Guess Where Northern Ireland

I'm throwing this one out to the wider world beyond Flickr groups.



Any ideas? I'd love to know.

Bee Specialist

I'm studying hard for my Federation of Irish Beekeeper's Associations exam (preliminary). It helps that Bert did it last year. We were provided with a selection of past papers.

So I ran this past him,

I'm to name two different ways in which a novice beekeeper can obtain a stock of bees. Buying a nuc would be one way. Would gathering up a swarm be another, or would that be too technical for a novice?

Two ways? Hmmm. I'd say you could buy a nuc or you could steal a hive. You should put that in your exam. Buy a nuc or steal your bees!

So saying he bursts into delighted and mischievous laughter. Sometimes I fear that Bert is not quite as well-reared as I was. I blame Pearlie for his lack of graciousness. That and the fact that he wasn't educated by nuns.

Martha in May

looks like rain, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Mission Accomplished

This weekend I was determined to come home with my outfit for Katy’s wedding. Should I have to scour the town from East to West I was buying that rig. Preferably in the first shop I went into and that happened to be McKillens.

First thing on my agenda was two new bras for, as every matron knows, all kit looks better when the lady lumps are sitting nicely. A well-fitting bra instantly makes you look 7 pounds lighter. It boosted my confidence that my mother had told me that morning that I looked like a film star compared to her who must remain nameless but is no blood kin to Matty. I didn’t like to ask her what film star she had in mind. Elizabeth Taylor? Lauren Bacall? Harpo Marx? It was better not to spoil my delightful buzz.

The wee woman who fitted me was lovely. And this is not the Norn Irish use of the word ‘wee’ here because she was very wee indeed. Even wee-er than me. She noticed a big red blotch on my back and brought it to my attention.

Oh that’s where I got stung by a bee last weekend. I got stung three times last weekend and I’ll probably get stung again this weekend.

This led to a conversation about bee-keeping and a contact for selling honey and it turns out I know both her brothers already. Sometimes I love living in this wee country.

Underpinning bought and on I headed to the fancy outfit department. I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted a dress with sleeves, in a sort of floaty shape and in a cheerful colour like blue or apple-green or pink. I did a preliminary search of the shop recoiling in horror at the obvious mother of the bride outfits. I dallied a while at a rail of dresses that appealed but did not look as dressy as I thought I ought to look. I did find the sort of dress I was after only it was brown and white, I hated the fabric (too clingy) and it was really far too drab. The next best thing was a turquoise blue silk jacket with a toning floral skirt. I liked the jacket but the skirt looked like something Matty would have worn fifteen years ago. The sales assistant persuaded me to try the plain skirt with it. And so I found myself standing in a turquoise blue silk suit that was well over my budget and I heard myself saying. “I’ll take it.” And as she was heading off to wrap it up I’m thinking, “How the hell do I get out of this? Matty will love this outfit but I feel sick at the thought of being seen in public in it and I’m going to boke right now.” Then I heard myself saying, “But before I go there’s another dress I looked at, it probably won’t suit me but…” And the assistant said, “Sure you might as well try it on while you’re here.” And I did and I felt far better in it than in the turquoise silk. Even though it was cream and black and fuchsia and orange. Even though it had hardly any sleeves to speak of. And even though it was not in the least bit floaty. Now for a handbag and shoes – my kind of shopping.

More Tales Of Bad-Tempered Bees

Wee Les arrived on the yard today just as Bert was pulling on his bee suit and heading out to check the supers. Bert wasn't expecting much trouble from the buzzing devils as the last time he'd checked there were only about six of them in the super. Les chose to watch the proceedings from a very considerable distance.

But - when Bert opened the hive there were hundreds in there and they were awfully cross. The good news is that there is uncapped honey in there, the bad news was that there is also an army of angry fighter bees determined to defend that honey to their last heartbeat.

They attacked Bert in their thousands stinging his poor suit to death. Les wasn't wearing one and he was yards away but still too close for our vicious stingarees. He ran (like fuck) divesting himself of his garments as he went. I'd like to report than Les ran around the house, pursued by bees, at least ten times, ending up in his boxers but the truth is he only ran around the house three times (pursued by bees) and ended up in his simmet.

