Companionship

Nelly: What do you know about Don Quixote?
Bert: Not one thing.
Nelly: Don Quixote! You know nothing about Don Quixote!
Bert: Och! Don Quixote - sure I thought you said John Coyote. Don Quixote... good old guy, full of crazy ideas. great notion of himself, there was something about windmills...

Bert and I have just spent a pleasant, companionable Sunday.

We hung his grandfather just outside Pearlie's room. We washed out the sewers. I found that to be very interesting. DynoRod will be getting no business around our way as Nellyberts are doing it for themselves.

Then Bert proposed going out for a meal. I screwed up my face. I thought of the delights of housework and loading Bert's iPod. I pondered, then disdained the idea of getting dressed up to sit among strangers and then having to wait at least forty minutes for food to be placed in front of me. I suggested that we go for a walk instead and pick up a takeaway on the way home.

So we gathered up Bonnie, Paddy and Francis Joseph Banjo (we're looking after him this weekend) and went hiking in Tardree Forest for an hour and a half. "Dogging," says I. "We'll show them how to bloody dog."

The Temptation of Nelly

I have heard that practitioners of Feng Shui would have it that the attic area of our homes represents our hopes and dreams for the future, and that an attic bunged solid with the usual detritus and junk blocks those hopes and dreams. With this in mind I plugged myself into the translater’s notes for Don Quixote and headed for the poor man’s Aladdin’s Cave that is our roofspace. Oh the stuff! And we’ve only been here a few years. After twenty minutes I had managed to throw out three things, had rearranged several more and decided to allow Bert’s grandfather back down the stairs. His reappearance will annoy Pearlie as she didn’t get on with him. Now the only thing to decide is whether to hang him in her room or just outside it. Just outside it would probably be best as I make a point without being too cruel.

 

I was just wondering what to do with Bert’s old pram when that very face appeared at the top of the staircase.

 

“Do you feel like being naughty?” he enquired.

 

Naturally my first instinct was to kick him back down the stairs. However I refrained, pointed to my headphones and roared, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!

 

He said, “No! Not that kind of naughty.” and produced ice cream. What could I do? I ate it. I’m finding it so very hard to resist temptation these days.

 

Then there was the other day. Hannah made one of her yummy curries and I had a good helping with rice and naan bread. That should have been enough for me. But no – next thing Jakers produces a gigantic slab of caramel shortcake and waves it under my nose. I say, “Oh no. I shouldn’t.” He says, “It’s OK. It’s not cake or anything,” I had to agree. It may have been a concoction of sugar, fat, flour, condensed milk and chocolate but it wasn’t actually CAKE. So I ate it.

 

Then there’s all the sweets and biscuits that Bert and Hannah bring into the house. I tell them to hide it from me so that I won’t be tempted. And they do. They hide it in the second drawer down in the wee red IKEA cabinet in the TV room. And sometimes they even leave the drawer open so that I can see that they've hidden it. 

Going In The Right Direction

I parked the car at Steen's Corner and walked half a mile in the direction of Ballymena, before turning right onto the Whappstown Road. For the part of the walk I listened to the last ten minutes of Three Men in a Boat. I found it just a tad flat compared to the previous  chapters but then, after the best part of a fortnight on the river, the three heroes and the dog were feeling a bit flat too. The weather didn't help them as the poor souls were caught in an interminable summer deluge and they just wanted to be home and dry and clean and to be eating a fine  dinner. You know how it is. So my pace was only at a moderately brisk dander, as I concentrated on the book's ending, and was only enlivened by a quick dash into a field for a pee.

Book over I switched the iPod on to shuffle and soon sharpened my pace.

• All Your Love, Magic Sam - good brisk pace, I really lengthened those strides.
  
• Smells Like...Remix, Fatboy Slim - got the heart going good altho' I thought the track was shite.
  
• Bit of Snooks Eaglin - stepping out well.
  
• In The Mood, John Lee Hooker - does what it says on the tin. Did he mean aerobic walking?
  
• Going in the Right Direction, Robert Randolph & the Family Band - I was practically jogging to this.
  
• Wheels, Come On Gang - a spring in my quickstep and a good mood enhancer to boot.
  
• Her Mind Is Gone, Professor Longhair - getting close to the car. Winding down the speed.
  

Best walk I've had in ages. 

The Dog Fight

Jerome K. Jerome and his dog, surely an inspiration for Montmorency in Three Men in a Boat. So how come no one has ever told me how delightful this book is? My favourite passage is as follows:

