbs: A lazy sheep thinks its wool heavy.

Weddywumps

Sonny Boy, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I have the only Google entry for weddywumps!

I like it very much!

Congratulations

News Feed

Declan Liddy and Laura Kenny are engaged.

We've known Miss K since she was a teeny-tiny baby. And she was a teeny-tiny one - born just after six months gestation. I remember knitting her two teeny-tiny doll-sized jumpers which swamped her. But she grew into a fine, healthy and clever young woman who loved horses, dogs, Africa, her friends and her family. Mr L is a very lucky fellow.

The Chronicles of Bertie: Early Spring 1967

The following excerpts are taken from the exercise book entitled My News written by Bert in 1967 and lovingly preserved (thank you Pearlie) by his loving mum this past 41 years. Bert has given permission for me to reproduce his writings.

6^th February – 7^th March, 1967

Thursday 6^th February, 1967

I have a cup. It has a picture of rabbits on it. I take my tea out of it. I like it very much.

Tuesday 31^st January, 1967

My Daddy had a little calf on Thursday night. I like it. It is black and white. I like it. I stroke it and it licks me.

Tuesday 7^th February, 1967

I have a Johnny seven. I like it very much. It is five pound. It is very big. There are seven guns in one.

Thursday 8^th February, 1967

I have a toy crane. I like it very much. I lift things with it. It is made of plastic. I lift bits of paper.

Tuesday 14^th February, 1967

I have five toy aeroplanes. I like them very much. They come apart. I make them fight.

Wednesday 22^nd February, 1967

My Daddy had a cow that calved on Monday. It is in a Gallagher’s box. I like it very much. It is black and white. My Daddy gives it milk.

Tuesday 27^th February, 1967

My Mum got an electric cooker. The colour is creamy. It has an oven in it and a little place for warming plates in it. I like it very much.

Thursday 2^nd March, 1967

I have a toy tank and it fires caps and goes by battery. I like it very much. It is painted ginger and green and it is a British. It has caterpillar wheels.

Tuesday 7^th March, 1967

My Mum baked some pancakes and Dad brought some up to me and I liked them very much. I got one for my lunch and one this morning. I like them when they are warm.

9^th March – 3^rd May, 1967

9^th March – another black and white calf is born. Once again it goes into Gallagher’s box. Bertie reports that he ‘likes it very much.’

20^th March – Bertie is looking forward to his Easter holiday staying with Aunt Maggie in Whappstown. He writes that he ‘likes it very much up there’.

5^th April – Went to the town. Got another toy aeroplane (spoiled or what) He writes that he ‘likes going to the town very much.’

6^th April – A red and white cow broke loose. The vet came and gave her some ‘medson’.

7^th April – He bought three motors and three aeroplanes. His friend Tommy Taylor bought four aeroplanes but didn’t bring them to school. Bertie said, of his haul, that he ‘liked them’.

10^th April – There was yet more bother with cows. Bertie’s Dad had to sit up with one that was going to calve. Owing to the uproar Bertie did not go to bed until about 11 o’clock.

11^th April – Bertie writes that the cow produced a black and white calf and that he ‘liked it.’

12^th April – Bertie’s mum’s goose hatched an egg. Bertie knows that baby geese are called goslings but he and his mum prefer to call them ‘weddywumps’. He is looking forward to lots more weddywumps. He says they are nice fluffy wee things. We must assume that he ‘likes them very much’ for he doesn’t say.

17^th April – There is another black and white calf born and Bertie ‘likes’ it. Better still his friend Clint comes to play and they have ‘great fun.’

18^th April – Uncle Bobby brings Cousin Willie down and ‘great fun’ ensues.

25^th April – Four more weddywumps are hatched. Bertie ‘likes them’.

26^th April – A barn is dismantled as it was ‘falling to bits.’

3^rd May – Teacher won’t let Bertie say weddywumps any more so he reports four more ‘gozlings’. They are yellow and one died.

Ooops!

Oh my!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/northern_ireland/7472490.stm

This puts my little parking skirmishes into perspective. 

Looking Good

I wouldn't let a little thing like a torrential downpour stop me from going on my daily walk. It's just a matter of dressing properly.


Bert said, "If you don't pull in that outfit I'll eat my hat!"

But it wasn't just me looking hot. I says to Bert,

"You must see this picture. You look just like Prince Charles. That's if he'd been on a bender for two days."

Bert says,

"Delete that."

Hannah says,

"No. Get it on the blog!"

Roses Round The Door

Bertie Mill's Dublin Bay, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Kells, despite only being a small village, boasts two garden centres. This is not as widely known as it ought to be for there are quite a few people who have only heard of one of these.

I patronise both and this is my opinion -

If you want a bite to eat, or a pair of secateurs, perhaps some artificial flowers or maybe a draught excluder in the form of an elongated border collie then go to the one with the big, big sign.

However if you want something to grow in your garden be it a climbing rose, summer bedding, perennials or shrubs and you want it to be of excellent quality, well grown and affordably priced then go to the Kells Garden Centre, the one on the Kilgad Road.

Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mel's got a blog!

Q&A

Meme on loan from Grannymar

Only one word can be used in your answer and it can NOT be used twice.

1. Where is your cell phone? Bedroom

2. Your significant other? Whistling

3. Your hair? White

4. Your mother? Home

5. Your father? Dead

6. Your favourite time of day? Morning

7. Your dream last night? Confused

8. Your favourite drink? Coffee

9. Your dream goal? Grandchildren

10. The room you’re in? Kitchen

11. Your ex? English

12. Your fear? Fire

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Garden

14. What you are not? Young

15. Your Favourite meal? Breakfast

16. One of your wish list items? Health

17. The last thing you did? Hugged

18. Where you grew up? Drumkeeran

19. What are you wearing? Sleepwear

20. Your TV is? Off

21. Your pets? Dogs

22. Your computer? Table

23. Your life? Busy

24. Your mood? Overhung

25. Missing someone? Katy

26. Your car? Battered

27. Something you’re not wearing? Shoes

28. Favourite store? Charity

29. Your summer? Light

30. Your favourite colour? Red

31. When is the last time you laughed? Ten

32. When is the last time you cried? Thursday

33. Your health? Robust

34. Your children? Three

35. Your future? Hopeful

36. Your beliefs? Many

37. Young or old? Old

38. Your image? Ordinary

39. Your appearance? Ruddy

40. Would you live your life over again knowing what you know? Yes

Feeling Fruity

Pearlie: D'ye have any fruit?

Nelly: Yeah. Sure do. I've just been to Lidl's stocking up. What do you want? Grapes?

Pearlie: No. I dinnae like grapes.

Nelly: I have pineapple but I think it needs to ripen a bit.

Pearlie: I dinnae like pineapple.

Nelly: What about apples?

Pearlie: Too hard. I cannae eat them.

Nelly: Oranges?

Pearlie: Too soor.

Nelly: Bananas?

Pearlie: Bananas constipate me.

Nelly: Pears?

Pearlie: Dinnae like them.

Nelly: I can't think...

Pearlie: D'ye have strawberries?

Nelly: No.

The Queen of the Dreen

Fave Niece: She wants a whistle.

Nelly: A whistle!

Fave Niece: Aye. A whistle. She says youse don't always hear the bell. I'm to buy her a whistle.

Nelly: You'd better not!

Fave Niece: What will I say to her?

Nelly: You get her a whistle if you want but the first time I see or hear it I'll pitch it to the back of the fire!

I need an early night.

Take That Peter, You Pumpkin-Munching Bastard

Imagine my pique when Bert told me that my pumpkin plants were being munched by a bloody rabbit. Where is Foxy when you need him?

"Do you want me to shoot him?" Bert said. "Most definitely," I replied. "Then we'll eat the little bastard."

So he did - and we did. And he was yummy.

Sunday Morning Conversation

Pearlie: Would ye luck at the amount o’ porridge in that dish! How does she expect me to eat all that oul slap!

Nelly: But that’s only a tiny wee dish…

Pearlie: It is no! And look at the size of that oul spoon. I thocht I toul you to hide all the big spoons from them carers.

Nelly: I did. And that’s only a teaspoon you have there.

Pearlie: It’s a quare big teaspoon.

Nelly: Shall I get you a set of teeny apostle spoons?

Pearlie: Mebbe. And here dear, d’ye see all the wee bit o' tea she’s left me? I toul her the cup was too full. Then she went and threw oot the half of it! That’ll niver do me!

Nelly: We’ll get you more tea. You only have to say the word.

Pearlie: I’ll tek it now. And a bit of toast along way it.

Nelly: Right o! (Leaves room)

Nelly: Your ma’s in a right pernickety mood this morning. Will you get her tea and toast? I’m to sort out her spoons. Again.

Bert: Okay.

Nelly: We’ll be needing medals for this.

Bert: Medals? We’ll be needing heroin.

Mystery Photo

Mystery Photo, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Can anyone translate the writing at the top of this picture?

It was found among Pearlie's papers and photographs. She hasn't a notion where it came from. Does anyone have an idea?

Are those European guys Catholic priests?

Who Cares?

Pearlie has been home for just over a week. I think she is starting to settle down. Really it hasn’t been as hard as I thought although it is still early days.

The toughest part and the part I dreaded most was the Invasion of the Carers. There are a lot of them. They start coming in at around 8am and are in every couple of hours until 7-8pm. They carry out her personal care and make snacks for her. At the beginning I wanted to dispense with the first one for all she does is make Pearlie a cup of tea and some instant porridge. I was advised by the social worker not to do this. She pointed out that there may be times when I’m not available to get Pearlie’s breakfast and it was better to leave the first carer in place.

We’re fortunate that this is a big house so I could corral off one side of it for Pearlie’s use. Her side comprises a big sitting room, now a bed-sitting room, a shower room and a utility room which has been converted to a mini-kitchen. The carers do not enter our kitchen or sitting area. I joke that I have our side electric fenced.

