Strawberries For All

Bert said to me about ten days ago,

Blackbirds and squirrels are getting into the strawberries.

What! Didn't I tell you to put netting over them?

Netting'll not stop the squirrels.

Wee bastards. Can you not you kill them?

Kill them? How'd I do that then?

Shoot them.

I'd look well shooting at squirrels in the strawberry patch.

Trap them then.

How?

Put sticky stuff down and their feet will stick to it.

And what do I do then?

Dash their brains out against a wall.

Humph! If you'd seen the wee young ones slippy-titting up the rows, grabbing themselves a big juicy strawb, running off, looking round to see if they're safe, then holding it between their wee front paws and getting stuck into it you'd think they were cute too.

Indeed I would not!

Many days later I emerged from the strawberry patch with another big bowl of fruit and said to Bert,

You know - there are enough strawberries for us and the pigs and the blackbirds and squirrels too.

I knew you'd come round to my way of thinking.

Litterbugs

Lidl's has the best cottage cheese in the world and I love cottage cheese. I'd run out and it was time to get some more. All I needed was the cheese and some porridge oats but I ended up spending 28 quid. As you do. Tiramisu ice cream, gherkins, sour cream, frozen pizza, chocolate, red wine, spring rolls, you know, all the basic necessities of life.

As I was hefting my huge bag of groceries into the boot, giving all due consideration to my back, this wee shiny red R-plated car squealed into the car park on two side wheels. The driver roared her into a parking space with a great flourish and his front passenger opened the door and dumped a bag of McDonalds rubbish at his feet. I looked on with bemusement at the arrogance of the wee fucker and a bin only thirty seconds from where he sat. He and two of the back seat passengers got out and swaggered into the shop. I wondered what they were for buying? Probably not gherkins.

The thing is their car was shiny and clean. The chaps were well dressed in whatever boring fashionable duds dull and unimaginative fellows wear these days. Their hair was nicely cut and they were altogether shiny and clean. But inside they were dirty, filthy blackguards and obviously their parents have done a rotten job of bringing them up and I itched to go over and give the driver a good slap.

Did I? Of course not. I just drove off, munching on chocolate, in my utterly filthy car, whilst pondering this very blog post.

Pig Wrangling

Apparently kune kune pigs are easy to train if you start them young enough. I can see that I am going to have to take a very strict line with Lily and Rusty. Dylan. the guy we bought them from, advised us to keep them well away from where the food is stored because they will not be turned from it. I should have listened to him. Today as we passed the shed Rusty found the feed bag, dunted it over and started to scoff. He was soon joined by Lily. I ended up having to shove them both out of the shed with a yard brush and it wasn't easy. They're only little now but if they were any bigger I'd not be able to push them out with a tractor. Dylan told us that Custard, his 10-month old sow, smelled out that he was keeping the food in the polytunnel and when she wasn't able to access the door she punched her way through the polythene. And as Dylan said, "Once she got in, the troops all followed."

We might have made a mistake giving our two strawberries. They go into a frenzy when they see them. It isn't that hard to have them sit before they get their juicy treat but then Rusty started to stand on his two hind legs and that looked very cute. But I shall have to put a stop to that. Imagine him doing it when he's full-grown - then losing his balance and falling on me. The wee brute has already bit my hand when the red-strawberry-mist was on him. More discipline, less strawberries from now on I think.

I Want To Be Alone

You know the sort of things you say to your significant other that are meant to be between just the two of you? Like, "Oh for fuck's sake, what's she doing here? I wish she'd come to visit Pearlie when I wasn't here." The sort of thing you'd rather she didn't hear. Well I blew that one today.

Problem is my inner sanctum, otherwise known as my bedroom, is directly above Pearlie's room which was, of course, my previous inner sanctum. When I am in my bedroom I hear everything that is going on in her room be it her whining at Bert, hearty carer conversations, Deal Or No Deal or general multi-purpose whinging. So when Favourite Niece burst in this afternoon when I was resting up a spell after a night on Matty duties I got more than a little irritated. Which meant I got up in a pet and said that thing to Bert which the Favourite Niece overheard.