Les finally found refuge in the house and barred the doors against Bert (pursued by a cloud of bees). Bert got the bee suit off and ran for shelter for once the suit was off the bees lost interest in the wearer and dive bombed it and stung the suit until death. We're going to have some fun harvesting that honey.

Mother Love

I am on the point of leaving the house to go to work.

Matty: Do you have a comb or brush with you?

Nelly: I do.

Matty: And have you...?

Nelly: Yes Mother. I have.

Just to remind you all. I am in my mid-fifties. My mother is in her eighties. They never, ever let up on you.

Bert's Box of Bad-Tempered Bees

Old Prams

tricia,dede,joeandco, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

This pram is a late 60s model. It was kept well filled so I'd imagine it is long, long gone.

Now this pram dates from the late 50s. It only ever held one baby (Bert) and it was carefully preserved. In fact the damn thing is still in my attic. What shall I do with it? Who would want it? Do you want it? Does Mr Bolan need another bogey?

The First Day Of The Rest Of My Life

I taxed the car and sorted the driving licence and organised a copy of the marriage certificate.

Sadly, it seems that this will not come back in time in order to allow me to exercise my voting rights on the 6th May. But as I live in North Antrim what does it matter?

Leitrim Sister is up for a few days. We went out to Matty's tonight and had our tea. Matty in good form. Did not give us disapproving looks when we cracked open a bottle of wine to wash down the quiche and salad. Fair play to the woman.

These are my May Resolutions.

1. I am going to read/listen to À la recherche du temps perdu in an English translation as my French is non existent.

2. I am going to declutter my house.

3. I am going to spend more time with my family.

Not Cross

I have just spent a futile hour looking for my marriage certificate. It was not in the file labelled Legal Documents, nor the file labelled Name Change, nor in any other file where it might have been misplaced. It was not in the wire tray where paper stuff resides before it goes to its proper place. It was not in any of the other silly piles of envelopes and papers. It was not in any handbag.

The thing is I need to update my photographic ID before I can board a plane and I need to board a plane in June to travel to Katy's wedding.

I was able to put my hand on birth certificates for Bert, Pearlie and myself. I had dog licences for dogs long mouldered in their graves and I had my first marriage certificate with its accompanying divorce certificates and bank statements from ten years ago and pounds of guff from various financial institutions and effing Christmas cards from way back when. It's time I had a good redd out. You see it is no good being able to put your hand on something if you don't put it back so that the next time you want to put your hand on it....

Ah well. A wasted hour looking for a bloody document and I'm not a bit cross. That has to be a good thing.

Cross

nessie, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Bert's ancient and expired relative looks just how I feel today.

I wonder what made Nessie appear so thoroughly pissed off?

Me? I just want something I cannot have. I want my head showered and given peace. I want to be a hermit and I want to get away from it all. I want the old women to step aside and let the new crop of old women come to the fore. I want no responsibility. I want to be free.

The Fox and the Cat

Oh Hannah! Eight days after your birthday and I never did give you a greeting like I did in 2009.

But, as you know, life does suck sometimes and, if it didn't suck - sure then, we'd never appreciate the good times.

Good times like when we get to see that incredibly dangerous creature - the fiery red fox (beware the fox you foolish chickens and Michelle.)

It was sad you didn't have your camera with you - but then, what camera could capture an image so wonderful as the beautiful illustration of Janusz Grabianski?

Beespace

So, even though I wasn't wearing protective clothing, I thought I'd take a little film of our bees guarding, and orientating and foraging. Standing at a respectful distance with the zoom on resulted in blurred footage, so then I thought of leaving the camera running on their landing board.

One of the guard bees was most displeased and zoomed angrily around the camera. I reached over to turn it off and make my escape with it. The guard bee was still not happy and followed me, all the while buzzing around my head. Then it flew into my hair and I could feel its little wings birring against my neck. I remembered one of the things I'd been taught - honey bees do not like sudden movement or vibration - so I stood stock still. I felt calm. I reckoned that if I tried to get the bee out I'd certainly receive a sting and the bee would die in defense of the hive. But if I stood quiet the bee might fly away. And she did!