It astonished me how quickly Pearlie converted her room into a cluttery, cushiony, tacky-ornamented living space. I’d envisaged the carers being delighted with all the space in the room but Pearlie, assisted by her favourite niece, soon reduced the floor space with a collection of terribly unnecessary (in my opinion) pieces of furniture. It’s what she likes.

Toileting is a big problem. They say that Pearlie is incontinent. I don’t think she is – not by what I know anyway. To me incontinence is having no control at all. Pearlie’s misfortune is that she still has some control, has no desire to just ‘let go’ and whose problem is not having the mobility to go unassisted. This means that she is dependant on carers helping her but the gap between going at bedtime (around 8pm) and the first set of double carers coming in at around 8 or 9 in the morning is too long. Her care package is not meant to include us helping her but we’ve started to because it is just so pathetic expecting her to ‘hold on’, or not, for such a long time.

The carers are a mixed bunch. They’re mostly lovely but always in such a rush. The ones that come singly tend to be very pleasant. The ‘doubles’, probably because they have a huge work load, are in and out as quickly as they can. They quite often spend more time interacting with each other rather than their client. Of course Pearlie isn’t the easiest person herself. She’s abrasive and complaining and about as far from a sweet lil’ ol’ lady as you could get.

The other day one of the ‘doubles’ was complaining about the price of diesel. Obviously the petrol allowance has not risen while the actual costs have soared. I sympathised. Then she went on to say that she reckoned that in future they wouldn’t be able to get people to do the work and that everything would go back to the old ways. ‘What’s that?’ I enquired. ‘People will just have to go back to looking after their own.’ I was just a little stung but I didn’t pursue it other than to remark that by the time she and I required help it might not be available at all.

I’ve always felt a little bit guilty ever since the early days of the carers coming in. I’d imagine they’d be thinking, ‘Why can’t she do what we’re doing?’ But then I’d remind myself that I work and the help is there so why not avail of it?

As I said before Pearlie can be very difficult. She’s sharp and abrasive and I’m sure that some of her carers don’t care much for her at all. One described her as ‘a character’ and she’s certainly got plenty of that.

Last night after I’d helped her with her toileting stuff and got her settled down as best I could she threw her arms around my neck and said, ‘Thank you so much for everything you’re doing for me’, and I said ‘No need for thanks. It’s a pleasure to help you.’

There will be times I know that I’ll be mad at her. But I hope there will be a lot more times that I feel the way that I felt last night when she hugged my neck.

The Path To Gillies

Northern Ireland, originally uploaded by Hernan Farias.

I found this beautiful picture on Flickr while hunting for Ballymena stuff.

I recognised it immediately as one of my favourite walks. Incidentally it's part of Hannah's regular journey to and from work.

A Visit to the Dingle Peninsula

I had a smashing time in Kerry – literally! The first thing I smashed was the passenger side bumper of my car. This was the result of a little accident I had whilst pulling out from a shop in Limerick. He came from nowhere m’lud. And far too bloody fast and me in serious need of a coffee break. Which is what I’d stopped for. Being a twit I immediately admitted guilt and the wee lad was OK about it. His car was barely marked but as usual he wanted to go through the boring crap of garages and quotes. There’s my bumper hanging off and all his entire car got was a wee scuff on its paintwork. With time to think about it I realise it was as much his fault as mine.

We settled the matter with fifty euro and I hope never to hear from him again. I have reason to believe I might not. Unless he reads this blog.

Then the following day I sat on my camera whilst out on a beach walk with the Kerry Sister and Brandon. I was a wee bit gutted but decided it was a perfect opportunity to get a nicer camera.

It is thirteen years since I stayed west of Dingle and I saw a lot change in the place. The Kerry Sister’s garden was amazing. Last time I’d been there it was a wee patch of flowers, a bit of fuchsia, some crocosmia and a couple of fields of stone and rushes. She’s been busy this last decade. It must have helped that Brandon’s a digger man as well as a dry stone waller. But he’d be the first to admit that most of the work was done by the Kerry Sister herself.

Then there was the extension – which was perfectly in keeping with the charm of the old house. Once again the pair of them had carried out most of the work themselves. It's nice for Brandon to be married to a carpenter. I was very impressed.

Dingle has got very modern. And the tourists have changed. There were hardly any Americans (cannot afford Europe these days) and many fewer Germans although there were lots more Japanese.

Other things have changed too. Once it was only the tourists drove decent cars. The locals moved around in rusty cars or ancient tractors. The fields were full of donkeys. Now there’s hardly a donkey in sight. It’s all SUVs, brand new tractors and ponies. These days the only people driving crappy cars are sure to be tourists – like me.

At least I managed to get to the top of Mt Brandon without breaking anything!

Ting-A-Ling

Pearlie's home and happy with us all dancing attendance on her. She has requested a buzzer. I've suggested a bell.

Father's Day

my parents at home, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/17223773@N00/sets/72157594202041118/

Bonnie Now & Then

Bonnie, originally uploaded by ZMB.

I've just caught this picture on Zoe's Flickr photostream.

And that was Bonnie when she first came to us in October 2006. It's quite a difference isn't it?