The New Arrivals

Junior & the Other One

Junior is a very small calf. He is a quarter Irish moiled. The other one is your typical Friesian type.

Meadow & Clover

Meadow and Clover are one half Hereford. We hope to keep these two. They bring me a lot of happy memories as Daddy kept a Hereford bull for a time and these two would have been typical of the sort of calves we had on the farm. Daddy's bull was called Mulderrick Hero and I was terrified of him although he was actually a very quiet animal. Daddy called him Ferdinand.

A Good Breakfast

Whilst driving into Cully this morning I pondered on what Bert should wear to today's funeral. I also decided that he should buy a himself new suit for he's getting to an age now where he will be attending more funerals. Then I got to thinking that Bert will need a good suit for his own funeral and the thought of that made me feel very serious and sad. I determined that I was going to be much nicer to him from now on, and appreciate him while I still have him, for he is a very decent sort of man.

I resolved that when I got home I would make him a healthy cooked breakfast and that's what I did. I made him scrambled eggs on toasted wheaten bread. While he was eating it I told him that cooking for him made me feel like Carmela Soprano. And I said,

And with that good breakfast in you, you can go out and strangle somebody with your bare hands and then you can phone up The Bun to come and help you sterilise the crime scene and dispose of the corpse.

He laughed. That's another thing that's great about Bert. He enjoys my sense of humour.

The Moon, The Dogs, The Pixies and Me

Warning! This post contains Sopranos spoilers!

My plans for tonight included chores, wine-drinking, catching the sky at 9pm (when Mars would be closest to the moon) and watching The Sopranos.

The chores got done, the sky clouded over at 9pm exactly and we watched The Sopranos. That has been harrowing viewing these past two nights what with the pathetic deaths of Pie-O-My (a horse) and Cosette (a dog). Compared to those tragedies the demise of Ralph (a human, sort of) was much easier to bear despite the graphic depiction of his scalping, beheading and dismemberment.

Show over and with the full moon, it was nearly bright as day outside. There was a light skiff of snow on the ground. I decided to go for a walk up the back lane and maybe venture a way into the snowy wood. So on with two coats, thermal hat, leather gloves, the Hunters and the iPod. Bert says,

But you’re wearing your pyjamas!

I say,

It’s OK. I’m not going to Tescos.

We set off – the dogs and me. Bert wouldn’t come. Said it was too cold. The moon was high and bright, Mars beside it, Venus somewhere else. The air was crisp, the dogs were delighted, Cecilia Ann playing on the iPod. I couldn’t have been happier.

Swisser's Vole

Bert comes into the kitchen and tells me,

 

Swisser’s been showing me pictures of her vole.

 

Her hole?

 

No her vole.

 

Vole. What’s she on about?

 

Says there’s a vole in her back yard,

 

Her hole!

 

Says it’s been there for a week.

 

It’s probably a rat.

 

Says it sits on the windowsill and looks in at her. Says it twitches its whiskers. Says it’s a cute wee thing.

 

It doesn’t sit on her windowsill and look in at her!

 

Come and see the wee film she took.

 

I go into the other room and Swisser reaches me her phone. I watch a little film of a large brown rodent sniffling and zigzagging about in her herbaceous border, its big scaly tail snaking behind it. Sadly she has no footage of the charming creature sitting sweetly on her sill looking in at her.

 

Well! What do you think? It’s a vole, isn’t it?

 

It’s a rat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And They Said Bert Was Unemployable

Holiday Inn Adds Human "Bed-Warmers"

The Holiday Inn in the UK has announced it has introduced a human bed-warmer service, which was described as being "a bit like having a giant hot water bottle in your bed." If requested, one of the staff of three different Holiday Inn locations will don an all-in-one fleece suit and slip between the sheets, ensuring that the bed is approximately 20-24 Celsius before slipping out of it again. The Holiday Inn is launching some 3,200 new locations across the globe, and this quirky method of warming a bed is coinciding with that event. I had to check the date when I read that and no, it's not April First. It would be a good job for Bert. He does have the experience. the only problem is he might fall asleep on the job.

An Irishwoman In New York

We left Hannah Banana to the airport on Saturday morning and, much to my astonishment, they actually let her on the flight. Then, even more surprisingly, the U.S. authorities appear to have let her off it. And, apparently, she is now in New York. Imagine! I won’t actually believe it until I see photographic evidence.

The Last Of The Line

On Tuesday my mother’s only brother passed in his sleep. He lived by himself but he was not alone as his nephew lived next door, his younger sister and her husband in the next house along and another nephew two doors down. So while he had his own home he also had plenty of company when he wanted it. He was a man of regular habits and it was his habit to go to his sister’s house every morning where family and neighbours would have a cup, discuss the events of the day and generally enjoy a bit of craic. On Tuesday he didn’t turn up and his sister knew something was amiss.

The doctor was called and pronounced that he had died sometime during the night and that his passing had been easy. Had he lived another day he would have been 79 years old. He was a man of strong faith and I’m told that he prayed for us all every day of his life. I don’t know what we are going to do when all the old ones are gone and we have no one to pray for us. I found myself thinking about that during Dessie’s funeral Mass and thinking too, that maybe I’ll have to take up the praying myself.

