More Friday Thirteenth

Getting a parking ticket was not the only interesting thing that happened on Friday 13^th. Later that evening I courageously ventured over to Dunsilly to meet and eat with some fellow bloggers. Although I’ve encountered Ed and Dave previously, it was my first time meeting Sharon, Wendy, Ciaran, Davy and, Grannymar. Sadly Ed had to leave early in order to meet up with TLG. Even more tragically Grannymar nabbed the very toyboy I’d spent the entire evening frightening flattering about his amazing resemblance to Prince William.

An Appeal

13^th February, 2009

To Whom It May Concern:

On the afternoon of 12^th February, 2009 I drove my mother to Tesco Supermarket in Antrim to assist her with her weekly shop. My mother is 82 years old and suffers from angina and other age-related problems, including a poor memory.

I believe this is the first occasion on which we both forgot to display my mother’s parking card and indeed, we often take note ourselves of the other drivers who park in disabled bays without displaying cards and tut disapprovingly at them, never thinking that, they too, might just have forgotten.

Both my mother and I hope that you will see fit to forgive our carelessness on this occasion. I can assure you that we will never forget to display the parking card again.

Yours sincerely,

Nelly Moser (Mrs)

PS I know I am tempting fate sending this appeal on Friday the 13^th. I hope you will prove to me that worrying about today’s date is merely superstitious nonsense

Snow Stops Blogging

Bonnie Loves Snow, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I haven't posted for nearly a week. It was the adverse weather conditions that kept me from updating. Well that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

But now that I'm off work for a few days I'll get back in to the swing of things. Maybe.

He's Still Got Balls!

Fred went under the knife today to have his little camouflage collar and bell surgically removed. As an afterthought I asked the vet to take his goolies off as well.

Fred bore the entire procedure with great stoicism, after his initial annoyance when he wasn't given his breakfast.

I'm happy to report that despite losing his physical balls he has spent the entire evening fighting bigger cats and German Shepherds. As ever, he won all his battles.

I wonder when he'll start to hate me?

Happy Birthday Mrs Dmitri

Dede, Dmitri & Macy, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I understand that her husband always dons the tartan on special days. Lucky ol' Leitrim Sister!

Turning Japanese

So these two oul duffers were watching Letters from Iwo Jima and she says to him,

You know Bert, I think this is a far better film than Flags of our Fathers.

And he says,

I'm liking it more too.

And she says,

And you know something else? You know how in Flags of our Fathers we couldn't tell one American soldier from another...?

Aye. They all look the same as one other in their uniforms, roaring and shouting and waving guns about. You wouldn't know who was who.

But I'm having no trouble at all differentiating between these Japanese fellers.

Me neither.

Funny that.

Bad Son, The Bitch and the Wardrobe

A blog is not just for entertainment - it also serves as a chronicle of events.

This is particularly helpful when a body starts to dote. Or, as is more politically correct, when a body starts to suffer age-related mental degeneration.

I’m starting to get scared. There are parts of my life that are entirely lost to me. I don’t have the faintest memory of what was said or what happened.

It seems to me that it was a mere month or so ago that the door fell off my antique pine wardrobe. It took a week or two before Bert got round to fixing it, but fix it he did. I had to help him because wardrobe doors with mirrors are heavy and it was a two-person job.

But last week the door refused to open. It was a stuck door. Bert diagnosed it as being hinge-bound, which is obviously some sort of joinerman talk. Says I to him,

So you didn’t fix it properly the last time you sorted it?

Did I sort this door before?

You did.

No I didn’t.

You did. I remember I suggested going to get a replacement hinge in B&Q and you laughed at me scornfully saying you’d never get a decent hinge in B&Q.

I’ve never worked at this door before.

You did! I remember it well. It was only about a month before Christmas. Do you not remember?

Nope.

You have to be winding me up. You must remember it.

I was worried. Was Bert losing it? Did I dream it?

But no. It was shortly after I hurt my back and that was this winter. I’ve got a note of it on the blog. So it must have been sometime after that.

During the fixing of the wardrobe door Bert went downstairs to fetch his torch to cast some light on the matter.

An hour later he says to me,

Where’s the torch? Have you seen it?

Yes. Upstairs. By the wardrobe. Don’t you remember?

Nope.