Fox-terriers are born with about four times as much original sin in them as other dogs are, and it will take years and years of patient effort on the part of us Christians to bring about any appreciable reformation in the rowdiness of the fox-terrier nature. I remember being in the lobby of the Haymarket Stores one day, and all round about me were dogs, waiting for the return of their owners, who were shopping inside. There were a mastiff, and one or two collies, and a St. Bernard, a few retrievers and Newfoundlands, a boar-hound, a French poodle, with plenty of hair round its head, but mangy about the middle; a bull-dog, a few Lowther Arcade sort of animals, about the size of rats, and a couple of Yorkshire tykes. There they sat, patient, good, and thoughtful. A solemn peacefulness seemed to reign in that lobby. An air of calmness and resignation - of gentle sadness pervaded the room. Then a sweet young lady entered, leading a meek-looking little fox-terrier, and left him, chained up there, between the bull-dog and the poodle. He sat and looked about him for a minute. Then he cast up his eyes to the ceiling, and seemed, judging from his expression, to be thinking of his mother. Then he yawned. Then he looked round at the other dogs, all silent, grave, and dignified. He looked at the bull-dog, sleeping dreamlessly on his right. He looked at the poodle, erect and haughty, on his left. Then, without a word of warning, without the shadow of a provocation, he bit that poodle's near fore-leg, and a yelp of agony rang through the quiet shades of that lobby. The result of his first experiment seemed highly satisfactory to him, and he determined to go on and make things lively all round. He sprang over the poodle and vigorously attacked a collie, and the collie woke up, and immediately commenced a fierce and noisy contest with the poodle. Then Foxey came back to his own place, and caught the bull-dog by the ear, and tried to throw him away; and the bull-dog, a curiously impartial animal, went for everything he could reach, including the hall-porter, which gave that dear little terrier the opportunity to enjoy an uninterrupted fight of his own with an equally willing Yorkshire tyke. Anyone who knows canine nature need hardly, be told that, by this time, all the other dogs in the place were fighting as if their hearths and homes depended on the fray. The big dogs fought each other indiscriminately; and the little dogs fought among themselves, and filled up their spare time by biting the legs of the big dogs. The whole lobby was a perfect pandemonium, and the din was terrific. A crowd assembled outside in the Haymarket, and asked if it was a vestry meeting; or, if not, who was being murdered, and why? Men came with poles and ropes, and tried to separate the dogs, and the police were sent for. And in the midst of the riot that sweet young lady returned, and snatched up that sweet little dog of hers (he had laid the tyke up for a month, and had on the expression, now, of a new-born lamb) into her arms, and kissed him, and asked him if he was killed, and what those great nasty brutes of dogs had been doing to him; and he nestled up against her, and gazed up into her face with a look that seemed to say: "Oh, I'm so glad you've come to take me away from this disgraceful scene!" She said that the people at the Stores had no right to allow great savage things like those other dogs to be put with respectable people's dogs, and that she had a great mind to summon somebody. Such is the nature of fox-terriers; (Three Men In A Boat, to say nothing of the dog, CHAPTER XIII.)

The New Pigs

three little pigs, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Bee Is For Bertram

Bert went on a bee-keeping course recently and then sat a bee-keeping examination. He bought a bee-keepers outfit and built a hive and tonight he brought home his first bees. There are thousands of them and they have to be kept in a travelling box for a few days before being introduced to the hive. The travelling box has to be placed on the exact spot where the hive will sit. Bert was very excited about it all. He shouted to me to come and see. "Listen," says he. "Can you hear them?" I could. They sounded pretty pissed off to me. "Aren't you going to wear your protective gear?" I asked him. "Nah. It'll be OK." He opened them up. They poured out, a buzzing, raging mass. Straightaway Bert was stung on the finger, ankle and throat. Yet God was good for I was unscathed.

I said some things to Bert that are better not repeated in full. Words and phrases like 'bloody idiot', 'emergency tracheotomy' and 'dickhead' might have been uttered.

He went out again to see to them and this time he wore all the gear. When he came in he unzipped himself out of it and the next thing there's an angry bee buzzing around the kitchen. I beat a hasty retreat and ordered him to get it out of the house.

I think I'd far rather have the pigs.

The Joy of Lists

For once I've got lots of things to write about and they are all so very interesting that I don't know where to begin. Oh! I do know where to begin - where I always begin. A List.

1. Just Because It's A Heatwave Doesn't Mean You're Allowed To Wear Your Bra As A Top!
   
2. The Joy of Watering. 
   
3. Chasing the Piglet.
   

The first topic is actually Hannah's and refers to a lady d'un certain age and voluptuous proportions who thought that an ill-fitting bikini top was an appropriate garment to go shopping in.  May I hastily point out that it certainly wasn't me, as I am a desprit hoor for modesty and wouldn't be seen dead in a bikini of any colour or shape. Quite frankly I'd rather go naked.

And Hannah said, that to make matters worse, the bikini top was a horrible brown colour. And that the unfortunate creature was eating a sausage roll. Bert said she'd probably chosen brown so that the HP sauce stains wouldn't show. 

Anyways I think I might have found Mrs Brown Bikini's discarded shopping list when I was In Tescos with Matty. Did I ever tell youse that I love noseying at other people's shopping lists? Handwritten ones are the best.

• LARD
  
• LOAF
  
• SAUSAGE ROLLS
• TEA BAGS

Mouse Loaf

Somehow I think malt loaf is going to be off-menu in at least one County Antrim home.

But it could be argued that this particular loaf contains added protein and minerals. And fur. And whiskers.

The Wisdom of Satan and other Stories

Since I acquired my new fangled listening device I have had those kind LibriVox people read me the following books,

• Middlemarch by George Eliot
  
• Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens
  
• A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
  
• The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
  
• Bleak House by Charles Dickens
  
• The Mysterious Stranger and Other Tales by Mark Twain (Paine version)
  

And I am currently listening to The Wind In The Willows by Kenneth Grahame. That is a re-read but it's always enjoyable. I was reminded of a thought that I had when I read it first, and it was this - how come Ratty and Toad and Badger and the rest of them get to eat interesting food, go on caravan holidays and have houses and cars and furniture and stuff while other animals, such as the old grey horse has to drag Toad's canary-coloured cart, only gets to eat grass and lives in a paddock? Maybe that's where Orwell got his idea for 'All animals are equal...' Or maybe not.

I finished 'The Mysterious Stranger' yesterday. I was hanging out the washing when Satan was opining thus,

In five or six thousand years five or six high civilizations have risen, flourished, commanded the wonder of the world, then faded out and disappeared; and not one of them except the latest ever invented any sweeping and adequate way to kill people.

Satan was speaking in the late 16th century, Twain writing at the turn of the twentieth. How we have moved on since then.