Humble Pie- it is so yummy, so nourishing, truly it is soul food and fit for a wretch like me.

Did I mention that nineteen different people where at our house yesterday, or that sometimes I have a strong urge to Go Garbo? It's not that easy when you live in Paddy's Market.

Walking the Pigs

The Joys of Beekeeping

beekeeping, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Bert and I just cannot wait to get out there and do a hive inspection. It's a better way to spend the Twelfth than marching or rioting.

Brother Joe's take on the Belfast rioters?

Those boys would be more use between the shafts of a turf barrow!

But that's another post - The Joys of Turfcutting.

Talcum Storm

I really do believe that those carers are out to get me. All I asked of them was that they wouldn't leave wet pads in Pearlie's room. They seem to hate me picking them up on anything. This morning one of them spilled talcum powder all over her floor, trod in it then stamped, literally stamped her way out of the house ensuring that the talc got everywhere. Bert says I'm paranoid. Maybe I am.

When I speak of the carers and use the words 'they' or 'them' I really mean 'she' and 'her' for it's really just one of them, maybe two.

Bert says I'm paranoid. Maybe I am.

This I do know. If 'she' worked in any half-decent residential home it would not be long before 'she' was standing in the manager's office.

Fall

Matty has been getting on pretty fine recently. Going out for drives, bossing everyone around (nicely), flower arranging, supervising the housekeeping and eating like a Trojan. She has even started knitting again now that the super strong cancer medicine has taken away all her arthritis pain. Then, last night, she fell. She cut her brow and bruised her arm and hurt her leg. She spent all of last night hanging around A&E with Trish and Joe. Thankfully no permanent damage done and they let her out again mid-morning. Trish said she was a hoot at the hospital. The batteries in her hearing aid were running down so that generally means she has to shout a lot and as the cancer medicine removes her inhibitions she is not one bit scared of speaking her mind. So all the other patients had to put up with her sharing her opinions of them and their ailments. She called one doctor 'a handsome hulk' and was very pass-remarkable to all within earshot. She is not quite as mobile as she was but with luck she will regain her liveliness for a wee while at least. Matty wasn't the only one of her family in the wars yesterday. Her older sister had a fall too and she has broken her hip. We'll tell Matty tomorrow when she is better able to hear bad news. Hard times for us all.

Rage

When Pearlie returned from her last respite break in The Wee Free Orange Home for Retired Gentlefolk she found, to her horror and mine, that half her entire team of Caring Type People had been changed. It wasn't the ones that keep her clean and comfy - it was the ones that scramble her eggs, prepare her panada and carry her in cups of tea. They're the ones I hate the most because they invade my kitchen. They're not supposed to because Pearlie has her own kitchen but a lot of them prefer cooking on gas than electricity. Bert doesn't help as he has nice wee chats with them and they all think he's lovely and easy-going. I call his wee chats Fraternising With The Enemy and try to discourage it but it's not easy when I'm not there most of the time. In theory Bert could sort her out with food and drink because she's not that difficult to fodder but if she was depending on him she'd be dead of thirst and starvation many years ago. He forgets he has a mother when he is out in his polytunnel. He forgets to feed himself as well. There is nothing a hard working woman likes to hear on her return from a highly stressful day at the office than the words, "What are we eating?"

But - to get back to The Invaders - I'd got used to the last team and they got used to me. There was one I thoroughly loathed and a couple I positively liked and the rest were tolerable. But I'm not too sure about this new bunch. It hasn't helped that Bert started them all off on the wrong foot by telling them that they could use our kitchen.  Now I have to be Mrs Mean and tell them they can't. I'm sure that when I'm at work Bert has them in tee-heeing with them and laughing behind my back. But not at the weekends - no sirree!

On Sunday one of them came through the back door singing. Singing hymns! Christian hymns! I could have been a Muslim for all she knew. She spotted me washing down my worktops. She called out a gaily "Hello! Lovely day isn't it!" I glared at her and closed the door. She carried on carolling hymns. Surely I do not have my sorrows to seek when a hymn-singing harridan can enter my house at will and get paid for it!    

If I Had An Ounce Of Sense...