Bert was most impressed with me. He says the moment they come near him he flies up the field and bats them away and he always gets a sting.

Still - I'm for wearing the bee suit from now on. I'm even for wearing it to Katy's wedding. That's the mother of the bride outfit sorted!

Bert's Bees

I started the Preliminary Beekeeping Course at Craigdun Apiary today and really enjoyed it. Bert and Clint did the same course last year and Bert has had a hive in the garden for nearly a year now. I'd hear Bert and Clint using expressions like 'super', 'propolis', 'nuc' and 'varroa strip' and not have a notion what they were talking about. I know now, and a wee bit more besides. So if anyone is thinking of getting involved with a Beekeeping Association, I'd have to say you jolly well should for you'll meet a lot of interesting people. And the bees? They're even more interesting than people. And propolis smells wonderful. Actually I already knew about propolis for Bert's bee suit is clarried in it. Now I have to go on and buy my own bee suit. I'm for getting a green one for white is such a fattening colour.

Bert's bees acting busy (Photo Leslie Bamber)

Meanwhile Bert is pleased that his hive is better than Clint's. Those old schoolboy rivalries never, ever die. Clint, as you might recall, bought our old house and immediately set about getting rid of all my flower gardens,rooted out our lovely hedges and generally demolished wild flowers and weeds and replaced all with grass and sheds and geese. So his poor bees have to fly for ages to find anything to eat. Ours are surrounded by a glory of blossom and pollen- the lucky little beasts.

Bert inspecting the hive

The Ride

Nelly: Yer man was in a really good mood today.

Bert: D'ye reckon he got 'the ride' then?

Nelly: I think he got the 'kind word'. The way things are going right now, that'd be more than enough to please him. 

I Blame The Parents

I took my granddaughter to visit her great-grandmother this morning. In other words, I took Martha to visit Martha. As always, Matty was delighted to see her great-granddaughter and it cheered her up no end and took her mind off her current medical problems. Matty was horrified though, when I reached Martha an earless teddy bear to play with.

You can't give her that! That's what Jack plays with when he's here. It's all dog germs!

Mother - don't worry about it. Zoe says she's just not to have sugars or trans fats or chemical additives. Germs are OK, germs are natural. And guess what? She was eating nettle soup yesterday and she loved it!

What kind of soup? Natural?

No! Nettle!

Fennel?

No! Nettle!

Spell it...

N - E - T- T-L....

Nettle. Just like a wee gypsy child then...

Aye. If you like. I did say to Zoe she's probably the only baby in Ballymena that has been fed nettle soup.

She's a dainty wee thing. What age is she now?

Nearly seven months.

I remember when you were seven months you got congestion of the chest. You were a fat wee thing compared to Martha.

Was I?

Aye. But no wonder. You were getting Farex in your bottle and glucose water from when you were three months.

Glucose! That's pure sugar mother!

Aye.

So it's all thanks to you that I'm fat and my teeth are buggered.

Ah sure. We knew no better in those days.

Bregagh Road near Armoy

The Dark Hedges near Armoy are a draw for camera buffs from all over the world. Even those photographers from Google Street View have been there. Google's picture is good but it's not as good as Zoe's.

But where Google Street View excels is by showing you that convenient little layby where you can park your vehicle before wandering a few yards further down the road to take your shot.

An Old-Fashioned Compliment

One of Matty's good friends believes that if you cannot say something uplifting then better to say nothing at all. This friend was in the house this evening and was doing a good job of cheering my old girl up as my old girl was in very middling form due to a sore stomach.
She cheered me up as well. First of all she admired my outfit which was a rather sombre black and charcoal rig. Then she admired my hair although it was lukewarm as I know she privately thinks it could do with a run of the scissors. And then she admired my figure.

Ye've lost weight for sure!

Indeed I have not. I have weight on.

Not a-tall! Sure you're like a scutching stick!

She was only out the door when Matty fell into despondency again. She's for the doctor tomorrow anyway so we decided there was little point in going to A&E for eight hours or bothering the Dalriada Doctor. I really do hope that was the right decision.

When her time comes Matty shall have this engraved on her tombstone.


Meanwhile I cheer myself with Sheena's words - I'm like a scutching stick.