Anniversary Photo

daddy, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

It is past midnight now so it was yesterday was the fourth anniversary of Daddy's death. If he was still around he'd be in his 90th year.

Matty arranged an anniversary Mass in Tannaghmore chapel and Zoe, Hannah and myself were there. Before we left we had tea and scones at Matty's. Naturally the subject of babies and pregnancies were never far from our lips. Matty told this story which I'd forgotten. She said that when I was going into hospital to have Hannah I was quite blase and insisted on taking the town service bus. Once on the bus I asked the driver if he was going past the hospital. He took a scared look at me, for I must have been nine and a half months pregnant, and said, "No. This bus isn't. But if you give me a minute I'll take you to the bus station and I'll change buses and take you there myself." Which he did. Right to the very door. No doubt very relieved that he wasn't called upon to deliver Hannah himself.

Matty told another story and this one was about Daddy. A woman who lived in their parish would phone his house when she knew her baby was coming and ask for a lift to the hospital. Somehow Daddy always got the job of taking her. He was going out with Matty at the time and when she heard about this she asked him what he'd do if Mrs George started to give birth in the car. "What would I do?" says he. "I tell you what I'd do. I'd stop the car and get out and I'd take to the fields!"

Ooh Matron!

Matronly Woman's Hour presenter Jenni Murray, 59, informs an audience at the Hay Festival that she lost her virginity as a teenager with a 'half English, half Turkish' boyfriend to the sound of Jose Feliciano's Sixties hit Light My Fire. Far too much information! 

So writes Ephraim Hardcastle in the Daily Mail. I wonder what part of Ms Murray's disclosure exceeded the Hardcastle information threshold? Was it the ethnicity of Jenni's lover? Or was it that unfortunate soundtrack to their coupling? Or were his sensibilities offended at the very idea of a middle-aged woman having a sex life, or even the remembrance of a sex life? 

But you know what the truly shocking thing is? What the hell is Nelly doing reading the Daily Mail?

The Wrong Trousers

Bert was getting ready to make a delivery yesterday morning. He was wearing a threadbare shirt, filthy cords turned up at the ankle and grubby Birkenstocks. “You’re not going to walk into a garden centre looking like that, are you?” I yapped. “These are my working clothes,” says he. “For God’s sake,” says I. “People will think you’re a tramp! At least change your trousers.” “But I have no trousers,” says he. “Your arse!” says I. “Your drawers and wardrobes are full of trousers. Wait there till I get you a pair.” I brought him down a pair of Levis and, with enough to do, he changed into them. “You can get changed back into your filthy old trousers when you get back.” I said. And so he did.

Later that evening he had the job of taking Aunt Lizzie back to Kells. After a day in the tunnels and the vegetable patch he was even dirtier than before. “Do I have to change my trousers?” he enquired. “Ach no. Sure you’ll do. You’ll only be going in somewhere to buy wine and what odds if you’re bogging. They’ll not know you and they’ll just think you’re a crazy eccentric.”

He brought home the wine. We relaxed in the cool of the evening.

“I got the wine in Kells.”

”Did you?”

”Aye. And I ran into Sam Greer. He was asking if you were still working at the place down the road. And I could see that the girl at the checkout was pricking up her ears.”

”Oh dear God! And you standing there like a dirty hobo!”

”I said you were.”

”I’m the only woman works there! They’ll connect me with you!”

”And I said to him, ‘We got married you know!’”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. And that’s not the worst of it. I looked down and weren’t my fly buttons open and my pubes sticking out!”

Happy 50th Birthday Bertie Boy

Bert 11 and a half, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Shameless

This unusual family portrait was found at awkwardfamilyphotos.com

I wonder if Mommy and Daddy wore those costumes when baby was conceived. Going by the look on Daddy's face, I shouldn't be at all surprised if he has the furry kink.

Leek & Potato Soup

Last night Bert made us a delicious pot of leek and potato soup. We were all delighted with it. It was a beautiful shade of pale green and the texture was velvety smooth. It could maybe have done with a smidgen more salt but otherwise the flavour was sublime. He gave a little bowl of it to Pearlie. He did not expect her to like it very much but he thought it might do her a bit of good.

After a while he went to her room to see if she had enjoyed her soup. Immediately she saw him her face twisted into its usual girn. She said,

“Huh! I didnae think much o’ it! Dinnae be giving me any more of that oul rubbitch!”

Such a sweet old lady. And she has such a charming way with her. Truly it is a pleasure and a privilege to look after her.

Gŵyl Tyddyn a Gardd Frenhinol Cymru

Please God I am not making a fool of myself and that title actually does translate into the 'Royal Welsh Smallholder and Garden Festival', which is where Bert, Clint and myself spent last weekend. It was my first visit ever to Wales and I was very impressed with the country. It may be wet but it is beautiful and the people are lovely.

Which is not what we'd been led to expect from Clint. He regaled us all the way over with stories of the sheer horridness of the Welsh people. His dislike of the Welsh stemmed from his experiences driving tankers of Irish milk to a cheese factory in Anglesey. What did the Welsh do to him that drove him to take umbrage with an entire country you may ask? And I did. It appears that a canteen lady in the Welsh cheese factory in Anglesey wouldn't give him a cup of tea saying curtly that the canteen was closed and that he could get his tea from the machine. Meanwhile there was a group of employees sitting at a table nursing hot steaming cups of proper tea and they were all glaring at him. What did Clint do? I asked him this. It seems he told the canteen lady to stick her tea and then flounced out. Now there is an entire cheese factory in Anglesey that thinks Northern Irish people are perfectly hateful.