When they carried his coffin out of the house I told Bert that there would be no need for him to feel obliged to give it a lift as Dessie had enough nephews and nieces to carry him to Cork. Funerals are an occasion to see how all the cousins are getting on and I’m sorry to say that there are none of us getting any younger although most of us are wearing well. There was even, on Matty’s account, a creditable show of cousins from the other side of the family and it was good to see them there. Even the one who came up behind me outside the chapel and remarked,

Did ye sleep with the dog last night?

I can only assume she meant I was covered with dog hairs and I anxiously checked the matter with the Kerry Sister. She said that I was not and that she had given me the onceover herself before we’d left Matty’s house.

I never really answered the cousin as I was a bit surprised that she’d made the remark. It came across as unkind. I suppose if I was honest I could have said,

I did sleep with the dog as it happens but I wasn’t wearing my coat at the time.

Ah well. She showed the want of a kind old uncle to pray for her. I may have to add her to my list when I take it up myself.

For The Attention of Ganching

Have a good day Ganching.

Arse Over Tit

I was very pleased with myself that I'd managed to get through three weeks of ice and snow without slipping and falling. Even a bout of calf-wrangling didn't topple me. So this morning with a good thaw set in I strode confidently out in my cleated hiking boots, stepped in what looked like a puddle but was actually water running over a sheet of ice and fell slam-bang on the broad of my back. Many were the 'fucks' that were exclaimed. I took the brunt of the fall on my coccyx. Like a good citizen I went back to the house and informed Bert that he would need to 'watch himself out there' and then got in the car and drove to work.

About two hours later the pain set in, and weakness and nausea. I never eased or warmed the entire day. At lunch time I took my usual walk. The first ten minutes were a bit grim but then I seemed to loosen up. Tonight - bacon and cabbage for dinner, two glasses of wine, no housework. Sure I'll be all right tomorrow. I hope. Right now I'm a bit stiff in the back but no pain. Alcohol is wonderful medicine!

Be careful out there!

Of Little Calves And Sausage Rolls And Snowy Woods

All that worry. And at the heel of the hunt it was all pretty much unnecessary. That situation that has caused me so many restless days and nights is close to being satisfactorily resolved.

This weekend has been good despite not going anywhere except to Cully and getting a hand taken out of me by the butcher.

I want some sausage meat.

Certainly. How much would you like?

About enough to make a dozen sausage rolls

I thought he was giving me rather a lot but I didn’t like to say. And you know – he was right. It was enough to make a dozen sausage rolls – if each sausage roll was a foot long! Still Pearlie can eat the surplus. She likes a sausage but always complains that we don’t skin them for her. And what is sausage meat but unskinned sausages?

Then we’ve all been agog with Northern Ireland’s latest political scandal.

Iris Robinson should take a leaf out of my book when it comes to the younger man. Instead of seducing her young man and setting him up in a cafe she should simply bake him a nice plate of scones and bask in the glow when he says,

Honestly Nelly I’m not just saying this but those were the nicest scones I have ever tasted – in my whole life!

Maybe not as exciting as an illicit affair but I bet I’m feeling a whole lot better today than Mrs Robinson is.

That sweet compliment wasn’t the only lovely thing to happen this weekend.

Bert and I took a walk this evening. If there is one thing I like about this snow stuff that is its effect on our 12 acre wood. Ah sure it’s only a baby wood but right now it looks like Narnia. Going for a tramp through it just before it gets dark is a delight. The snow is more than a foot deep in places. Foxy’s tracks were clearly visible and we kept rising woodcock. The long-eared owls live in the Scots Pines at the edge of the wood but sadly not a glimpse this evening.

And it might seem strange to have taken pleasure in this, but yesterday one of our two new calves gave Bert the slip and took to his little clackety heels. He needed to be caught before he made for the road so Bert gave me a shout. There was no way the little devil was coming quietly so we got him haltered and he bucked and leaped while I held him (Bert had him by the tail) and at one point I nearly went down but we got him back in and I was ever so pleased with myself because a few years ago I wouldn’t have been fit enough to manage it.

So what shall I worry about now? Oh yes. There’s that matter of Hannah heading to the Americas next weekend. Weather permitting.

What Bowers Are For

But on a lighter note...

The current audiobook I'm plugged into as I go about my household tasks or taking my wintry walks is The Pickwick Papers and I'm finding it very amusing. In fact I often laugh aloud which must seem odd if I'm out in public. I liked this part where the amorous Mr Tupman and the Spinster Aunt were heading in the direction of that most romantic and delightful of garden features, the bower, which Dickens describes thus,

There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.

A droll description!

Paranoia

I am consumed with anxiety. And I cannot say why. The reason is that it is not just friends who read this blog. I fear there are enemies who look at it too. That being so I cannot tell my friends what worries me for fear my enemies make capital from it.

Paranoid? Moi? Oui.

So if you read my blog and you do not care for Nellybert shall I offer you my New Year Wishes?

Go and fuck yourself. Because you're a pseudo-christian, jealous bastard.

Friends - ignore this rant. It is specifically directed at a lurker.

Mrs Pancake Woman

Bert asks,

Can you talk me through pancakes?

Sure. Just let me clean up the kitchen first.