I'd be in bed asleep right now.

My rest was disturbed last night at around two am by Holly de Cat defending her territory from a strange intruder. For a small cat she makes a big noise. Of course I tried to help her by throwing objects at the invader cat but I throw like a girl and my feeble attempts were enough to make a cat laugh and they sure did.

After that I just could not get back to sleep for worrying. And not about cats either. I worried about work and I fretted about Matty and I tossed and turned. Heard Hannah up and about at seven am (It was actually six am) and raced up to get in the shower before her as she spends a long time in there being a great deal more high maintenance than I am. Afterwards returned to bed wrapped in two big towels and woke up from a rather disturbing dream about going Sapphic with Amy Winehouse and my hair like a brillo pad. Really must condition.

Then I went to work which is a whole other story. I might tell it someday but not now, not here. Maybe some other time and some other blog. I haven't been this stressed since I was working in Spide City, trying to manage a hostel with residents engaging in the highest of high-risk behaviours and actually bloody dying on my watch....

A Cure For Ennui,Blame and Blue Funk

Sometimes things just get on top of me. Work can be difficult sometimes, as it seems to me that my role includes soaking up all the responsibility for things that go wrong. Guys - sometimes I screw up and sometimes you do too. I don't want to be the Designated Blame Monkey any more.

Hannah threw a little farewell shindig for the lovely Mel on Friday for she is going to Australia for a year. Many moons ago this gathering was supposed to be a demure little tea party with cucumber sandwiches and iced buns. Then 'The Trouble' came along and I got distracted from Nigella recipes and entertaining. Hannah and Raymond Party Planners stepped into the breach and my cucumber sandwiches were replaced by spicy party food from Iceland and my iced buns by something far more potent and the Earl Gray and Chardonnay by Buckfast and Carlsberg.

Mind you the guests were ever so, ever so... including primary school teachers, assorted geniuses, two people with firsts and two people related to people with firsts. Educated people - so rough and ready these days. You cannot take them anywhere! I blame the universities.

Before we got thoroughly drunk I took The Genius Dougie out to see the wildlife. I showed him the Bad Bees, one of which came up and hovered nastily just six inches in front of my midriff giving off buzzy fuck off vibes. I totally respected it and fucked off and it respected me by not stinging me. I then showed Dougie the Nice Bees and we were able to get proper close up to them and view them through the glass crown board. Then we viewed Pearlie through the front windows and she glared at us but luckily no stings or stinging remarks were made when Mel and Hannah ceidhlied with her later.

Saturday - clean, clean, clean. Buckfast everywhere. These geniuses and intellectuals throw more drink around them than they actually imbibe. Perhaps it's for the best. I wouldn't lip the stuff. It's worse than Lucozade (Pearlie's current poison). I'm sure I visited Matty at some point but I disremember the details.

Sunday was Aunt Mary's month's mind and I was halfway home when I turned and went home to bed. I was feeling rather unwell, suffering from ennui, cystitis, depression, the blues, fever, tiredness, blue funk, blame, guilt and a cold in the nose. Later I also suffered from regret. I should have went to Aunt Mary's month's mind. I had an awesome outfit consisting of a Primark vest, a Monsoon jacket, a Fenn Wright Manson skirt and Diesel courts. I was mixing it up. I was so ready for Tannaghmore except for the blue funk, fever etc. Still - Ganching went, worked the room, represented the family and sure I'd only have been in her road.

Monday - Duvet day. I was far too blue to go to work and I still had enough symptoms left to justify it to myself. Then in the afternoon - along came the cure for it all!

A Cure For All A Granny's Ills

After a lovely afternoon spent in the company of Miss Martha and her people and dogs I was ready to resume all my responsibilities.

A Tale of Two Mothers

Bert was out at Matty's today fixing a leaky radiator. It's been quite a few weeks since he'd seen her so I wondered if he would have seen much of a change in her.

So you got that rad fixed?

Aye.

What did you think of my ma?

She looks well.

D'ye think?

Aye. She's a good bit thinner than she was but she was sitting there, her hair done and all dressed up like the Queen.

Aye. Not like your one - the oul scruffbag. Like mother like son!