The Garden and Smallholder festival was all about flowers, pigs, woodcraft, pigs, goats, pigs, vintage farm machinery, pigs, vegetables, pigs, cattle, pigs, farmer's markets, pigs, dogs, pigs, country clothes, pigs, sheep, pigs, camelids and pigs.

And did I mention the pigs? They were far and away my favourite part of the show.

While I was away I picked up a new Facebook friend. Her name is Mavis and she is a Berkshire pig. She's got a brother who lives and works here, in the Ministry, in the AI section. Tough job but somepig has got to do it.

It's All About Me! Me!

I have been asked by Tuesday Kid to compile a list of eight pointless things about myself. As I am going to Darkest Wales tomorrow I will comply. For I may be some time away. Don't wait up.

1. So gently reared was I, that I had never heard the word 'fuck' uttered until I was twelve years old. I first heard it in Saint Louis Convent Grammar School, Cullybackey Road, Ballymena. By jings, my da was right when he said the nuns would give me a good education.
2. I was seventeen and a half, and a student nurse working on a psycho-geriatric ward, when I formulated my first opinions on euthanasia. 
3. I prefer dogs to children. Except, of course, the Young Banjos, and my own when they were younguns, and a few other well-mannered ones and, last but not least, my future grandchildren which I prefer over every creature alive.  
4. I prefer children to guinea pigs and hamsters.
5. I never had a perky bust. I went from having a flat chest to being the reluctant owner of a low-slung and matronly bosom. Overnight.
6. I think Christmas is over-rated. That's when I'm feeling positive. When I'm depressed I think it puts a blight on the whole year.
7. I'm ashamed that I once found Bono attractive.
8. I've never been to Wales.
   

Here We Go Planting Nuts In May

I am now on my fourth LibriVox audio book. I've just finished 'A Tale of Two Cities' and am halfway through 'Heart of Darkness'. I've also been working in the garden, which is a sad neglected place where scutch grass and buttercups have been making a takeover bid.

I like weeding and I like listening to books while I'm doing it. Unfortunately for Bert, who works on the strawberry bed while I tear at nettles and scutch, my audio book makes me antisocial. I faintly hear him speaking and I shout,

I can't talk to you now! They're storming the Bastille!

He tries again a little later and I roar,

Give me a minute! Miss Pross and Madame Defarge are fighting to the death!

Yesterday we spent the dusky hour planting hazel trees in the wood. Bonnie, Paddy and Holly de Cat accompanied us. The hedge birds were frantically busy, as they always are at that time of the evening, the baby long-eared owls in the Scotch pine were starting their nightly tumult for food, the back lane was heavy with the smell of May and Blossom and cow dung. I carried a spade and Bert carried a big bundle of indifferent looking hazel whips, that any sensible person would have thrown over the hedge.   

We began the planting. I said,

Those will never grow. There's no 'R' in the month.

Och! They might grow.

I never saw the like of you for being at some fool enterprise that'll never make you a penny.

Sure what odds about money? 

Suppose you're right. I mean, how big a headstone will you need?

True.

I love these long evenings when we can do all this crazy outside stuff.

Me too.

And I love you too.

I know.

Talking To Owls

And this is the fellow Bert was conversing with.

The Blogmeet Of Doom

Firstly, I have to say that the title of this post is a just a leetle misleading, as last night's coffee & shortbread-fuelled blogmeet was a very pleasant occasion indeed.

After I had established, although not entirely to my satisfaction, the romantic status of all young persons present, we proceeded to discuss recent murders, slaughters and massacres and as a result convinced young Hails that she was very well off out of it.

Then we moved on to the amusing stuff, tales of global warming, bluebells, pilgrimages, naked men and religion. The evening flew by.

And speaking of flying - Ed never mentioned helicopters once! Talk about hiding your light under a bucket.

Thanks to Grannymar, S.E.V.E.N., the aforementioned Ed and Hails for a great night. And thanks to Hannah for not mortifying me at all with tales of my shortcomings.

Crazy Lady Made Me Laugh

What with one thing and another I've been feeling a tad low recently. Murder trials, chicken massacres and nasty weather do nothing for my spirits. Then I saw this and realised I have something to be glad about. I am not Madonna.

Fuck You Fox

All our laying chickens are gone. And Corky is gone. Bert forgot to hit the on-switch on the electric fencer. 

The fox only needs one window of opportunity. 

Hannah was the first to see Foxy crossing the yard with a still-flapping chicken in her mouth. That is one encounter with nature we'd prefer not to see. 

Wet Windy Woeful

I didn't particularly enjoy my Bank Holiday weekend.

There was Geoff's funeral to go to. It was a such a beautiful service but terribly sad. Afterwards I went to visit Matty but couldn't stay long as Bert was at his Bee-Keeping Course and Pearlie and Lizzie were on their own. I rushed back half expecting to find Lizzie lying in a heap in the hearth and Pearlie unable to lift a finger to help her. And there were Hannah and Dirtbird who'd been at home all the time. I'd not heard them creeping in the previous night and had I realised that there was a younger presence in the house I might have stayed longer with my old bird.

Bert arrived home at around six to tell me the news that we were entertaining the Banjos. Everyone who knows me is aware that I just love having these things sprung upon me. But still, that's the price I must pay for not using my mobile phone.

Next day, while Marty, Bert and Ben went sailing model boats at Bridgend, Jazzer and I took Frank and Bonnie to the bluebell woods in the hope of catching a shot as amazing as this. Sadly Frank and Bonnie proved far less co-operative models than the charismatic, acrobatic Gracie.

Today Hannah woke up with Swine Flu and I went to the Pet Emporium to buy Bonnie a new squeaky toy as she and Paddy pulled her cracker in half. Then I did some house-cleaning and tidied my external hard drive and finished listening to Middlemarch.