A few minutes later he says,

It’s going to be a pancake competition. Jakers and Jazzer say they make the best pancakes.

Nooooo! I’ve just cleaned the kitchen. You saw how much rice she cooked for the chili. It got everywhere and the hens will be eating it for weeks. There’ll be pancakes falling off the ceiling if those two get involved. Hurry up. I’ll talk you through it, we’ll get it underway before anyone catches on. Crepes or drop scones?

So he gets out the ingredients and then has a big problem about whether he should use the mixer or just a bowl. I advise a bowl. Not worth getting the mixer out for a few pancakes. He can’t find the weighing scales, I get cross because no one ever puts things away where they belong and Jazzer hears and realizes that pancakes are in progress and comes out and Gets Involved. I am not pleased.

Immediately she decides that the mixture is far too runny and goes about thickening it up. There is a dispute about sugar. I say no, she says yes. Things are getting heated. Jakers comes in to discuss his recipe. He sees how things are going and wisely withdraws. I withdraw too. Let them get on with it.

Jazzer starts to cook the pancakes. There is a dispute between her and Bert and Ben about adding oil to the pan. Jazzer says no, Ben and Bert say yes. Jazzer wins. I have a moan because she’s using a metal spatula on my best pan. She gets tense. The first pancake is wonderful and Ben gets it. The second one burns. The third one refuses to leave the pan. They are panicking. I have to get involved.

The pancake has stuck to the pan and has to be scrubbed off. And there is batter on every surface and running down the cupboard doors. I clean up, I oil the pan and cook a pancake. It looks perfect.

Jazzer says I am a mean cow and I say when do I ever come to your house and start acting like I am Mrs Pancake Woman? Jakers bursts into hysterical laughter. Jazzer says I am a control freak. Bert wisely stays quiet. Banjo Man feigns sleep. Ben, rather charmingly, takes my side. He knows on which side his pancakes are buttered. Bert finishes cooking the pancakes because he is a first-class tosser and everybody eats pancakes with maple syrup and whipped cream. I eat some too and privately think that my pancake recipe is far better than Jazzer’s.

Jazzer gives me a hug and we decide that the whole darn thing was our husbands' fault.

When Banjo Man Lost His Banjo And Found His Mojo

My Christmas Diary

Christmas Day: White Christmas! Snow everywhere! Wonderful! Got lots of nice presents, drank lots of champagne. Lots of old people here. And Hannah. Watched Annie and Happy Feet until Pearlie sat in front of TV then just listened. Full of Christmas Spirit and did not mind. Boxing Day: Snow everywhere! Nice! Oven broke! Dinner disaster! Bert drunk! Had major huff. Got no dinner as gannet guests ate it all while I am outside in polytunnel sulking. Good bit - Martha Amy here for the evening. 27th December: Snow everywhere! Boring and disgusting! Stayed in house All Day. Ate nothing but turkey sandwiches and chocolate. Feel strange. Wonder why? 28th December: Snow still here! Hate it! Had lovely day with Zoe and baby Martha. Went shopping. Zoe shopped and I pushed pram. Junction One snow-free zone. Discovered joy of attacking queue-jumpers using pram as weapon. Had Ulster Fry! No turkey! Spent evening with Hannah and Mel. Made enormous dinner. Ate lots despite not being hungry. Feel odd. Wonder why? 29th December: Frozen slush everywhere! Am going to drive on it and don't care! Had day oot with Mel. Went to Lindsay's outside Coleraine and bought merino tops for Hannah and Snickers work trousers for Bert. Ate enormous lunch in Ballycastle and visited Dark Hedges. Hannah loved merino tops and Bert loved Snickers work trousers. Keeps discovering new pockets and says knee pads so good he could walk to Cully on his knees. Does going on knees count as walking? Despite Bert wearing work trousers all evening has only hung one picture. Tomorrow another day. Ate enormous pile of turkey sandwiches. Feel peculiar. Wonder why?

Happy Christmas...

A very Happy Christmas to everyone who looks in on the Garden from time to time.

That was the back lane yesterday.

That was the Head Robin yesterday. He is surveying his territory to make sure that those other three chancers stay away. He has his work cut out for him as Nellybert provide excellent bird dining facilities and other robins keep trying to muscle in.

Closer To Home Than That

According to the Daily Mail the average Christmas dinner travels 90,000 miles before it reaches our tables. Not so at Nellybert's.

The turkey will have travelled half a mile up the road from Clint's place. The ham will be our own, although it did take a detour via Stevensons and Marcus the butcher. Brussels sprouts, carrots and potatoes will come from the garden. 

I can't promise that a lot of my pudding and desert ingredients won't have covered a mile or two before they hit the kitchen island but not the eggs.  If the hens don't take fear of the snow we should get enough eggs for cakes.

Shame we can't grow coffee, chocolate and wine.

A Toast to Sobriety

Well. Seeing as it's the 20th of December and Christmas and all and I've been wrapping presents all evening and got the tree decorated....

So because of all that I have toasted sobriety a whole five days earlier than I intended. Two glasses of cabernet sauvignon and I'm totally toodled. Cheers.

Christmas Begins

It snowed last night. The whole townland is a veritable Winter Wonderland. Excellent snow it is too, all deepness, crispness and evenness - the right sort of snow for building snowmen and snowball fights.