Then Billy came round and I told him what had happened. Bert told Billy that I was completely mad and that he’d originally fixed the wardrobe door about a year ago. I disagreed. If it had been a whole year ago I’d have totally forgotten.

So – from now on I’m recording all the stuff that Bert and I are likely to argue about in the future and this is my first entry.

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It was so Bert’s turn to clean his mother’s room. I reminded him of this and he took umbrage.

Do I ever go on at you about things you have to do?

Of course not! That is because I do the things I have to do and don’t need people to go on at me.

So I decided that if he had made no shape to start it by 8pm that I would do it myself. And that I would do it as a martyr would do it. And so it was.

The funny thing was I started it in a martyred rage and ended up quite enjoying it and I think Pearlie sort of enjoyed it too.

So let this blog record that on 1^st February, 2009, Nelly thoroughly cleaned Pearlie’s room and on the same date Bert let her fire go out. Yay! Sucks to be you Bert. Bad Son!

Foreign Muck

When Matty's other daughters come to visit (which they do regularly) they leave all sorts of strange and unusual foodstuffs behind them. These items are rank poison to Matty for, as everyone knows, a lady of her age and social standing exists mainly on cooked ham, mild cheddar cheese and Marie biscuits. Exotica such as avocados, garlic, parmesan cheese and tinned tomatoes are not for her delicate stomach. Indeed, their very presence in her larder, turns her over all queasy. Luckily I am always at hand to remove these pungent, highly-flavoured items from her kitchen.

But do not let it be said that Matty isn't prepared to try different things. She has a great appetite for some foreign foodstuffs and has never been known to refuse a French tartlet, a German biscuit, a Danish pastry or a slice of Italian cheesecake.

And The Nominations Are...

I see the Irish Blog Awards are on the go again. I see someone's nominated me. Thanks m'lord.

Now I'm going to take the opportunity to canvass for another blog. Party Down And Go Fuck Yourself was first brought to my notice by S.E.V.E.N. but since then I've spotted the address scrawled on an iron post in Ballymena's Peoples Park. It's the first time I've ever come across a blog being promoted in this way, but then, I have to admit, I don't get out that much.

Party Down And Go Fuck Yourself is a total disgrace. Your mother won't like it one bit. Unless your mother happens to be me. After reading it you will never be able to eat a boiled egg without coming over all peculiar. It's also the funniest and most poignant blog this year and it loves dogs.

It's certainly going to get my vote for best newcomer and popculture blog.

Our Friends From Down Under

Much as I'm loath to generalise, I have to say that I've always found Australians to be very pass-remarkable. And although I'm sure it's got nothing at all to do with it, all the pass-remarkable Australians I've ever met, have been from an Ulster Protestant background. I could even narrow their ancestry to North Antrim.

Let me give you a couple of examples. First there were the cousins from Dubbo, fourth cousins, probably twice removed, who were doing the rounds of the Ulster rellies. She was a quiet enough girl but he was a complete gobshite who'd shag anything that moved and who commented (loudly) on finding a floater in the dunny. Honestly! I could have slapped him.

Then there was Ron's brother, who hadn't even been in Australia that long, but he certainly believed in saying what was on his mind. There we all were, having a few beers, relaxing, and as I placed my feet up on the coffee table, my trews rode up a little and Yerman says,

Strewth! Ya might have shaved yer legs!

In my own house! Honestly! I could have slapped him.

Instead I said,

Haven't you ever read The Beauty Myth?

A Year Ago Today...

...found me arranging my books in alphabetical order and moaning about Pearlie. A year has passed and I never did complete ordering my books and I am trying not to moan about Pearlie too much even though she lives with us now.

A year ago I'd never watched a single episode of The Wire and George W. Bush was still in the White House. A year ago I thought my job was pretty secure and that I was well set up with savings.

A year ago Nellybert had no intention of getting married and now we've been wed for five months.

A year ago we had Rosie; today we have Fred.

A year ago I never dared to hope that Barack Obama would be President of the United States.

The Matty Effect

The last time I took Matty to Junction One I couldn't find a spare disabled parking space so set off to look for another space that wasn't too far from the shops. But just as I found one and indicated that I was turning in, I spotted another driver aiming for the same place. I looked her in the eye, thumbed in the direction of my ancient passenger and took the space. I'm not usually that assertive but the aged parent certainly does bring it out of me.