And Pearlie is pissed with me because I spilled her Movicol over her emery boards and lost her stockings in the wash.

Tomorrow I return to work. Sigh.

More Danny

I've Got The Bug

No. Not swine flu TG. Thanks to the Australian cousin (third) I've got the genealogy bug and have decided, as far as I can, to log all descendants of my maternal grandfather of which there are hundreds and hundreds. This has involved a fair bit of cyberstalking. I've discovered that the Bebo crowd (dem them) are far more likely to hit the privacy button these days. Wise move. You never know what demented aunt or second cousin, once removed might be spying on you Caoimhe, or Orlaith, or Trish!

Found this heartening news on Rate Your Teacher on my first cousin, the Head Teacher of a local school,

'This teacher is a total legend'

Ned would be proud of you. I know I am.

In The Midst Of Life

This fellow I know (knew) told me that one day, he was going to buy Galgorm Castle. He was just an ordinary bloke then. Maybe a bit better looking and taller than average, but nevertheless, just an ordinary bloke.

He never did get round to buying Galgorm Castle but he did OK in life. A lot better than OK. It's like my father used to say, 'Aim for the top of the tree and you'll fall into the hedge. Aim for the hedge and you'll fall in the ditch.'

Last night someone took his life and I just cannot get my head around it.

I Wish Weekends Were 5 Days Long

Run darlings!

I have felt rather cranky this weekend. Mainly because I had around five days worth of stuff I wanted to do and only two days to do it in. I spent a little time with Zoe and that was good. I visited the bluebells in Top Wood twice, for the first time my camera battery died, and I failed to get even one decent photograph. I took pictures of Clint's new goslings and found them rather camera-shy.

I made a rhubarb and ginger crumble.

I watched about an hour of TV and Danny MacAskill's YouTube video another couple of times. It's at over two million views now and only 17 of those were mine!

I researched the history of the McAnespie family and discovered a new cousin. (Third. Matty said it doesn't count. I disagree.) Called on the aforesaid Matty and gathered up her genealogy cuttings. She told me a funny story but I'm saving it for a blog post. (The muse rarely visits me these days.) Delighted in my newly grown up Niece-Sha and went for several walks, none long enough. Fell out, then in with Pearlie. Listened to a great lot of Middlemarch.

Another thing that made me cranky this weekend was what Clint did to Johnny's wall. Philistine! A blog post there too and I can be as insulting as I like for he never reads me. Too busy rearing geese and being a Barbarian!

And I have been getting irritated by the varying quality of readings and recordings on LibriVox. When it is good it is a joy. When it is not I grind my teeth. Still, my own copy of the book will be here soon and I'll do what I did with Our Mutual Friend - use my eyes to feast on the unlistenable-to chapters.

Inspired Bicycles - Danny MacAskill April 2009

Thanks to Michael Morrison for recommending this amazing video of his mate Danny.

I'm going to dust the cobwebs of my bike one of these days. Expect I'll be a bit more sedate in my pedalling.

Theology and the Beauty Pageant

'In the Bible it says marriage is between Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve.' (Charmaine Koonce, the mother of Miss New Mexico USA Bianca Carla)


One of my father's favourite ways of opening a discussion was to say.

"Now I'm no theologian but...."

Like Daddy, I'm no theologian either, but this I do know. There is no one in the bible called Steve.

Some other things I know,

Leprechauns do not exist.
Santa Claus does not live in Lapland.
The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are imaginary concepts.
The bible and the koran are books.
Statues do not weep human tears.
Irish people rarely eat corned beef and cabbage.

Right Now

Well to be strictly accurate - 5 minutes ago. We're having a little shindig to celebrate hannah's mid-week birthday. Note the (unopened) bottle of gin on the right hand side of the picture.

Alex Got Them Call Centre Blues

Ring! Ring! Ring!

Nelly: Hello.

Alex: Good evening. Is that Mrs Nelly Moser?

Nelly: Yes. Speaking.

Alex: This is Alex ringing from ANBM.

Nelly: (wearily) And...?

Alex: As a valued ANBM customer you have been selected to...

Nelly: Wait till I tell you something Alex - I have just spent the evening with my mother and I am weary Alex. She has done my head in.

Alex: I'm sorry to hear that Madam but as a valued customer...

Nelly: You're not listening Alex. As I said I am weary. I am drinking gin...

Alex: As a valued customer...

Nelly: Drinking gin Alex. And weary. And cannot be bothered. Thank you for your call. Good night!

Happy Birthday Hannah

Happy Birthday Hannah, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Easter Time

It's been a while since I've enjoyed such a pleasant Easter Sunday. The weather has been beautiful. Bonnie and I went for a walk in Top Wood this evening where there were dog violets, primroses. drifts of wood anemone and emerging bluebells. Sadly, I'd left my camera at home in favour of 'Our Mutual Friend' on the IPod. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow.

The camera was at the ready on Friday when I spotted these twin lambs enjoying the sunshine on the Chapeltown Road near Kells.

Pretty Good Friday

I like it when a day starts shit and ends well.

This morning I woke up worried that I'd slept in. I turned on my bedside light to check the time. It was ten past seven so I put the clock on snooze and dozed off. Ten minutes later the alarm went off and I reached over to hit the snooze button again. Instead I put my left hand pointer finger into the shade of the bedside lamp and pressed hard. It was only when I felt the intense burning sensation that I realised what I'd done. Urrgh! Nasty burnt finger pad. I detest the pain of burnt digits. But what else could I do but be stoical and ignore the bloody thing?

Got up, made porridge, reassured Bonnie that even though it was Friday, I would not take her to work. She acknowledged this with a grateful sigh.