We were reminded of a guy Bert worked for many years ago. This guy was very short on sense and when the guys told him about an excellent blue movie he'd be sure to enjoy he lost no time in getting himself to the local video rental store. Back home he settled down with the Pringles, his voddy and a box of man-sized Kleenex.

Next day he told the fellows all about it.

"There must have been some sort of mix-up or there's some other film called The Snowman! It was a bloody cartoon! All that happened was they flew about and then the snowman melted! A total waste of time."

dribbletime

dribbletime, originally uploaded by waveneyavenue.

Embrace The Peckishness

This time two years ago I was three stone heavier and several sizes bigger than I am today. This time last year I was, on average, 4-5 pounds lighter than I am today. That is how it begins. Weight creeps up. I got bored with watching what I eat all the time and quitting alcohol hasn't made a lot of difference. I've decided to try this alternate day diet that is much talked about.

It appeals to me in a way that other fad diets do not, as it is only restrictive every other day. Whether the health benefits that are being touted are real or not remains to be seen. I'm not convinced. However it does seem natural that a human being should experience hunger at times. After all that is how we came through the ages. Even our parents, and certainly our grandparents, knew what it was to feel hungry. Nowadays food is plentiful and many of us graze all day long. And then we wonder why we are getting so bloody fat.

The good thing about this eating plan is that I will be able to continue cooking scrummy food and making yummy cakes. I just won't eat them every day.

Yesterday was day one. I made delicious pizza and coconut tarts. Today I ate far, far less. Tomorrow I will have some more coconut tarts. I might even make pancakes. Tonight I go to bed feeling a wee bit hungry. Apparently I am to embrace that feeling. We'll see how it goes.

One Degree of Separation or Touched By Greatness

We had a visitor this evening, a guy who has been in the music business for decades. We were talking about the great performers, He told us that he shared a stage with Dusty Springfield in the sixties Said she was only a tiny little thing.A tiny little thing with a great big voice.

The venue? St Mary's Hall, Glenavy. Imagine!

Don't

Just noticed that I have 12 songs starting with 'Don't' on my iPod. They are -

Don't Be Light: Air

Don't Be Runnin' Wild (Problem Child): Ken Cook

Don't Cry No Tears: Neil Young with Crazy Horse

Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On: David McComb & Adam Peters

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood: Nina Simone

Don't Look Back: Youssou n’Dour

Don't Mash My Digger So Deep: Bo Carter

Don't Mess With The Messer: Koko Taylor

Don't Smoke in Bed: Nina Simone

Don't Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder) The Beach Boys

Don't Walk Away: Youssou N'Dour

Don't You Rock Me Daddy-O: Van Morrison, Lonnie Donegan & Chris Barber

Happy Birthday Katy Bo!

katy in the buttercups, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

It is Katy's birthday today - and it is her last as a single lady. Hope she is wearing a happier face today.

Three Things

The kitchen island is nearly finished. The top has been tiled and tomorrow it shall be grouted. The shelves are full of saucepans and a cat. The cat thing might be a problem but we shall overcome it. I think a little water spray bottle might discourage them.

That's one thing.

Another thing is that I took Miss Martha Christmas shopping today. We had a nice time. She mostly slept and I mostly spent money. We're thinking of doing it again next Sunday.

That's two things.

And the last thing is - I got an email asking me to place an advertising link on the blog. Something about sport and betting. I declined. They would have paid me. I don't care for sport and I wouldn't want to encourage gambling. Did I do right?

Well I Never!

I called round to Martha's house the other day and discovered that her mother has taken to wearing the child! According to Zoe, Martha was enjoying this very much and, from what I observed on the day, I'd have to agree.



You can see from the expressions on their faces, as they admire their reflections, that mother and daughter think they suit each other very well.


But I wonder if Martha noticed the spare baby hanging in the hall?

The Dead May Go Unmourned By Me

Well for feck's sake!

Since Matty got a bit forgetful I've got into the habit of regularly checking the Irish News death notices, just in case a neighbour or far out relation popped their clogs and herself forgot to mention it to me. What could be more excruciating than bumping into an old school chum and blithely enquiring after the health of their aged parent, only to be informed that said aged parent passed away several weeks ago?

This afternoon I attempted my usual log on and found that the Irish News had removed their free access to the family notices and replaced it with a subscription only service. I suppose journalists and newspaper workers need to earn a penny too but I'll not be subscribing. Far better, if I must, to buy the bloody paper then I'll at least have something to line the compost bin with. 

Couldn't someone, anyone, get our Aunt Em, who is sharp as a tack and an avid Irish News reader, on to the web and then she could provide us with an email service, alerting those who live far, far away  in the wilds of Cullybackey, Dingle and Vancouver to bereavements in the community. I think that would be an excellent idea. A laptop in Aunt Em's Christmas stocking Mr Santa - if you please!

Oot and Aboot

One of the many interesting items to be seen at Articlave

Despite the hugeness of our kitchen I have very little workspace so, after many months of nagging, Bert started to make me a kitchen island. We discussed it for hours and I was confident that Bert knew exactly what I wanted. I was sadly mistaken.