We were at Junction One again tonight shopping for skirts for Pearlie. No luck unfortunately as the dowdy old-fashioned ones weren't lined and the heavier ones were too 'trendy' for her. Who could see Pearlie in Per Una? Not me. Being us, we picked up a couple of bits for there is nothing that cheers Matty as much as shopping for new gear. But she's still suffering from that cold and she's not quite herself and I could see she was getting tired.

So there we are standing in the queue waiting to get served and the person in front of us is one of those gypes who doesn't have her purse ready and can't remember how to work the card machine and is generally a div but we waited patiently anyway. Next thing this big man standing behind us says,

I wonder if you ladies would mind if I went in front of you for I'm in a terrible hurry and I'm paying in cash.

And I looked over at Matty and then I said to him,

Well actually we would mind for my mother is pretty tired and needs to get back to the car and besides we're paying in cash too.

Then I ignored him.

As I was telling Bert later, had I been on my own I'd have let him go in front of because it would have been the easiest thing to do. Bert was amazed that any man could think he was entitled to jump the queue in front of an 80-something lady.

By the way - I'm the sort of person who, if I've got a huge amount of shopping, will say to the person behind me with two or three items, to go before me. One, for it makes me feel kind and considerate and two, I hate the feel of eye-daggers in my back.

But I'll suffer eye-daggers for Matty anytime.

Death On The Dreen

Last night Bert had to shoot one of the calves. The vet didn't know for sure what was wrong with it. She thought it might be meningitis but after a day it was clear the calf wasn't going to get better and that it was suffering. It's only the second time he's had to do that to a large animal. He was quite shook up about it but I reassured him that it was the right thing to do.

This morning he killed three roosters.

The local hounds will eat the calf and we will eat the chickens.

Sniff

Would be dutiful daughter dials number.

Hi Mum! How are you feeling today?

Oh. Is that you Nelly? I'm feeling much better today.

That's good. Listen I...

I can't talk now. I'm going to the doctor.

The doctor? Why are you going to the doctor?

I've got the cold.

I know you've got the cold. That's why I asked you how you were feeling. Why are you going to the doctor?

He wants to see me.

I was just ringing to let you know I can't take you to Tescos tomorrow because...

I wasn't for going anyway.

Right. You can phone me when you get back from the doctor. Tell me all ab...

Click

So I guess I'm a bad daughter today for not taking my mother's cold seriously enough. Oh well. 

How To Stop Smoking And Gain An Accomplishment In Three Short Days

Father Gerry's method of quitting the weed is so good I almost wish that I still smoked so I could give it a go. So for those of you who tried and failed to stop smoking this New Year why not try the McAteer Plan? Prayer (even to St Jude) is not necessary but you will need to clear your dairy for three days. And you'll need to buy a tin whistle.

So here it is - the McAteer three day plan for giving up smoking. Father Gerry knew he had to do two things to successfully ditch the habit. These were - shorten the day and keep the hands busy. The first part wasn't too hard as he was a self-confessed lover of the scratcher, the second part was where the tin whistle came in.

• Day 1: Father McAteer stayed in bed until one o'clock in the afternoon and went to bed at teatime*. During the short time he was out of bed he set about learning to play the tin whistle.
• Day 2: He got up at dinnertime** and didn't put the whistle down for a minute until he went to bed at eight that evening.
• Day 3: He rose at midday and played the whistle until his usual bedtime.

On the fourth day Father Gerry woke up a non-smoker and an accomplished tin whistle player.

It must be noted that Father McAteer was still a layman in those days. He was his own boss and could arrange the day whatever way he chose. Still, give him kudos, it was quite an achievement.

But what, you might ask, if you want to try the McAteer Plan and you already are an excellent whistle player? Well you could try the bagpipes or the banjo or if you have cranky neighbours living close by you could take up crocheting or needlepoint. Where there's a will there's a way!

The McAteer Plan is taken from Better Late Than Never... Memoirs of Father Gerard McAteer, who was ordained to the priesthood in 1983 at the age of sixty-five.

*Teatime - around six in the evening
**Dinnertime - Between midday and one a.m.