Mine sat about all day with a pair of knickers on her head.

Whaat! What for?

Said it was to keep her curlers in place. Said them ones did it.

The carers? Dear God!

But she still kept them on her head the whole day long.

A Happy Time

When I first heard that Matty had cancer I was devastated. She was more pragmatic.

I have to die of something you know.

The first few weeks were completely unreal as we tried to absorb this dreadful news while waiting, with a mixture of awful dread and crazy hope, for the results of the tests. The first diagnosis was bowel cancer, the growth apparently in a ‘good place’, and her surgeon confident that it could be removed safely. Then came some other results which showed another separate cancer. This one was in her ovary and likely the one that had been giving her the pain and the swelling in her tummy. We were advised that treatment would do her far more harm than good.

The waiting had been tough and especially so for Dede and Trish who were with her during that time. Every day saw her get weaker and more nauseated and her belly grow bigger and the rest of her thinner. She could not eat without vomiting and the very smell or look of food made her sick.

Everyone came home. Not all at once but there was lots of comings and goings. She had to go into hospital so that the sickness could be dealt with and eventually it was.

She is at home now, able to eat again, if only little bits and pieces. She is delighted to be back in her own place and have everyone she cares about around her and helping to look after her. She said today,

This is a happy time for me.

Father's Day

Seamus, originally uploaded by triciamorimori.

It would be hard not to give a thought to this old fellow today.

Sixth Father's Day without him.

Take Me Drunk, I'm Home

About this time 23 hours ago I awakened from a brief nap on the sofa saying to Bert,

Is it not time we were away home? Who's driving, you or me? How did I get here and where am I anyway?

It was a great relief to me when I realised that my bed was only one short stairway away.

Faith

You know I have a great belief in the power of prayer.

Indeed. Prayer is a wonderful thing.

It can move mountains for sure.

You are right there.

I have great faith in the prayer to Saint Peregrine.

I must admit that Saint Peregrine is a new one on me.

Saint Peregrine is the patron saint of cancer.

Is that so?

It is. And I have prayed to Saint Peregrine for an awful lot of people.

Sure it can do no harm.

There was this young fellow I knew once whose mother was a great friend of mine. She was a cousin of John MacQ - the same John MacQ whose sister was married to Pat Joe Dobbin who you’ll mind living at the junction.

I can’t say that I know him or his people.

Anyway he had cancer and I prayed steady for him for he was only a young man in his forties.

What was the outcome?

Sure didn’t he get better. The doctors tested him thoroughly and couldn’t find one trace of cancer left in him. It was a miracle. He died three weeks later from a heart attack but clean cured of cancer!

Remembering Rosie

Rosie, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

When I look at pictures of Rosie I remember how she felt. She was a dog that loved to be cuddled, petted and handled. She was the sort of dog that crept on to your lap so that you wouldn't even notice she was there until you looked down and realised that you were rubbing her head and stroking her silky ears. She was the sort of dog that helped to calm you.

I also remember how she smelled. She smelled of good clean earth with undertones of dog. She loved to be nuzzled. I loved to nuzzle her head, that flat hard part between her ears. Behind her ears was a good part to knead and rub. We both liked that. It was also good to play with her feet. Some dogs don't like that but Rosie did. She liked to have her toes separated and gently massaged. She liked the rough pads on her paws to be scratched. She liked to be rubbed under her chin. And I liked to do it. She was the most tactile, sweet-smelling dog I've ever known. I loved to rub my face on her head and smell the sweet hayish, grassy. earthy scent of her.

Bert had another name for her. He called her The Bitcher and she knew that was her name. She knew that Dirty Rotten Scunging Devil Dog was her name. She knew she was Rosie.

Kerry sister has a new pup. It's a Kerry sheep dog. I have envy.

Our Ones

His Ones

My Incredibly Clever Sister and Other Animals

Such a lot has happened since I wrote last. Matty is still in hospital, Katy has got married to Mark and I have, in this past week, spent time with nearly every single member of my immediate family.