Now Bert is an excellent carpenter and he really enjoys getting into a new project. He works a lot with recycled wood which is both economic and green. Where he falls down is in his ability to explain what he is doing and what he intends to do. This is why I ended up with what is essentially a huge table. Albeit a beautifully made huge table with a floor made out of the upstairs ceiling in the old derelict house at Clint's place. All that was needed to complete it was a tiled top. Or so Bert thought.

The unfinished kitchen island

He has been gently persuaded that a kitchen island needs shelves and cupboards and places to hang tea towels and utensils. It is not just a huge table with a tongue and groove floor for the cat to sit on.

But anyways - we decided to go to the reclamation yard at Articlave to see if we could find any old tiles for the worktop. That has to be one of the most interesting reclamation yards in the country. It was full of stained glass windows, jaunting cars, church doors, mangles, bangor blue slates and Bann brick, huge oak beams, radiators, Britain farm animals, ornate carved thrones, lamp posts, fireplaces and a thousand other things. Everything really but the sort of tile we were looking for.

Bert tries out throne for comfort

It was still a damn fine afternoon out. We'll get those tiles somewhere else.

Cauldrife

cauldrife [ˈkɔːldrɪf]

adj Scot

1. susceptible to cold; chilly

2. lifeless

[from cauld + rife]

My mother-in-law has always felt the cold. She liked to keep herself ‘well happed-up’. Indeed, so susceptible to chills was she that I don’t imagine she ever suffered herself to be naked from the day of her birth until about a year ago when the carers wheeled her, roaring protest, into our wet room for a nice warm shower bath.

Mind you, this house was, before its renovation, a big cold barn of a place with just one heated room. That was where Pearlie spent most of her time, roasting her shins in front of a big turf fire.She was a great believer in layering. She always wore two vests, three sweaters, a cardigan, a petticoat, two skirts, tights, men’s socks and an apron. The apron was very important to her. When her house-working days were over I asked her why she still wore the apron. She said,

I’d be cauld without it,

I wondered how she could find warmth in a faded square of patched cotton but she maintained that it was terribly necessary to her comfort.

In bed Pearlie had an electric blanket and used two hot water bottles. At bedtime she divested herself of the skirts, the tights and one cardigan. On very cold nights she tied a headscarf Queen-style to keep off the chill. This routine continued even after this house was being renovated and she moved to a cosy and fully central heated mobile home. She missed the open fire in the moby and often had the oil heating at full blast, an electric fire and a gas heater all going together. You could see the heat haze rising from the roof on mild days. Bert eventually disconnected the electric fire as the carers and other callers were suffocating in the high temperatures. Pearlie claimed to feel no great heat. Even then she continued to wear a headscarf in bed. Occasionally, if she had misplaced her headscarf, she’d go to bed wearing a big pair of knickers on her head.

Her present room has an open fire and it is kept alight summer and winter. She gets very cross if Bert doesn’t keep it well stoked up. She doesn’t wear knickers or a headscarf any more but she asks for and gets lots of hand towels and she makes herself a little nest because her arms get cold and if she gets too warm it is easier to remove the towels than take a cardigan off. She goes to bed with a crocheted blanket round her shoulders and if the carers take it for laundering she is very indignant. Mostly they don’t but there is one…she only does it to annoy. Nowadays Pearlie wears a pair of thick brown tights tied round her neck to keep off the 'cauld' and I think it can only be a matter of time before she starts wearing her knickers as a hat for she tells us that there is a draught coming through the light fitting.

Think Bike

Most evenings, on the way home from work, I collect Hannah in Ballymena and we continue on our way towards Cullybackey. I don't drive that fast, it's a B road, pitch black so maybe I do 45mph tops. This evening we came across a cyclist riding without lights, without reflective clothing, the only thing drawing attention to his presence the tiny little reflective strips on his pedals. These caught my eye but not until I was almost upon him. I was able avoid him by pulling out at the last minute and, thankfully, no vehicle was coming towards me at the time.

I was quite shocked. Another moment and I might have knocked him down. It's a fairly narrow road. All the way into Cullybackey I wondered, should I turn, should I tell him that he was in danger? I didn't. What stopped me? Fear of being seen as interfering, fear that he might not speak English and wouldn't understand me, fear that I'd have to go the whole hog and drive him and his bicycle to his destination.

So if a cyclist is injured or killed on the Cullybackey or Kilrea road tonight I'm afraid I will be partly to blame. What should I have done?

The Effect of Office Mint Yoyos on the Older Shoulder

I'm confused. Some research, recently in the news, suggested that alcohol can actually be beneficial to one's health. It shows that men benefit more from alcohol than women, which is bloody unfair but does help to explain the continued survival of the Wee Manny and others like him.

Now in the three weeks since I've foresworn alcohol I've been feeling decidedly under the weather. At first I thought I was getting the flu but that turned out to be a cold (the first since I gave up smoking several years ago) and then I got the runs, which lasted the best part of a week and now I've got The Shoulder and a vague, fluey, tired thing going on. And I'm wondering to myself if it wasn't the gin that was keeping these plagues at bay.

I mentioned it to the postman this morning,

Y'know something Sven? Since I quit drinking I haven't had a well day.

Says he,

That'll be the toxins leaving your body.