Cullybackey Mornings, Cullybackey Eves

1. backyard sunset, 2. more pink clouds, 3. pink clouds, 4. sundown, 5. evening sky, 6. dusk, 7. moonup, 8. sunthruhedge, 9. Slemish at Sunrise, 10. The Yard in Winter, 11. Slemish at Seven, 12. Scots Pine

Sheesh! Hurry UP!

It's that notoriously camera-shy guy's birthday. My baby brother Joe. Many happy ones to come bro'.

Matty impressed upon the rest of us that even though our new baby brother was born on April 1st we were never, ever to call him April Fool. And we never, ever did. Well look at him! Would you?

Behind The Times

....meanwhile Nelly is well behind the times in not realising that Google Street View had eventually got the length of the loanins, boreens and keshes of Norn Iron. Well better late than never. Bert and I were this very evening negotiating our virtual way around Craigs and Dunminning looking for a particularly charming thatched cottage. "Y'know," says I, "It might even be quicker to get in the car and drive there."

And speaking of the car - this evening while placing my mother's weekly shop in the boot (trunk for youse Americans) I caught sight of something grey and furry. I took it for a dead rabbit at first. Closer inspection showed my rabbit to be a pile of German Shepherd puke with a fungal beard growing on it. I did cringe for my car had been at the auto electricians all day Tuesday and I know that the man was all over it looking for a fault. I wondered at his sad, pitying look as I collected my keys. Now I know. He thinks I am the sort of person who drives around with a pile of moldering dog vomit in my car. I am that person.

NOT EXACTLY GWNI

but you can give it a go if you want

At lunchtime today I walked from here...

...to here. Then I walked back again. It took me 42 minutes.

Keeping Up With The News

Never let it be said that Bert is not an avid follower of current events. You would only have had to overhear us this evening to know it.

Nelly: So what did Gerry say?

Bert: He said 'Don't be smart with me Sharon.'

Nelly: And what did Sharon say to him?

Bert: She said, 'Be fucked, Gerry.'

Of course what Gerry actually did say was 'Sharon, I wasn't. And don't be smart with me.' And it was Jane Canary in Deadwood who said 'Be fucked!' which is currently Nellybert's most favourite cuss. We think the use of the verb 'be' gives the eff word a real touch of class. But then we're strange like that.

Free Food At The Braid

This evening we went to the International Food and Music Fair at the Braid. I was alerted to this event by the peeps in the Romanian Grocery Vending Emporium in Springwell Street and thought it might make for an interesting evening. I'd got the wrong end of the stick because I thought they'd be selling us food and not, as it turned out, giving it away for free but still - I was game.
Our only problem was deciding whether we should go to the Merchant Fish Bar before or after the event. Miss Erin's tastes in food would run to the traditional. It was she decided we should go to the Fair first. Get it out of the way so to speak before we got down to the serious business of cod in crispy batter. Ach sure - we were hardly in the door before we found that every starvo in Ballymena was in for the free scoff and we had a long queue in front of us. I wasn't that hungry when we started queuing but by the time we were nearing the front of it I was starting to feel pretty peckish. It was at this point that an attractive woman wearing a tweed necktie appeared and assured us that she was very sorry for our long wait, but we weren't to worry as there was lots of food and they were not going to run out, definitely not going to run out. As it turned out this was close to a lie and she was trying to prevent a riot.
Eventually we got to the front of that queue and were allowed into a room where we got to join the end of another line. This room was kitted out with an invigorating wind machine set to hurricane and, with eyes closed, it would have been easy to imagine ourselves standing atop Slemish. At last we got to the room with the food and joined our third and last queue. And got food. I decided not to be greedy and only had Spanish paella, Romanian cheese and salad and something red and beany and some delicious Indian rice and a wonderful, fragrant vegetarian curry. Miss Erin put food on her plate because I said she had to but she only nibbled on some paella rice and a bit of delicious Indian chicken but at least she passed herself. I knew she was thinking about the Merchant Fish Bar.
We met Zoe, Dave and Martha coming as we were leaving with our heaped plates and we relieved them of Miss Martha who was sleeping soundly. Erin said everyone would be so jealous to see us coming out as they only got food and we got food and a baby. Bert arrived late and missed out on the mussels and the Polish sausage and the Chinese food but I don't know what he was complaining about as he'd already eaten half a takeaway Chinese with his Aunt Lizzie.