Went to work. Had a decent enough day during which I realised that, although I've had a good few decent bosses in my time and a few more who were complete arseholes, that my current boss is one of the best ever.

Came home. Bert made me coffee without me having to request it and it was the most delicious cup of coffee I've drank all week. He was having troop of renegades around to play poker so cleaned venue of sin so that renegades would feel appreciated and cared for.

Talked at length to Pearlie's favourite niece as to why she really should embrace Lord and get saved although advised to shop around churches for tolerant attitude to social drinking. (Social drinking: Any drinking that is not full-blown alcohol dependency)

Which brings me to best part of day - later on, when renegades were playing poker and favorite cousin was gone, I spent an hour with Pearlie rubbing coconut butter into our hands and her face and chatting about God and life and stuff and admitting to her that, recently I've been a complete shit who hasn't spent near enough time just hanging out and treating her like a human being.

And consequently I feel more like a human being. For which I am thankful.

So Many Books...

If I can read around one and a half books per week, and live until my mid-eighties, that means I've only got enough time to read another 2000 or so books. More than likely, quite a few of those will be for light entertainment even though I haven't yet found the time read the complete works of Dickens, Hardy, Elliot or Austen. And there will be books I might want to read again. Unfortunately I don't believe in reincarnation. Even if I do come back it would probably be as a frog, or a flea, a hoodie, or Victoria Beckham and therefore wouldn't be very much inclined to read at all.

So having discovered LibriVox and bought myself an IPod, I've begun listening to audio books as I go for my walks or tootle around the house cleaning and tidying. At first I found the lay readers strange but soon got used to it. It's not like commercial audio books where the reading is often 'performed' by some fruity-toned act-or. That put me off at first, then I started to think of the readers as really kind folk who were taking the time to read to me personally. Which is what they are really.

And apart from increasing my intake of books I'm going for longer walks and doing more cleaning and tidying. Which is all very good.

Work & Stuff

Bonnie wishes it was five o'clock. Friday was a whole week in dog years

Last Friday I took Bonnie to work with me. I knew it was going to be a quiet day and I fancied having some company. She did enjoy the lunchtime walk in Tardree Forest but I’m afraid the other part of the day was not a success. She has decided that the office environment is not the place for her. It is much too boring. From this Monday onwards she will be resuming her usual occupation - Polytunnel Security and General Cat-Bothering.

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Before coming to us Bonnie had spent most of her life chained up. She did not know how to play and did not understand the concept of playthings. All she had to call her own then was a battered and cracked leather collar. Eventually I got round to replacing this rough collar with another one in soft red leather. Maybe I only fancied it, but I'm sure she was pleased to get rid of that stiff old leather collar that had, over time, rubbed off all the hair under her chin.

For a long time her new collar was her only possession. She wasn't interested in balls or toys. It took her nearly a year before she properly learned how to have fun.

Then, while clearing out Pearlie's stuff, we came across The Squeaky Cracker and Bonnie took possession of it. No other dog dared look at it. That was the beginning of Bonnie having ‘stuff’. She’s got a pile of stuff now. Squeaky toys are her special favourites. Her soft toys must not have hard plastic noses or eyes. These will be carefully gnawed off. The Squeaky Cracker is still the number one toy and it is kept on my bed. If she can’t find it she frets. Sometimes I think she was actually more carefree when she didn’t have all this ‘stuff’ to worry about.

Unmentionables and Puritans

At least once a month Swisser tells me that she never reads my blog because,

• She would never have the time.
• Anyway she can’t find it.
• She spends all day looking at a computer screen and has far better things to do in her free time
• The university has it blocked because it’s probably full of filth

He Who Cannot Be Named doesn’t read it either but it seems some of his acquaintances do and they aren’t on speakers with him because of the filth they came across in Nelly’s Garden. All I can say is that those who are that easily shocked shouldn’t ride on the internet unless using extreme caution.

I myself am a discerning and careful user of the internet. I do not believe people who say that they were just innocently surfing away and the next thing they found themselves looking at some hideous pr0n. Not these days mister. If you want to see that sort of stuff you have to hoke around for it. Mind you, sometimes people might be on the hunt for the fetishistic stuff and find themselves somewhere innocent and flowery like my Garden. Generally it’s the few mentions I’ve made of Cherub knickers that brings those particular gentlemen here. That, and the folks who are interested in fun-loving older women. Once again, you’re at the wrong door Granny-lovers. You’ll have to wait until September before I qualify and even then the sort of fun I’ll be having won’t be for you. Bangor Boats or Pooh Sticks anyone?

The Grey Man's Path

The Grey Man's Path, Fair Head, County Antrim
Photograph taken from 'Ireland: Historic and Picturesque' by Charles Johnston, 1902

A recent picture of the Grey Man's Path found at
flickr.com/photos/48244307@N00/30072102/

I'll be trying this one out pretty soon. I hear it's hairy, scarey and not to be chanced near twilight. For that's the likeliest time you'll come across the Grey Man himself!

Devil Dogs

We have had Scruffalo staying with us all this week while the Kerry Sister and Brendan were in London. I'm afraid to say that he bullied our entire houseful of dogs and cats except Fred.

We had to tell Scruff the story that He Who Cannot Be Spoken Of told us.

When He Who Cannot Be Named was a young lad the family had a German Shepherd dog. This dog was very mild and quiet and all the children of the family could pull his ears and tail and ride on his back and the dog never as much as growled at them. The people who lived across the field had a wee yappy Jack Russell who would come over regularly and torture the big dog. The little dog would bark and circle, snap and nip at the German Shepherd. The big dog never retaliated.

Then one evening, for no apparent reason, the big dog crossed the field and tore the throat right out of the Jack Russell.