This is what I'm wondering. Is my current poorly form the result of toxins leaving my body or, did the gin actually provide a health benefit? There is only one way to find out. I shall have to continue with this experiment in abstemiousness for a longer time.

One good thing is that I've lost three pounds since taking the pledge. But then, a couple of days ago, I fell, like a savage, to the office mint Yoyos. I thought they might ease The Shoulder. They did not.

My Older Shoulder

You know you're getting older when little niggles and aches take far, far longer to go away. I have a sore shoulder. It doesn't sound like very much but I am finding it terribly bothersome. It is only with a painful shoulder that you'll realise just how bloody heavy your arm is. 

It serves me right for not sympathising appropriately with Pearlie and her sore neck.

She told me she had a pain in her neck and all could I think was, well - you're a pain in mine. My just desserts are here.

Countdown to Christmas

There's nothing wrong with having a plan, is there? So far I have....

1. Had annual conversation with Matty about how much she is not looking forward to Christmas and how much she hates the thought of it. (Told her to wise a bap, whatever that means)

2. Informed several people (again) that I do not send Christmas cards.

3. Ordered free range turkeys from Clint.

4. Informed cousin Margaret that no - indeed I will not be buying Miss Martha a Santa Claus outfit.

5. Decided to stay off alcohol, at least, until Christmas.

6. Experienced slight frisson of dread at the thought of New Year's Eve party that Hannah is planning at Nellybert's.

Suffering Grandmas!

I am greatly maligned.

Firstly my youngest daughter informs the entire world that I might know what snot tastes like. As if!

Then the oldest daughter photoshops my thumb to make it look as big as a house. She must have done for there's no way my digit could ever look that gigantic.

Miss Martha

Where The Dead Things Are

Some might say that I’m a morbid person because of my keen interest in road kill. It’s a fascination that stems from my childhood. Doesn’t everything?

In those days I had a favourite cousin who truly was a mine of misinformation. We were visiting her house one day and she says,

There’s a dead RAT stuck in the hedge down the lane. Do you want to see it?

Oh yes!

It’s really rotten and it’s stinking too!

Urrgh!

C’mon then…

We headed down the lane.

We’re coming near it now.

Where? Where?

It’s down there under that tree. Now hold your nose.

Why?

Because if you breathe in the smell of it you’ll DIE!

On we went, me holding tight to my nose and not daring even to open my mouth. My face was purple and my eyes were popping with the effort of holding my breath. I tried so very hard to see the dead rat but it must have been covered in long grass and I was frightened to get too close, so never got a glimpse nor a whiff of it at all.

Of course I passed this interesting information on to my other cousins and my brothers and sisters.

You must never breathe in the smell of a stinking dead animal, or you'll DIE!

They weren’t as gullible as me for we all walked to and fro school along the Lisnevenagh Road where the Burnhouse trucks with their loads of dead animal carcasses passed often enough, leaving behind a miasma of putrid reek that hung in the air long after the lorry passed and none of us ever died of the stink of dead animals, not even one of us. So far.

This photograph taken on the Pipe Road during the 2009 Spring heatwave

When I was a child I'd have walked five miles to see this dead lamb melted into the tarmac. I still would. And I'd take a photograph too.

We'll Be Old Ourselves Some Day

Poor old Matty does not get it easy with her arthritis. It is only in her hands, mainly her thumbs, but she seems to suffer a lot from it. The only treatment her GP has ever offered her is painkilling medication but doesn’t seem to help much. She recently had an x-ray carried out and I have made her an appointment to discuss the results with her doctor and it’s not until the 16^th November. I really want to tackle this with the doctor, make sure that everything that can be done is being done. With this aim in my mind I asked her not to confuse the issue by discussing any other ailment she might have during her consultation. This was over the phone and I got the impression that she was a little deflated at the prospect.

Well. Is there anything else you’d like to see him about?

Well, you know how I’m tortured with my eyes.

Can you not leave your eyes until another time?

They’re driving me mad with the itch and the water pouring out of them and I’m always rubbing at them.

But that’s why they’re annoying you because you’re always rubbing at them. I’ll see if I can get you something at the chemist.

I got something from the chemist before and I couldn’t see for half the day.

OK. We’ll talk about it later.

I went to see her at lunchtime with the utterly useless potion I got at the chemist. I found her engaged in cleaning out drawers whilst bent over at the waist in that very position that always brings on her angina pains. I made her stop it and told her to take some of her spray before an attack came on. Thwarted out of an angina episode she made the tea while I finished tidying her cupboards. Her new cleaner was coming at two and she wanted the place spick and span before she arrived.

We sat down to a cuppa and I started talking about what I hoped to achieve with the doctor. But all she was interested in was her itchy eyes and her itchy knee and her itchy fingers.

The doctor says it’s just dry skin.

Do you not use moisturizer a-tall?

Ach sure I was never used to moisturizer or anything like that.

But you’re in your eighties now! You used to have fairly oily skin. Now it’s dry. You need moisturizer!

The doctor gave me a big jar of stuff once. I forget what you call it.

Why don’t you get some more?

Sure I still have it.

Well why don’t you use it?

I’ve had it about three years.

Jesus! Don’t use it! Throw it out.

I decided to change the subject to take her mind off her itch. Perhaps my choice of subject was not ideal.