My best bit was when Martha woke up, caught sight of her loving Granny and rewarded loving Granny with a huge grin. The music, particularly a wonderful female vocalist and drummer from (I think) Uganda, was good but could have been far better if the acoustics had been properly thought out. Not the musicians' fault as it seems they were shunted from a room to a roofless gallery.


Home by half-eight to toast & jam for Miss Erin and wine and Deadwood for Nellybert. Bert really does need to get his hair cut for he is starting to look like EB Farnum. After Deadwood we watched a bit of The Secret Garden. Bert said,

What's it about? Suppose it's something girly?

Not atall. It's a 19th century psychosexual drama featuring Sigmund Freud. Based on a book by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Oh. Is it OK for Erin to watch?

She'll cope. It's more psycho than sexual. Ben Kingsley plays Freud.

I let Erin into the secret and we all settled down to watch.

He watched avidly for five minutes then caught sight of the DVD cover and disgustedly showed his disapproval by dealing himself a hand of patience.

The creation of cake is postponed until tomorrow.

We Are Honoured

A young friend has just invited herself down for the weekend. This is very pleasing. Not only is Miss Erin a delightful person to keep company with, we are also pleased that someone so young and vibrant should wish to spend part of her precious weekend with Nellybert. There will be wine and cake. I shall drink the wine and Erin shall construct cake.

This has not been the only honour bestowed upon me in recent days. I had this published at The Bilerico Project thanks to the encouragement of that rascally confessor Father Tony.

For I do occasionally stop thinking about cake and wine. And now a bath and after that an episode of Deadwood.

Salty Talk

You know you've been watching too much 'Deadwood' when your husband returns from the village and says,

That nest of celestial cocksuckahs are on their fucking holidays.

His meaning?

The Chinese takeaway was closed.

The Year of the Wedding

I finally booked our plane tickets for Katy and Mark's wedding in June. Now all I've got to do is find my Mother of the Bride outfit.


But not this one. It's far too shiny and rather too Grandmother of the Bride for my liking. And the hat is perfectly hideous.

And Katy says I'm not allowed to wear a hat. But how can I be mother of the bride without a hat? Maybe a fascinator would be the thing? Maybe not. I'm fascinating enough without wearing one of those silly articles on my head. Anyway I've a head like a turnip. Best not to draw attention to it.

This is far too pale and not a bit interesting. The head dress is vile beyond belief.


Now this is a hat I could live with. Totally my dream outfit. And it won't show the dirt. Wedding here I come.

Happy Paddy Dog's Day

Paddy Plays Tugger, originally uploaded by ZMB.

Six years today since Paddy was rescued from the shelter.

Happy anniversary old fellow!

It's also six years and three days since I quit smoking. How time does fly.

And for those of you to whom such things matter -

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

And I'm at work. Boo to that!

Where should I bury it?

195. Where should I bury it?, originally uploaded by tom gauld.

A little gardening advice is always useful at this time of year.

Lop-Sided

Matty: Are you wearing those green boots for St Patrick's Day?

Nelly: No, just wearing them because I am... but I'm not sure if I actually like them.

Matty: They're nice wee boots. I'd rather have you in flat boots. You can't walk right in high boots. You're all staggery.

Nelly: Thanks Mum.

Matty: And I'd rather have that style than laced boots. Are they hard to get on?

Nelly: The left one is really easy to get on but the right one's a bugger. Look.

Demonstrates.

Matty: You know plenty of people have one foot bigger than the other. That must be what it is with you. What size are they?

Nelly: They're size 6. Let me check. (turns sole of right boot over) Aye. 39. That's size 6. (pulls off left boot and turns over) Size 40. That's 6 and a half. Oh! That explains it then.

Matty: You should take them back.

Nelly: Nah. I'd look like a complete eedjit. I've worn them quite a few times now. Sure as long as I don't keep my feet side by side no-one will notice. 