The Death of a Hare in Fairloch Moss

I’ve been reading the memoir Better Late Than Never... by Father Gerry McAteer, who came from around Matty’s part of the world. The Wee Bro bought it for her and she devoured it in two days. I’m taking a bit more time over it as I keep rushing to the internet to google stuff that he’s writing about. A chance remark that he spent time cutting turf in Sloggan Moss ‘above Randalstown’ lead me to an account of an event in 1835 referred to as a bog burst. It was fascinating. I got the OS maps out and found out exactly where it happened and some of these days I’ll be going for a wander around it. But I’ll have to mind my step and keep a bit of a lookout in case it swallows me up or carries me off. It seems there is far more to fear in the bog than falling into a moss hole.

The bog began swelling on the 17^th September. It had reportedly rose to a height of 30 feet before starting to move forward in the late afternoon. It moved slowly forward for several days, first in a north-easterly direction then changing course towards the west. By all accounts the people of the country watched anxiously to see what it might do next.

...it moved but little until Friday the 23rd; when about three in the afternoon, it rushed suddenly forward with the speed, as the peasants expressed it, of a race horse: they found it impossible to keep up with it. It was while pressing thus rapidly onwards, that a hare, pursued by some boys and a dog, leaped on the bog, and, jumping from tuft to tuft, succeeded in reaching the centre of the morass, where it was seen struggling for several minutes, but at last disappeared in the torrent of black mud that flowed down upon it. The dog followed; but terrified at feeling the ground moving, as it were, from right under his feet, and gradually giving way, leaped off again, and ran away with his tail between his legs, evidently much frightened. (Hunter, Magazine of Natural History, Vol IX, pp251-260)

By the 25th the travelling bog reached the River Maine where, over a period of several days, it was carried into Lough Neagh.

And fortunately there was no injury or loss of life apart from the hare and the salmon and trout killed when the bog entered the river. The fish did not go to waste for they were gathered up in their hundreds by the country people from miles around.

The Belfast to Derry mail coach was greatly inconvenienced as, by all accounts, it took forty men many days to clear the debris from the main road running between Ballymena and Randalstown.

I've found this account engrossing to read about but what does rankle me is, I knew people, people from 'around our doors', like Paddy Heffron and even my own father, who might have had first hand accounts of these happenings from their own grandparents. It's far too late to ask them now.

My next blog will give an account of how Father McAteer renounced the evil nicotine. It's so good it needs to be passed on.

Quiet

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It won’t be long now until the greeting ‘Happy New Year’ can be put away for another twelve months. Surely it will only be a matter of days before people stop asking, “How did you get Christmas over you?” The usual reply to this question is, “Oh quiet. It was very quiet.” I was asked this myself today, “So how was your Christmas? I suppose it was quiet?” “Not a-tall,” says I. “It wasn’t a bit quiet.” “What!” says he, “You’re the first person I’ve heard of that didn’t have a quiet Christmas.” “Well,” says I, “It would be hard to be quiet with two mad parties, countless visitors, relations, animals, Bert’s carpentry project, six carers in and out every day, an’ oul targe ensconced in the good room and me on the gin for a fortnight.”

There were times during Christmas when I dreamed of a long weekend in the Mournes. That would be just me, one dog, a stout pair of walking boots, a pile of books and four bottles of wine.

Unconcerned

unconcerned, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Fred needed some kitten medication for which he needed to be weighed.

Just put him on your baking scales, said Bert.

He'll wreck them, said I.

As it happened Fred happily cooperated with the weighing process.

Nawsome To Awesome

Ganching (gently) recently reproached me for my use of the word 'awesome'. She suggested that some people might think I was trying to 'sound young'. I took this on board and decided to consult a 'young person'.

Kermie, my sister says that I should reconsider my use of the expression 'awesome'. She feels that it is not age-appropriate. What words do you think a person in her mid-fifties should use when she wishes to suggest 'awsomeness'?

He thought carefully. He answered,

Spiffing? Splendid?

I think he's got it. Thanks Kerm.

New Year's Eve So Far

I took Matty Tesco shopping thinking it would be rather quiet. Surely there'd just be a few folks out topping up on fresh bread and milk and maybe an alcoholic or two topping up on their New Year booze. Surely no-one could possibly need more food after their Christmas binge?

But no. The aisles were crowded and the trolleys were overflowing. The press of oul weemin around the bargain shelves nearly had the wee Tesco woman, only trying to refill the shelves, suffocated. You could see that she wanted to strangle those oul dolls with their own big fluffy Christmas scarves. I made sympathetic noises as she struggled from under their grabbing zombie arms. "Honestly," says she, "People are just so greedy!"