Pearlie is complaining of a very sore neck.

Is she?

She said the other night that she wished she was dead.

I can understand that. All old people wish they were dead.

Do they? How awful. Even the jolly-natured ones?

Maybe not them so much. They just persevere and don’t let anything get them down.

So it’s just the miserable ones that wish they were dead?

I dare say.

My Obsessive Compulsive Walking Habits

Warning! This post contains at least twenty uses of the word 'I'.

Since the first of November 2005 I have kept a walking log. Obviously this means that I have been using a pedometer for just over four years. There are 32 days unaccounted for due to broken pedometers or computer screw-ups.

I've clocked up 17690642 general steps... of which 5152690 aerobic steps.
The amount of time spent on aerobic walking was 44115 minutes. That's 735 hours, or 30 days. It doesn't sound nearly enough. I am such a slacker!

The 17690642 general steps amount to 7076 miles or thereabouts. I wonder how far I'd have got if I'd just kept going?

The most steps I've ever done in one day was 28187 in June last year. That was the day I climbed Mount Brandon in County Kerry and then took a long beach walk in the evening. That was the day I broke my last camera by sitting on the damn thing. And I was so high on walking I didn't give a damn.

I could do better than this and I'd like to. The current recommended amount of steps per day is 10000. That's not enough on its own to promote health and fitness. I believe 16000 a day would help with weight control and general fitness. For me, finding the time is the difficult part. A winter's day spent at a desk does not allow many spare hours for walking which is why I try for a constitutional every single lunchtime.

So back to the obsessive walking log - it's a bore sometimes filling it in, but between it and this blog I've got a fairly good record of what I've been up to these past four years. And if nobody else cares, I do.

In other news - I've decided to stop drinking.

Piglet Joy

Remember this little kune kune sow? We went to visit her and her best boy Boris the Boisterous on the very same day that Martha was born. What we weren't sure about then was that she was in an interesting condition herself. All being well there will be piglets by Christmas. And this time they're for keeps!

Boris done good.

Ulster Museum Says No!

Closed on Mondays

Young Martha had her first train journey today and her first visit to Belfast. Her entourage numbered eight and consisted of a parent, grandparents, a brace of aunts and the ultimate uncle. Her intended destination was the newly refurbished Ulster Museum. Now if you have clicked on that link, and I hope you did, I would like to inform you that the report is misleading. Perhaps dozens did turn up, if you number dozens in double figures. During the short time that we were there I saw nearly a hundred people come to the entrance door to be disappointed. We certainly weren't the only party to have missed the memo about Monday closure. But the museum will not be closed on Bank Holiday Mondays. You'd think that they might have considered that people would be keen to visit during half-term holidays as well. I will go again, but next time I'll be consulting the website before I buy a train ticket. And how did Baby Martha handle her disappointment? She displayed great forbearance and stoicism. Postscript Since writing this, it appears that the Ulster Museum people acknowledge that today was a bit of a debacle. Among the people I chatted to outside the museum today were tourists from the United States who were tremendously disappointed to find the doors closed. We Ulster people can come again any day (other than Mondays) but it was their one chance as their itineraries are set.

Martha and Martha

Martha and Martha, originally uploaded by ZMB.

I just like this picture very much.

Shirley

Shirley, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I was a little taken aback, last night, to see this photograph on the front page of the local paper. It was taken in our kitchen when Shirley was staying with us. The paper stated that it was a picture 'taken in happier times'. She was quite happy that day, getting ready to go out to meet some friends in Ballymena. There were also lots of days when she didn't appear so happy.

Ballymena was where Shirley made her home and it was where she made the few good friends who loved her, but it was also in Ballymena where she was cruelly mistreated and abused by some others who were not her friends and, finally, where she was callously murdered.

Today her murderer has been found guilty after a long trial.

Sometimes I really do hope that Hell exists. For there are others who have never been brought to justice for the crimes they committed against this vulnerable young girl. I really do hope that there will be a Hell for them and that they will roast in it for ever.

I May Have Omitted To Mention

Barnaby Rudge and Grip the Raven

I finished listening to Barnaby Rudge and I have to say I enjoyed it very much. I particularly liked that illustration as it fitted very well with the image of Barnaby that I had in my mind.

I have changed my car. I now drive a Peugeot 307 estate and Matty is very pleased with it. Bonnie does not like it as much as my VW Polo as she has been confined to the boot so far. It's a very big boot but it's still a comedown for her.

My granddaughter is one calendar month today. She is even more beautiful than she was. I really do hope she doesn't peak too soon!

We are looking forward to having Katy and her fiance come to stay. We expect there shall be a great deal of talk about weddings. We shall try to bear it.

The pigs went away a week ago today. They will be coming home in the form of sausages and other yummy things in the very near future. There has been no word of the Kune Kunes but - trotters crossed!

We brought a little light into our lives with the help of Pascal the Rascal. (This is cryptic and will only be understood by a very few, mostly called Joe)

Hannah has discovered a new fascination for the natural world. She still can't tell a plant from a tree but she's very keen on parasitic wasps.

There are some other things going on which are not a matter for levity. As always, in the midst of Life....

And that is all.... for now.