Here are two of them.
The incredibly clever Mrs D McC (B.A. Honours, First Class) and the incredibly clever Miss M. (arm-waving and saying 'agoo')

Off To A Wedding

Off to Katy's wedding tomorrow. I was speaking to her today and she tells me she is nervous. I'm pretty sure she'll go through with it though.

I'm nervous too. I'm not a frequent flyer these days and haven't been on a plane since they started this utter nonsense about toiletries and liquids in transparent bags. I'm convinced they'll not let me on the plane for some spurious reason. I wish we were driving. Boats are much more user-friendly.

Matty is in hospital and it feels really strange to be going off on a jolly at this time. But I know that as soon as I set foot on English soil that I'm going to take a deep and relieving breath and I'm going to concentrate on having a happy time.

There will be plenty of time for sadness when we get home.

Thanks to Dee Mac for looking after the dogs, Young Lovehart the cats and Clint the hens. Damn stingarees can look after themselves.

Looking Forward

Matty took some time out this morning to write Katy a letter. This letter will, God willing, be read out at Katy and Mark's wedding next Thursday. For Matty cannot come although her plane ticket has been booked for months and her accommodation long arranged and paid for. The only thing not done was her rig-out chosen. She said she had plenty of nice clothes and would wear something she'd worn before. This was not like Matty for she loves clothes and she loves to look well.

This day next week the wedding will be over. We'll all be back home again. What bright occasion, or happy distraction shall we look forward to then? I do not know. But I do know that someday we will look forward and that is what Matty will want us to do.

Is it a bird?

Is it a bird?, originally uploaded by triciamorimori.

With all the sad and worrying things that have been happening recently it is good to have little dogs and babies to cheer us up.

Is it a bird they're looking at? If so, it was probably a damn buzzard as a nesting pair have ousted our long-eared owls from the Scots pines and are flying around Nellybert's like they own the fecking place. In their piercing, glinty little eyes they probably do.

And Katy....they're not called buzzards because they make a buzzing noise. That's bees.

Aunt Mary

Aunt Mary, my father's last surviving sister, died yesterday evening after an illness so courageously borne. She will be very much missed by all of us. It is the end of an era.

And this

PAC-MAN

Internet users wasted almost five million working hours playing the Pac-Man that appeared on Google, a study revealed yesterday. The web version of the classic video game was put on the site's home page on May 21 to celeb rate 30 years since its launch in Japan.And the study claimed workers hooked on the gamecould have cost bosses around £83million in lost productivity.

Oh really? So what would the workers have been doing with those five million hours had they not been playing Pac-Man?

They would have been -

• Facebooking
  
• Blogging
  
• Watching You Tube videos
  
• Internet shopping
  
• Yawning
  
• Drinking Coffee
  
• Scratching their asses
  
• Playing solitaire/tetris
  
• Making personal phone calls
  
• Discussing the final episode of Lost
  
• Engaging in a few moments of paid employment
  

And that millions of pounds worth of lost productivity. I'm not much of an economist but, if companies lost  £83 million then, someones, somewheres must still have that £83 million in their jeans pocket, so it's not really lost is it? Or is that not how it works? 

Obviously (goes without saying) I didn't waste one second of company time playing Pac-Man for I don't actually understand the rules.

The Things She Left Behind (continued)

I first came across this abandoned and derelict house over a year ago but on that occasion I didn't have a camera with me. I had always intended to go back and document what I saw there. Last week I finally got around to it, despite one of the fellows from work, a local man, telling me to be careful going poking around old houses 'up there'.

Them boys up there would be straight out blasting at you with a shotgun and ask no questions.

But I do love a long lane and a derelict homestead and it is even better when there is enough detritus left behind to get some idea of the person or people who lived there. The house itself was not that old. The buildings around it, many of which had been dwelling houses, were a lot older. I'd say a number of folk had lived there at a time. Over time their dwellings had become sheds or were simply left tumbledown.