Myself, I managed to sneak a wee organic chicken from under their noses. Well a body does have to eat and I hate telling Zoe lies when she comes to dinner.

Meanwhile Matty was stocking up on the all-important pensioner staples, the People's Friend, white bread, Marie biscuits and a scratch card. But I had to rush her home then as I had an important afternoon engagement...

...for which I needed new gloves. I bumped into Dave at the garage. He was buying chainsaw food and I enquired if he was coming from us or had yet to call on us. He was coming to us for a chainsaw seminar with Bert. Or at least that had been his original intention. He informed me that he too was invited to our afternoon soiree. "Oh goody," says I. "You'll be staying for a spot of tea? We're having Turkey & Bacon Pie and some of Bert's Turkey Broth."

My new gloves were a great success. The Hunter wellies were a good job too although thermal socks might have improved my comfort levels. Between the four of us, Bert, Clint, Dave and myself, we soon had the last of the potato harvest dug, gathered and stored.

So now I'm having a wee dram of Laphroaig. It is New Year's Eve.

Woke Up This Morning And My Tay Was Too Warm (and my porridge was too thick and the fire was oot...)

Katy gave Bert a copy of B._B._King’s latest recording. We listened to it this morning.

Bit of a depresso isn’t he?

Sure is. But then it is The Blues

He gets up in the morning. He's in misery.

Sometimes he even gets up before the break of day…

Still in misery. He feels bad. The world has gone wrong. He’d soon rather be dead, sleeping six foot in the ground. Remind you of anyone?

So he's still around then?

I think so. Haven’t heard that he died anyway. (Hastily consults Wikipedia.) Yup. Still here. And! He’s a year older than your ma! Eighty-three this year and he’s still doing it!

Good going that.

And there she is doing absolutely nothing! Why couldn’t she be more like B.B. King? She might be miserable but if she was out singing the blues…making a wee bit of money for her old age.

And for us too.

Too true. But no! There she is hanging around doing puzzles and crosswords and watching Deal Or No Deal. God knows she could have sung the blues for she’s always whingeing and moaning about something.

But you need to have lived a life to sing the blues.

And being able to sing and play the gee-tar would be a help too.

Christmas Greetings Then and Now

A typical early 2oth century card sent to Pearlie's mother.




This postcard was sent to Pearlie in 1940. She would have been 14 and was staying for Christmas at her future husband's home, this very house I'm sitting in now. They were, in the parlance of the time, 'far out friends'. Pearlie was already in love. Johnny at 20 years of age was, most likely, oblivious to her feelings.


A card dating from the 1930s sent to the Hillis family. Note that the rustic character is smoking. Quelle horreur!



A modern card sent to Nelly from Ganching, Christmas 2008.

Division of Labour Christmas Style

It's said that women do most of the preparation for Christmas and I'm sure that in many homes that is the case. Take our house - Bert won't go near a shop during the run up to Christmas unless it's to the garage to stock up on gas or dogfood. He wouldn't dream of buying anyone a present, much less wrap one. At a pinch he'll chop down a Christmas tree but he wouldn't have the first notion about decorating one. You might, if you're really persuasive, get him to go to the off licence to stock up on booze and he's pretty good with the Christmas meats. No fancy trimmings for him though. He'll cook a turkey to perfection, he'll carve it with skill but you can put it on your own damn plate yourself! What you want? He eats it for you?

But last night I had to concede that sometimes women get the better deal. I spent my evening baking citrus based Christmas desserts - a Lemon Mascarpone Cheesecake and an Orange and Almond Cake. Whilst so engaged, I chatted happily with some folks who'd dropped by to wish us Season's Greetings. Meanwhile Bert was down at Clint's plucking and drawing teens of turkeys and geese. The conversation was terse as Clint was still traumatised from the killing that had taken place a few nights before. He'd really loved those birds.

So I got to smell the sweet tang of sugar and citrus while Bert, poor man, had the reek of blood and guts in his nostrils. Sometimes it's good to be a woman.

Curry, Crackers and Chocolate

What does Christmas mean to me? Easy. Cookin' and bakin'!