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So, if the person who bought a pair of green pull-on ankle boots in Ballymena's TK Maxx, right boot size 40 and left boot size 39, would like to get in touch, maybe we can work something out.

Nurse Nelly

Nelly is on Martha-sitting duties. Not baby Martha but Martha senior. The reason being she had to get injections in both her thumbs to help with her arthritis but the injections have left her unable to use her hands atall for the next couple of days. Nelly shall return tomorrow to regale us with some little anecdotes.

hootchinhannah

Sadie & Hannah

The girls, originally uploaded by triciamorimori.

Photograph taken by Tricia on a sunny afternoon.

Location is Woodgreen in Kells. The photograph would have been taken sometime in the late 1980s.

Our Viewing Pleasure

Bert and I are inundated with DVDs at the moment. I made a small complaint to Lovefilm about the sequencing of Our Mutual Friend and they responded with profuse apologies and extras. I said to Bert,

So tonight we'll watch two episodes of Little Dorrit, then tomorrow we'll watch Chinatown, then back to Deadwood on Monday night. Oh no, wait a bit, we've got another Little Dorrit haven't we?

Sure we've got 18 million fucking Little Dorrits to watch.

He actually likes BBC Dickens serialisations although he will say things like,

Who wrote the novel anyway? Was it Shakespeare or Thomas Hardy?

Is it any wonder that he avoids the brown questions in Trivial Pursuit?

Undone!

That was a mixed bag of a weekend that was...

I drank red wine and I drank white wine. I drank good wine and I drank horrid wine. I mixed with the landed gentry on Friday night and the salt of the earth on Saturday night.

I successfully hypnotised Jazzer (salt category) but just like Cinderella all the good effects wore off at midnight and on Sunday my own efforts at self-hypnosis were undone by a giant tube of pink smarties.

I told myself when I bought them that I was for keeping them in my baking cupboard for decorating fairy cakes. Damn you, pink smarties!

P.S.

Do you know you're getting old when only one of your Facebook friends is called Aaron?

Wassup?

The self-hypnosis thing is going terribly well. I don't eat biscuits, I physically cannot overeat, Bert's clarinet playing does not faze me in the least and I can fearlessly call people and talk about their overdue accounts.

On the downside maybe it's not such a good thing that I have recently drenched a keyboard and a printer in Pinot Grigio. Didn't do them a lot of good I have to say. Shall I give up drinking? Not yet. I shall stop drinking out of champagne flutes. They are so unsteady.

The grandmotherly thing is good and getting better. I had a promising first experience of baby-sitting. Martha slept and I watched trash TV. All good. I hardly ever watch TV so it mesmerises me when I do.

I do watch stuff from Lovefilm. Bert and I finished watching Tess of the D'Urbervilles last night. It was the BBC version with Gemma Arterton and we enjoyed it immensely. Bert hadn't read Tess (nor any Hardy) and he reckoned it was going to have a happy ending. I didn't disabuse him of the notion. I think I spotted a sad little tear in his eye at the end. I asked him if he thought he could watch the Polanski version and he said he thought he could. I love listening to my books then getting the film or TV series. Listening to Oliver Twist at the moment but I'm not for watching that damn musical. Recently listened to Andrew Marr's History of Modern Britain. It was OK. How could anyone actually read it though? There were so many opposition party leaders that I'd completely forgotten about. I'm stuffed if the Geriatrician ever asks me who led the Labour party before Tony Blair. And for some crazy reason I cannot remember what Jim Callaghan looks like - I just cannot bring a mental picture of him to mind. Must remedy that.

Callaghan Schmallaghan

Five Months Later...

When am I getting my dinner?, originally uploaded by ZMB.

Martha's parents decided to chance a trip to the cinema. I had the honour (richly deserved) of being their daughter's first babysitter.

As you can see she survived the experience. The first of many babysitting sessions I hope!

You Are Feeling Very Sleepy

I have a skill that until very recently has not been used for near to four decades. I was (obviously) very, very young when I first learned to do it and, to tell you the truth, I only took it up because I had no access to drugs at the time. I didn't know then that a life fairly well-lived is far more satisfying than getting stoned.