Scruff paid this story no mind and continued intimidating big, silly Bonnie to no ill effect.

We returned the boul’ Scuff tonight and Bonnie came for the run. Both dogs ran into Matty’s before me and when I got in she was sitting there with a face like a fur hatchet and acting like Bonnie was going to take a lump out of her. Poor old dog had to go sit in the car.

Later the bro says,

You’d think you’d brought a grizzly bear in with you.

And I said,

Yes. With big slavering teeth.

And a half masticated lamb in its jaws.

And the blood running out of its mouth.

And divil’s horns and a tail.

Aye. We’d better make sure Matty never hears that tale about He Who Cannot Be Mentioned’s dog.

Lent Schment...

...or Wagon off the wagon.

I know. I know. I'm a heathen now. And a lush to boot.

My Lenten fast has come to an end. I'm halfway down my second glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and I feel rather odd. Sort of woozy and sleepy...

Wagons Roll!

"Wagon" - Irish slang. A difficult, awkward or cantankerous woman.

The first time I ever head the expression ‘wagon’ was from a relation of mine speaking about one of her in-laws. I thought it had a quare ring to it but wasn’t sure enough of its meaning to use it myself. It seemed to be some form of derogatory term used to describe other women and, as such, would not be a very appropriate word for the likes of a well-reared, educated and kind woman such as myself.

But that is enough lies for one evening. I was reading the Swearing Lady the other day and came across the word ‘wagon’ again and I thought to myself that I’d need to get a handle on this expression so that I can slip it into conversation. For I have known many wagons in my time. I even live with one. And poor Bert, he has two oul wagons to contend with. The man is a blessed saint that he hasn’t us both poisoned.

Mother's Day

The old girl who started it all

Matty has Leitrim Sister staying with her this weekend and, happily, this sister is a talented cook, who positively relishes making great food for squads of people.

So we've got a small clan gathering this afternoon - just the nine of us. More to tell later on.

Of course Mother's Day is not just for mothers - it's also about children, without whom Mother's Day would not be possible. I'll be seeing two of my girls today but I'll be thinking about my other girl, the newly-engaged Katy from Norfolk.

Big hugs and kisses for Katy. (Did I mention she is Engaged? To Be Married? To Mark?)

The three that made a Mammy out of me

Spring At Last

crocus lawn, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Paddy's Day

Five years ago today, Dee Mac and I went to Crosskennan Animal Shelter and brought Paddy home to join the Nellybert family.

He's come a long way since starting of as a rather diffident, snake-hipped fellow. That's him on the left of the picture. At that time Danny was the dominant dog in our house but sadly, Dan died a few months later. 

Paddy's confidence grew and grew but still he wasn't the numero uno dog in the house. That role fell to Rosie. However, as you can see, she adored him. Together they were the scourge of every fox, rabbit and cat in the country. They scunged far and wide and had many adventures and near-death experiences.

Regular readers will know that Rosie scunged her last several months ago. After nearly five years Paddy was Chief Dog. I think the role agrees with him. Don't you?

So to hell with your Guinness and your shamrocks. Paddy's Day isn't green as far as I'm concerned. It's black and white.... and pink.

Bunny Girls

I hadn't a spare minute to blog this past weekend because I was cleaning and baking and walking and stuff. And Mel was over. And Ganching.

Inspired by Ganching's recent hosting of an 'awesome' birthday tea, I fell 'til a marathon scone, cake and bun-making session helped by Miss Mel and Miss Hannah. While I was supervising the oven and making the sandwich fillings, they decorated the cup cakes. I think you'll have to agree that their efforts were both tasteful and restrained.

Ganching was most impressed. She agreed that it was an 'awesome' spread and said as much. Although she did add that at her birthday tea, she didn't expect the guests to actually prepare the food.

Nobody Wants It

When I take Matty shopping on Thursday nights we usually go this convoluted journey that avoids both the rush hour traffic on the A26 and the narrow roads around Cookstown Junction. Tonight I found myself, without thinking, taking the narrow road instead of our usual route. I realised that I wanted to avoid passing the entrance to the army barracks where those two young men were murdered last Saturday night. I mentioned this to Matty.

She told me that on that night my 16 year old niece had been visiting a house very close to the barracks and had heard the shots and then afterwards the sirens. She knew that something very bad had happened. When she got home she found out, from Sky news, what exactly had taken place. The next day she told her granny that she felt very tired. When Matty asked why, she said she had been unable to sleep for thinking about the shooting.

I felt very sad about this. I really had dared to hope that her generation would not have to go through what we experienced.

For it was only when it was over, when I really, truly believed it was over, that I knew how much living with the troubles had blighted all our lives. I don't want those times to come back. Nobody wants it. Do they?

You Don't Say

What would we do without these health pundits? I really don't know. The latest bit of unbelievable news  concerns chocolate. You know...that brown stuff made from lard and sugar with a tad of cocoa bean somewhere in there - apparently it's bad for you if you eat too much of it. And, because we are all thick as bricks and don't know what is good for us, the brown stuff should be taxed so we don't eat so much of it.

Chocolate is already as dear as poison. I remember when Mars bars cost five pence - that is  five old pre-decimal pennies and the chocolate was thick enough to break your teeth on and the caramel was awesome and the whipped bit was...alright. Because if I'd wanted a Milky Way I'd have bought a Milky Way. And they were about 8 inches long. You ate them by nibbling off all the chocolate, which took ages, then you ate the boring Milky Way bit. Then you ate the chewy caramel. By this time there was chocolate up your nose and  caramel in your hair but you didn't care because you were only eight years old and you only got about three Mars bars a year.