On Christmas Day we plan to forgo the traditional roast dinner. This Christmas we're having curry.
The reason is Bert and I are, as has become traditional, making more of our Boxing Day dinner. That's the day Zoe, Dave and the dogs and a few others can come and it's always more fun.

Today I'm baking Nigella's Dense Chocolate Loaf Cake which we're having on Boxing Day with Zoe's homemade coconut ice cream. Chocolate and coconut! Mmmm.... My two favourite dessert ingredients.

The Healthy Eating Plan Hits The Skids

And it's not even Christmas yet! Blame it on the Chocolate Man.

This young fellow came into the office the other day looking for the boss. I could tell by his manner that this was a social, rather than a business call.

You're one of the Ladmans aren’t you?

I am indeed.

And which one are you?

I’m John.

I know Richard and Davy but I don’t think I’ve met you before. You were mentioned in company the other day. Now what was it was said? Yes! I heard you were a tremendously good cook and that you were always feeding the other fellows in the flat when you were at University.

That’s right enough. There wasn’t one of them boys could boil an egg for themselves.

So what’s your speciality?

I do a great roast dinner. But I’m terribly messy. I dirty every pot and pan the house.

Isn’t that just like a fellow. My husband’s exactly the same.

My mother’s always saying I should clean up as I go along.

Sure cleaning up as you go along is for girls.

Right enough. So it is.

I bet you Gordon Ramsey doesn’t clean up as he goes along.

I’d say he doesn’t. He’ll have people to do that for him.

He has people to do a lot of things for him. Now what is it that you do with yourself?

I’m a Developmental Manager for BigFamousChocolateCompany.

Sure so you are. I remember now. That was talked about the other day too. Wasn’t Simon saying you gave him this great giant bar of chocolate. He showed me a photo of it on his mobile phone.

That’s right. So I did.

Now don’t you be giving me any chocolate. Sure I wouldn’t stop eating it until I died of chocolate poisoning.

You like chocolate? Wait a minute there….......

In Which Nelly and the Kitten Find Themselves Feeling Rather Chilled

Apart from the garden centre, my present office is the coldest place I’ve ever worked and at least in the garden centre I could do some physical work to keep warm. So, much as I’d like to convey a smart corporate image, in jackets and heels and little silk scarves, I’m happed up in layers of wool and body-warmers, mufflers and fingerless gloves and with a long drip hanging off the end of my freezing nose and looking a lot less like a groomed and glossy receptionist and a lot more like Albert Steptoe.

But at least I was cheered up when Hagelrat invited me to do a book meme (I swear I think I started that one but maybe it’s just a geriatric delusion) and by happy chance the book closest to me was Swallows and Amazons and didn’t page 56 gave up a delightful passage featuring Titty and Dick and a lot of tackings, moorings and tying-ups to bushes that were growing out of rocks. But unfortunately the book is still in at work so I cannot do it.

The only other book I had to hand was ‘The God Delusion’ which was loaned to me by Mr D, a delightful chap in his eighties, and he says he’s definitely an atheist now. I think that’s terribly tough-minded of him at his age. I was the second person he loaned his copy to. The first was a Church of Ireland vicar and the book was returned inserted with 6 pages of handwritten notes and quotes from the bible. Mr D remains unconvinced but I expect the clergyman felt he had to try.

And on the home front Bert has embarked on his traditional Christmas preparations. This always involves a large, messy and thoroughly non-urgent task that he has been putting off for at least three years. I think it was last year he decided to demolish the turf shed and this year he’s building (from scratch) a sliding door between the scullery and the hall. The house is knee deep in sawdust and I’m terrified the kitten is going to decapitate itself on Bert’s Makita.

Not very kitten-friendly

Bert says it won’t because it’s not clever enough to override the safety features. But is it little wonder I fear that Bert takes a very cavalier attitude to Fred’s wellbeing when Hannah found the poor wee thing in the pet food fridge this evening? Luckily it hadn’t been in there very long and was happily lapping away at an open tin of cat food. But what if Hannah hadn’t been going to feed the dogs at that very minute? Bert said it would have learned the wee brute not to go in there.

Natch

Find out Which Batman Character Are You at LiquidGeneration.com!

Also seen at IDQCT.

Christmas Memories

Hannah and I must get together and write a post on "The Year The Wee Manny Ruined Christmas" as I was doing Class 'A's at the time and don't remember it rightly. And a child's memories are always more poignant.