She was rightly on in years when she left. But she had been active. She liked to sew, she liked to keep herself smart and she was a keen baker. She laundered the old-fashioned way with a boiler and a mangle and she did her laundry in a wash house. She cooked on a range. Her big kettle sang on the range from morning to night, always ready to boil for a pot of tea should visitors call. She admired the Royal Family and had a soft spot for the Queen Mother and she loved flowers. She liked to keep in contact with the outside world. Her house was neat and tidy. There was a place for everything and everything in its place. She hadn't much time for reading but there were a few books around, old-fashioned children's books by R.M. Ballantyne and Captain Marryat. Perhaps they had been Christmas presents for children long grown old themselves? The books were mouldering to dust when I first saw the house, and gone by my second visit.

All this I know from the things she left behind. They were the things that no one else wanted. No one wanted her shoes, her great ancient kettle, her mangle or her boiler. No one needed her 1950s patterns or her telephone. No one had any use for her baking ingredients or her musty books. No doubt her good delph and china and linens and ornaments found another home and hopefully, her personal photographs and other knick-knacks were taken and treasured by someone close to her.

I see her in my mind's eye. She would have been strong, a well-made woman but nifty with it. She would have bustled and busied and kept herself active. She would have been hospitable and kind. In early summer, twenty-three years ago, for reasons I do not know, she left her home up that long lane and she did not return.

After The Fall

If Miss Martha looks a little bit sombre in these photographs it is because she and her mummy have just broken the rope swing in the garden. Bert said it wasn't safe but Zoe said he probably meant it wasn't safe for me. Does she think I'm some sort of lardass? Martha was having a wonderful time sitting on Mummy's lap when suddenly the rope snapped and down they both came! That rope had only been round the beech tree branch for twenty something years. You just can't get quality materials any more.

A Swarm In May

My life right now is so layered, so rich and so real that I cannot listen anymore to In Search Of Lost Time, for that would be far too much cream in my coffee.

At this very moment I am, or I was, revising for my preliminary beekeeping exam, a few moments ago I was weeping with Pearlie and in the next room Brendan Quinn, star of Irish country music, is holding a masterclass with Bert on clarinet and guitar. I've just put the hens in and said individual good nights to each and every one of them and then indulged myself in a bit of howling at the moon.

Our darling Matty is very sick (she told us she was sick) and my darling Katy is getting married in a few weeks.

And did I mention that those damn bees swarmed today. I missed it (no photographs) and Bert didn't catch them. It all happened within minutes.

Wish me luck with the beekeeping exam.

Happiness

Matty reading email from Hannah, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.

Marcel Proust

The Things She Left Behind

I said to my sister and daughter today,

"I'd love to be bored. Maybe sigh a bit. Be idle."

Well - after I'd gone to work (six hours) I visited a hospital, had my tea in a traditional fish and chip shop in Randalstown, visited yet another hospital and did some beekeeping revision.

Then I found my idle moment and made this set on Flickr.

Bonnie on Slemish

Bonnie on Slemish, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

My 200th least interesting photograph. Just saying.

Outside the Hive

I'm revising hard for my preliminary beekeeping exam next week and have been poring over past papers. Some of the questions are harder to answer than others. It is tempting to embellish the answers. For instance,

Q. How many legs does a bee have?

A. Spider minus Bert = Bee



or

A. Kune Kune plus Nelly = Bee



Or what about this one? It deserves a fuller answer.

On a warm sunny day in spring, what observation from outside the hive would suggest that the colony has wintered safely?




On a warm sunny day in spring the observer will first notice four furry creatures being expelled from the hive. At least two of these creatures will be admitted soon afterwards. At around 8:30 am the observer will note a worker bee leaving the hive and getting into a car. Usually she will sit there for a few moments adjusting her iPod before getting out of the car, re-entering the hive muttering "Shit, shit, shit!", before emerging again clutching a bunch of keys. The worker will then drive off on a foraging expedition. As the observer watches he will see a number of worker bees enter the hive. These are attendant bees whose job it is to look after the old Queen. Before long they are off again although they will make several return trips throughout the day.

Later in the morning. some say between 9 and 9.30am, although regular observers have noted that this can be as late as ten o'clock the drone emerges from the hive yawning and scratching. He gives a shiver of distaste at the bright light and soon returns to the warmth and safety of the hive not to emerge again until at least midday.



By the way Bert says this is a rotten answer which will get me nul points.

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?