Compared to the Mars Bar of yesteryear, today's  is a far inferior product. But taxing them? They're dear as poison anyway. Aren't they already taxed?

So leave us alone Health Bullies and Bosses. We're paying enough tax already.  If we want to eat sugar and lard and the food companies are mustard-keen to sell it to us then keep on saying so on the packet and let us make our own choices. 

Clean Meat Never Fattened A Pig

The Cave Hill, Belfast

I used to wonder what the saying 'clean meat never fattened a pig' meant and, to this day, I'm still not sure. It was often said in our house if, for instance, one of the wee ones dropped their jam sandwich (alternatively 'jam piece') and picked it up again for the scoffing thereof. With seven children in the house, it wasn't just that food couldn't, shouldn't be wasted, it was also a matter of us living not that handy to the shops.

Another one of the parents favourites when one of us (never me) was tardy about redding the plate was, 'think of the poor starving children in Africa.' As I grew older and hungrier the cleaning of the younger sibling's plates was never a problem. The new mantra was, "Ate your dinner quick before Nelly has it off you!" Daddy would often remark of my appetite, "Sure thon Nelly one would ate her way through the Cave Hill if it was made of apple tart," or whatever the plat du jour happened to be.

There was rarely a meal time passed in our house without a glass of milk or cup of tea spilled all over the table. Jerry, who often helped Daddy on the farm, would remark, "Matty, ye'd need some class of a drain and spoutings on this table."

But still I never worked out what 'clean meat never fattened a pig,' meant. I used to think that pigs wouldn't thrive unless you introduced some form of dirt into their food. When I was very young I'd watch the Hannas mix up the pig swill using their forearms to stir the feed and I'd think this was how they introduced the dirt. I also thought it wasn't very effective because the Hannas were very clean people and Mrs Hanna kept a spotless house. All the men were required to remove their work boots before crossing the threshold. This was a far cry from the housekeeping standards set in our house. Like Bert today, my father paid little heed to the scatterings of mud, straw, silage and worse that fell from his clothing and boots.

But it seems that he had the right idea after all. Because when I googled 'clean meat...' I discovered that some scientists are saying that exposure to dung is actually very good for the health because it strengthens the immune system and that keeping too clean a house can lead to an increase in the incidence of childhood asthma and allergies.

Did I ever mention that my three lovely daughters aged 34, 30 and 26 are as healthy as trouts and always have been?

Bring On The Flickr Foot Fetishists

Over the past few days I've gathered two new contacts for my Flickr photostream and they have something in common - an interest in feet/footwear. The first one favourited my picture of Bert snoozing in his big workboots. I checked him out to see if I could figure out what it was that appealed to him about that particular photograph. Was it Bert? The dogs? No - it was the big boots. All his favourites are pictures of men in heavy work boots. His entire photostream consists of big fuckoff work boots and the fit men wearing them. No harm in that. And Bert was dead chuffed to be included.

The second new contact preferred naked feet. No harm in that. But this contact likes naked feet with missing toes. He even likes pictures of newly severed toes. Mmmm. Takes all sorts.

Beowulf - do not click that link. You didn't like it the first time. You won't like it now.

Please God No

Is this the return to our dark days?

Fear of Falling

Ugh! A light fall of snow this morning – the sort of nasty wet snow that soon turns to slush. I spared a thought for the fears of old folk, for Lizzie, Pearlie’s sister, had taken a fall last week and was very stiff and sore. I’d planned to call with her during my lunch break.

But before I could do that a woman, older than me came crashing through the office door. She was frantic. “Please help me. My husband has fallen and I can’t get him up by myself!” It was a good thing that there were two men in the boardroom engaged in a business meeting. I went straight in and told them they were needed and they sprang to their feet.

I was terribly worried as to what we were going to find but happily the gentleman appeared not to have hurt himself too badly or to have taken any sort of a turn. His first words on being helped to his feet were, “Thank God to get off that cold ground.” The poor chap was soaked to the skin so I advised his wife, now a lot calmer, to get him dry clothes and keep him warm.

I visited Lizzie as planned and found her in low spirits. Falls really knock old folk’s confidence. Added to which she was in quite a bit of discomfort. We chatted for a while and I returned to work.

But first I called in on the folks from the morning. The man appeared to have got off lightly. He told me he’d gone outside to do his few chores as normal. These usually took him an hour. When he didn’t come in at the expected time his wife went out to see what was keeping him and found him lying at the bottom of the garden. He had slipped and fallen on his side and his arthritis had prevented him from getting up. He told me he must have been lying there for 45 minutes, but that “It felt like a fortnight”. He had shouted for help but it is a long garden and no one had heard him.

One thing I noticed about the incident was afterwards when the fellows, who’d been having a rather tense meeting returned to the office, their mood seemed to have altered a little. There was less locking of horns and more of a cooperative atmosphere. That’s the effect of teamwork I suppose.

Big Boot Icon

big boots, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

At Last! March Arrives.

Every now and then it behooves a lady to ask herself these questions,

• Am I drinking too much?
• Would I like to feel a bit sharper at the weekend?
• Is wine terribly fattening?

If the answers to these questions are, as follows - possibly, definitely and hell, yes! then it is time for the lady in question to jump on the wagon for a few weeks. And then if she goes to visit her old mother on a particular Wednesday and notices a great, greasy smudge on her old mum's forehead, then is the perfect time to announce, "Guess what Mums? I'm off drink for Lent."

And all was going well until Friday when my thoughts turned to chilled white wine. It was so hard driving past that off-licence for I had such a 'nyang' for a delicious chardonnay or pinot grigio. But drive past it I did and now it's official - I'm off drink for Lent. Sure it'll do me no harm.