In the meantime I'd call this a Must Read.

TFIF

But what does Friday actually mean to fifty-somethings with elderly in-laws ensconced in the good room?

A body spends the whole working week looking forward to Friday. Why? I get home. I look at the sink full of dirty dishes. I see the overflowing laundry basket for Friday is Pearlie’s ‘Big Wash’ day. I think about the dirty floors, for twelve carers a day, two dogs, two cats and Bert do leave their mark.

The weekend. It’s really just a catching up with the housework time for me.

You know something? I hate sharing my life with Bert’s mother.

And if I wasn’t three-quarters on the road to being pissed I might elaborate on that.

Facebook Is For Messagin' Not Just For Wordscrapin'

I've only recently started to avail of Facebook's instant messaging application. I found myself having a laugh with the delightful Miss E of Vancouver town as recently as late last night. It was nearly bedtime for me - but she was fresh as a daisy for sure.

I also had a brief interchange last night with Beowulf (we talked dogs and Ikea furniture) and tonight I've been discussing lipstick and tattoos with Mr Damien Mulley.

So tell me this, experienced peeps...

What is the polite way to break off a real time exchange, bearing in mind that I'm only supposed to be on the computer a few minutes at a time (hah!) as I have dishes to wash, old ladies to attend to, cakes to bake, books to read and husbands to smile at invitingly?

Happy Birthday Katy

Katy, originally uploaded by ZMB.

Happy birthday darling Katkin.

Our Piggy Did Not Die In Vain

Eat Me

I got a bit pissed at Bert yesterday because he threw out the peanut butter.

Why? What was wrong with it?

The sell-by date was 2007.

For God’s sake! That’s only last year. Sure it wouldn’t have done you a pin of harm!

So you can imagine how annoyed I am about this Irish Pork Crisis.

…..the UK Food Standards Agency said it believed no pigs in Northern Ireland had consumed the tainted feed. But it said pork labelled ROI or NI should still be thrown out or returned.

Like any sensible person, I think it’s terribly wrong that pigs are fed contaminated foodstuffs, but this reaction is overkill. Our pig (currently resident in the Nellybert freezer) scoffed her fair share of store-bought grub. And we’ll be eating her. It would be rude not to.

I Was Wrong

Earlier today I left a most, unladylike comment on Hannah's recent post. I was totally wrong. That picture wasn't Bogie. It was Bert's dad. That was the picture on his first driving licence.



Willy John is on the left.

This Is Puck, The Redfern Duck

If you arrive at work with wet woollen gloves, pull each one over the bottom of a small jar. Stand open ends of jar on a radiator. Gloves will dry in half the time it usually takes.

* * * *

To get nuts out of their shells in one piece, soak them in salt and water for a few hours.

* * * *

To prevent a cake being overfired on top, run cold water over buttered greaseproof paper. Shake well and place over cake before putting in the oven.

* * * *

The clearing out of Pearlie’s previous abode continues. It goes slowly because I cannot resist reading every magazine or newspaper cutting she ever kept. One thing I have no trouble disposing of are the gospel tracts. She kept all of these and there must have been hundreds of them stashed here and there. It gladdened my black Catholic heart to cast these good Protestant missives in the trash bin. I was a lot less cavalier about disposing of the scores of bibles she kept. At one point in his life Bert’s father was a Sunday school teacher and the family has gathered more bibles than a horse has hairs.

The vast collection of biros has also been tossed. After years and years they just stop working and if Pearlie had enough spare hours in her day to test old pens, I don’t. I’m far too busy stacking bibles, trashing tracts and reading ancient household tips.

Pearlie also kept little cuttings that took her fancy. I liked this old style advertisement.

This is Puck, the Redfern Duck

The wet he never feels,

Because his boots are watertight

With Redfern's Soles and Heels

Moon And Venus

Moon And Venus I, originally uploaded by Sea Observer.

I spotted this celestial sight as I was driving home from work this evening. Sadly I had no camera. Fortunately good old Radio 4 was on and I soon heard what it was all about.

Thanks to Sea Observer for the borrowing of the excellent photograph.