A Desprit Hoor For The Culture

Tonight Bert and I went to Ballymena and found ourselves in an entirely spide-free zone. And it wasn't even a church! We went to see the Lyric Players perform The Beauty Queen of Leenane in The Braid. We thoroughly approved. Sure what else would a body be doing on a Thursday night? Watching The Sopranos and drinking gin? A change is as good as a rest, as they say.

Recently we've been having a fly at Kurosawa's The Idiot. Dem heavy going we thought. We were glad to get back to The Sopranos.

Bert says,

That Tony Soprano's a whingeing bastard.

D'ye think?

Mind you I wouldn't like to tell him that to his face.

Other cultured things I've been doing include listening to Barnaby Rudge. You know, I'd never even heard of the Gordon Riots before! But does listening to audiobooks count? Although I always have the hard copy to hand to properly read parts I sort of missed out on because I saw an interesting bird or the cat did something funny or Bert tried to engage me in conversation.

I've been doing some proper reading too - Flann O'Brien, the Ikea Catalogue and the discusion boards on Lexulous and Wordscraper. Some of the discussions on those last two are a horror movie. I can hardly believe that adults say that sort of stuff to each other. Little wonder they need alter egos.

Off to bed now with a Killer Sudoku and the NME death issue. This culture stuff can be very tiring.

Cheers!

Matty: You know, you left your Tescos receipt here the other week...

Me: Did I?

Matty: I had a wee look at it.

Me: Did you?

Matty: That gin's wild dear.

Me: D'ye think?

Matty: I nearly fainted when I saw the price of it!

Me: It was probably a litre bottle.

Matty: A whole litre!

Me: Aye. Mind you that would probably do me about ten days. (thinks - more like seven)

Matty: Just you yourself drinking it?

Me: Oh no! Me and Bert both. (thinks - he might be so lucky)

Matty: Oh well. That's not just as bad then.

Me: it's better than wine. Don't drink as much of it and it's not as fattening. (thinks - I need a drink)

Matty: That's not so bad then.

Me: (thinks she's thinking - Nelly's an alcoholic)

So on the way home I stopped at Tescos and bought some buttermilk and mozzarella and... cheers!

Charlie bit my finger - again !

According to an article in today's Independent this is the most viewed video on YouTube with 126,143,311 views. And now that I've watched it - is now at 126,143,312 views.

Big Business

I mentioned the other night that my boss would be going to a breakfast meeting on the following day.

"A breakfast meeting!" snorts Bert with that peculiar mixture of sneering contempt and personal shame that he generally displays when he thinks of the poor unfortunate creatures who have to get out of their beds of a morning. "How posey!" he added.

"Not a-tall," says I. "It's a very good time for busy people to meet. You're just jealous because you don't get to have breakfast meetings."

"Well. That's just where you're wrong," says he. "For I had a breakfast meeting with Wee Les this very day."

"Did you?" says I. "And what business deals did you cut?"

"He gave me a bag of piri-piri chillies and I gave him the last of the damsons and a bunch of scallions."

Playing the Game

This internet is a rare and wonderful place. There was I, playing Lexulous and Wordscraper like a demon and I had NO IDEA, no idea at all what a vicious arena it had become. Occasionally people would get rather sniffy if I played a word that they found unfamiliar. These words would usually be botanical or horticultural. I'd generally ignore their sniffiness and carry on.

Obviously when choosing games I'd avoid (like the plague) male players looking for sexy/pervy chat. Funnily enough these sort of players tend to have low stats. I expect it must be hard to concentrate on wordplay when the blood supply has deserted the brain and headed for the groin area. Once, in a daring mood, I accepted a game from a punter who declared that he'd only play females who told him their bust measurements. I messaged 'probably bigger than your head Sunny Jim' and he deleted the game immediately. Pussy-wuss!

Recently I noticed a few players were warning others about a certain Canadian chappie. I investigated further and found that he is a hot topic in the forums. Groups have been formed to denounce him and he likes to take an active part in these very same forums. The level of abuse they measure out to one another is alarming. These people taketheir word games very seriously indeed.

Enough of word games. I'm off to bed now with Flann O'Brien. Don't tell!

lookingattheworld

lookingattheworld, originally uploaded by waveneyavenue.

Martha's own Daddy's photographs are the best so far. Her Mummy is too busy doing Mummy things to take the pictures.

It's time now that I introduce her to the Garden.

Poo Poo

My granddaughter Martha Amy is 12 days old today and it is nearly a week since I held her in my arms. She has two very adequate parents and a host of other admirers so I do have to take my turn with her. I called with her last Friday but her doting grandfather from England was over and he had to take precedence. I called again on Sunday bearing presents of food (any excuse) and I found Martha's father in an exhausted sleep and Martha just nodded off so I had to tiptoe and whisper a bit. Zoe said,

"You don't have to whisper. She's used to noise."

And I said,

"I know. But her father's not."

But today, when I called, I found Martha lively and full of beans and busy about a baby's business which meant I got to change her napkin. What a thrill! Zoe supervised and I have to say that her arrangements are much better organised than my own were. Martha roared like a bull stirk throughout the whole procedure but Zoe said that is what she usually does.

I changed a baby's napkin and it was, by far, the nicest thing I did all day. Even nicer than taking photographs of the Mayor of Ballymena which I also did today.