The skill I'm speaking of is self-hypnosis and I picked it up at a time when I was interested in meditation, and sniffing salt-water up one nostril and back down the other and taking cold baths and other weird stuff that people do before they get any sex or drugs. Or was that just me?

It all came back to me when I was lying in bed one night worrying about biscuits or, to be more specific, my lack of self-control around biscuits and particularly the office biscuits and it came to me. I know, I says to myself, I'll hypnotise myself not to like biscuits, for after all they're only sawdust and sugar and lard. But then, I thought, what about home-made biscuits? So I decided I'd only forego manufactured biscuits.

I did the self-hynotising deed. It was easy. It's more than a month now and not a Kitkat, not a jaffa cake, not a chocolate digestive, not even a Club has passed my lips. Sometimes I look at the office biscuits but I just say to myself, I don't eat biscuits and I don't even like biscuits. But one weekend I made some home-made biscuits and ate a mound of those.

And that worried me for I was starting to stuff myself again - larger helpings, second helpings, too much bread. So about a week ago I decided to hypnotise myself not to overeat. I would eat anything I wanted but I would not overeat. That seems to be working too.

Of course I wouldn't advise anyone to enter into this lark without thinking very seriously about what to take action on. Too much self-hypnosis might overload the brain. But I couldn't resist another little go and this time it was something that would benefit Bert as well. I decided that I would hynotise myself not to mind Bert's clarinet playing. Not to enjoy it, just to tolerate it. You can imagine how pleased he was to hear that I wouldn't anymore be moaning at him, or asking him to shut all the doors , or trying to distract him or hinting about him building a little shed somewhere outside.

He's actually playing as I sit here. And he's playing 'Food, Glorious Food' and although it sounds pretty damnable I don't mind a bit because he's happy and so am I. And it's not making me the slightest bit hungry.

Shifting The Dandies

The first 'dandy' peeks out of the wee shed.

The brother and one of the neighbours from home called round yesterday to remove my old car from the yard. While they were there they took a look at the calves. The neighbour, name of Paddy, remarked that they were the sort of calves that his grandfather, also called Paddy, and a man I remember with fondness, would have called 'dandies'.

Today Clint and Bert planned to move them to other, roomier quarters. The big bullocks went out to the wood and the dandies were going to the big byre. I always enjoy seeing cattle being moved because they get so excited. Poor things get bored being stuck in their winter quarters. So I went out to 'help' but really to look for photo opportunities.


I didn't get much chance because they soon gave us the slip. This is the pair of them cavorting through the midden. Clint is moving in on them with ominous intent. But this picture deserves a closer look.

There goes Meadow leaping in the air with joy and happiness in her little bovine heart. She soon gave us the slip again and I'm sure we were ten minutes or more rounding her up. There was no more chance of photographs and at the end of it poor Clint had to get his inhaler out. Obviously we're not near as fit as the dandies.

That Thing You Love

Getting It Wrong

Miss Hails had herself an unauthorised lie-in the other morning. She hasn't been the only one getting it a bit wrong at getting-up time. Take me for instance - I am not very good at getting myself to bed at a sensible hour. Most nights I'll say to Bert,

I really must get off to bed before midnight, tonight.

And most nights I bungle it. But last night I got it right. I was up those stairs at quarter to eleven, hot-water bottle under my arm, gardening magazine in my hand and a German Shepherd at my heels. Teeth brushed, alarm set, Bonnie settled with her squeaky toys and after thirty minutes with an old Guardian crossword then a self-hypnosis session (of which more later) I was turning out the light just before the witching hour.

I did feel good this morning. Leapt out of bed like a lilty at seven thirty sharp, quick wash, teeth brushed, layered on the thermals and the office duds, and I was just pulling on my boots when I thought to myself,

Bit dark this morning.

I looked at the clock. Only a quarter to bloody seven! What to do? Only one thing I could do really. Off with the boots and the office skirt and back into bed for another hour's kip. I'm going up early again tonight. It's only twenty to eleven. Night, night!

What Are You Doing?

I'm multi-tasking.

Blogging. Waiting for some home-made biscuits to cool. Listening to R.L. Burnside, drinking red wine and wondering Why T.F. I cannot think of anything to blog about.

In the meantime here is a picture of Mr Pickwick.

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