Chain Gang Chic

I read that folks sentenced to community punishment are soon going to be wearing high-visibility 'shame jackets' emblazoned with the words 'Community Payback' on the back. I can't say I approve. After all, doesn't everyone and his dog wear hi-viz on the streets these days? What's wrong with good, old-fashioned black and white horizontal stripes? I saw, sometime in the late nineties, offenders garbed in this traditional fashion as they cleaned the streets of a small town somewhere in Mississippi, and I have to say that this looked a lot more eye-catching and shameful than a bright orange jacket. 

Happy Thanksgiving USians!

talking turkey 1, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

A Pig For Life Not Just For Sausages

Alfredo Le Ginger got added to my sidebar today. Happily Holly is slightly less in hate with him than previously. Now she just glares at him disdainfully rather than the full arched back, hair standing on end, snarly thing she had going.

The pigs have been removed from the sidebar as they are currently hanging up by their heels in Stevenson's. Bacon and sausages will be back on the menu soon. Bert loved those pigs but not too much. So we'd like to get a couple of sows and keep them for breeding. It would be good to get to know a pig for a little bit longer than a few months.

A Little Bit Distracted

Funny old week I've just had. On the surface it was the usual ho-hum stuff but it's so quiet. Too quiet. Ominously quiet. I keep wondering if I'm still going to have a job come the new year and that's strangely demotivating.

However, as always, the weekend has been busier. I made that Coconut Bread as recommended by Zoe and Bert cooked the very last leg of pork* from last year's pigs. We were having a Russian judge, a postman and Swisser to dinner. What a lovely evening we had. The judge was delightful and not at all what you'd expect. For one thing she was an amazingly smiley person. She does have this judge's face for hearings. With just a little persuasion she showed it to us and it was very stern and solemn.

Today I returned to sorting out the stuff from Pearlie's previous abode. This is turning into one of the labours of Hercules. It is never ending. Today it was her zip collection, her button collection, her handkerchief collection, her marbles, her flint arrow heads, her apron pocket collection, 40 years worth of newspaper clippings, mostly weddings, obituaries and fatal accidents. Oh and anything to do with the Royal Family.

And speaking of which, we were at the table yesterday when Aunt Lizzie's papillon wandered into the kitchen and cocked his leg against the dishwasher. The postman said,

Hey! That dog just pissed up against your dishwasher!

Oh. Sure it was only a wee drop.

Aren't you going to kick it's arse?

Just think of it this way. If the Queen was visiting and she brought the corgis and one of them took a leak against the dishwasher you wouldn't mention it would you? In this house Bert's Aunt Lizzie is just like the Queen. If anybody was to kick Pepe's arse she'd never darken our door again and Pearlie would be devastated.


*Pigs are going tomorrow. Bert is very sad.

Oh How I Wish That Skippy Was Here

The hole what I fell in

I’ve never got into the habit of carrying a phone with me. After yesterday I think perhaps I should. After leaving Hannah in to work I took Paddy and Bonnie for walks in Currell’s Avenue. I was wearing my Hunters so decided to go off piste. We were in this boggy field between the river and the Ballygarvey Road and I went to cross an old wooden bridge over a sheugh. Next thing I’m sitting on my ass on a whole heap of mud and my left leg is stuck in a hole in the bridge, damn and blast it to hell. Of course my first thought was,

Am I going to lose my welly here?

No thought a-tall for my leg, just my welly for a damned expensive welly it was too. Then I thought,

Am I going to get my leg out or am I going to be stuck here for hours?

Then I thought,

Will I have to chew my leg off?

Then I thought,

If I had a big rock I could smash the wood around my leg and get it out.

Then I thought,

If these dogs were any good a-tall like Lassie or Black Bob, or if they were even as smart as Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, then they could go and fetch help but they’re not, they’re crap dogs and they’re not even looking at me, they’re running ahead regardless as if Nelly with her leg stuck in a bridge is a really normal thing to be happening.

Then I thought,

If I imagine my leg is really skinny like Kate Moss’s leg then I could wiggle it out or die trying.

So I did. I imagined my leg was totally skinny and wiggled it out and it hurt like hell and it came out with Hunter still attached.

And I jumped up and walked about and everything still worked so I thought I’d better take myself and my two useless dogs homewards but before I went I took a photo of the hole in the bridge and I wished that I could have had a picture of me with my leg stuck in the bridge and if Skippy the Bush Kangaroo had been there (s)he would definitely have gotten that picture.

What's that Skip? An old lady's got her leg trapped in the old wooden bridge?