Happy Birthday Martha

bonnie mid song, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

The words of Bonnie's song are as follows:

Happy Birthday to you-hoo
Happy Birthday you're two-hoo
Happy Birthday Dear Martha-hooooo!
Happy Birthday to you-hooo.

Pity Bonnie is such a terrible singer. No wonder Martha and Judy look bemused.

Living In Chaos

shrine, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

According to FlyLady CHAOS stands for Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome because the damn house is such a mess.

Well - my problem is slightly different . My house is chaotic because I can't keep people from coming over and cannot get round them to clean.

But at least the attic is much more orderly since Miss Hannah and I had the massive clear out on Tuesday. We carried two car loads to the charity shops and Bert carried a van load to the recycling centre at the council yard.

Some people have said I could have made money out of that stuff and I daresay they are right but that would have been more procrastination. If I hadn't got round to selling any of it in 30 years, I doubt the next 30 years would be any different. Anyway, if I ever get the selling urge, hasn't Bert a tunnelful of clematee?

The picture above shows that I am not the only one living in clutter. Big Blessed Virgin Mary and Little Blessed Virgin Mary keep a very throughother shrine but it hasn't stopped Saint Bernadette Soubirous from calling over.

Remembering

This would have been Daddy's birthday and he would have been 92. I'm glad now that he didn't make it to that age because he wouldn't have liked being so old. He enjoyed being active and getting out into the fresh air. The picture above shows him in his sixties. He was weather-beaten and gruff but always with a look of kindness. Kerry Sister, who took the picture, used to call him 'Badger'.

In the picture he's taking a bag of hand cut turf out of the boot of his car. He was never happier than when he was cutting turf and working in the moss.

Thinking about you today Seamus, oul hand.

The Diary of Nelly Dismal

My 25^th year found me living alone in Drumtara, pregnant, poor and lonely. I was also very bored so, to pass the time, I kept a journal. It ran to two volumes and I have to admit it was one of the most tedious, self-obsessed and whiney journals ever written. It didn't contain an ounce of humour or interest and every time I've looked at those two notebooks since I have cringed.

So why did it take me more than three decades to rid myself of these woeful books ?

Today, during an epic attic clearance, I decided the time had come to burn the dreary things and the only place in the house with a burning fire is in Pearlie's room.

What's that ye have there?

Just some old diaries.

What! Reach them to me!

They're not yours Pearlie. They're mine. Just some old diaries I kept when I was in my 20s.

Setting them carefully on the fire.

I'd love to read those!

You would not.

Piling the coal around them.

I'd have been very interested in those.

I bet you would.

I felt a tiny bit guilty depriving Pearlie of the pleasure of finding out what a shallow twat I was when I was 24 but very, very happy to be rid of the reminder. Thanks be for the cleansing power of flames.

In Which I Become A Casting Agent

A few days ago I had a call from a fellow blogger. He and his lady were shooting a video in the vicinity and did I know of any young couples. preferably late teens, boy being dark and girl being fair? I said that I did not but I knew a suitable couple who, despite being well into their twenties, were still able to get half-fare on public transport if they so desired, although being good honest people always told the fare collector that they were liable for the full whack. They also wanted someone dark and mid-thirties for an older version of the boy. I knew of a fairly fresh young fellow with the mature, dark looks that they were looking for.

Where was the video shoot to take place? Why - on the farm of Joe Bloggs who lives very close to us, practically beside us. The young actors made their way to my crib and at five minutes before the appointed hour we set off to Joe Bloggs' place. I have to admit that I was surprised it was going to be at Joe's as he is rather a taciturn fellow, hardly the type to get mixed up with media, arts and Country & Western types. The yard was deserted. Back home to phone Joe Bloggs only to find out they'd never heard of such a carry-on. Maybe it was the other Joe Bloggs who lived a mile up the road? So off me and my car-load of budding actors went to the other Joe Bloggs who lived opposite The House With A Beard on the Killyless Road. Mrs Joe Bloggs was most bemused and, natch, knew nothing of a video shoot. She thought, and it took her 10 rambling minutes to tell us so, that the action was probably taking place at The House With A Beard. Miss Hannah went in to enquire and it took the Man Of The House With A Beard 10 rambling minutes to tell her that it wasn't happening in his crib. Maybe it was the other Joe Bloggs who lived on the road to Ahoghill.

By now I was in despair. We were communicating through Bert on the landline back at our place because, believe it or not, all this had been arranged on landlines and nobody had anyone's mobile number and there we all were 'on location' or 'trying to get to location' without any way of getting in direct contact.

Eventually Bert saved the day. He'd taken a call from the main people and they were at Alec Bloggs who he knew well (everyone knows him) and it turns out he had a brother called Joe. We went back to our house, Bert took over the driving (for I was a nervous wreck) and drove us straight to the right place where fun, frolics and hilarity ensued.

I Despair Of My Hair

martha in the garden, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I had a similar issue with my hair but, unlike Miss Martha, I lack the necessary cuteness factor to carry off the hair fountain look. I had to rely on pinning the offending hank back with clips and grips. But it would come down and tickle me horribly. Most annoying.

I lost patience with it last night, grabbed the nearest pair of blunt scissors and whacked it off. Feels great.

But what does it look like? It looks like this!

Of course I haven't the sideburns.

Garden Collage Two

Idle Thoughts

The alarm goes off at 7am and I hit the snooze button.

7:05am RINGGG! I'm wondering what to do about the vintage Orange Order collarette in the attic. I hit the snooze button.

7:10am RINGGG! Trying to figure out the names of Adam Lambsbreath's cows in Cold Comfort Farm. Let me see - there's Pointless, Aimless, Feckless and what is the other one called? I hit the snooze button.

7:15am RINGGG! Pondering the minister's reading at yesterday's funeral service. Dorcas/Tabitha. Would those be good names for girl twins? Technically they are the same name just as Zoe and Eve are. I hit the snooze button.

7:20am RINGGGG!!!! There's this clairvoyant in Randalstown I'm going to later. She channels through an eel. Holy shit! I'm dreaming! Time to get up.

Grammar

I'd always thought that a former boss of mine had a very poor style of writing, so in an idle moment I decided to lift a sample of his prose from the internet and run it through one of those grammar-testing sites. Sure enough he only scored 43% and the prognosis was 'weak - needs revision'. Hah! thought I. Now to try me. Result! I got 73% and the comment 'adequate - needs revision'. Of course I had to run my greatest rival Ganching and she got the same comment as me but 7 points more - 80%.

Then I wondered - how would Charles Dickens score? I copied and pasted a paragraph from 'A Tale of Two Cities' and was astonished to see that he only hit 31% and the comment 'poor - needs revision'. Dickens failed majorly on wordiness - imagine! I then ran a passage from 'Mansfield Park' through. Jane Austen did rather better than Dickens as she scored 61% and got 'weak - needs revision'.

So Final Scores were:

1. Ganching - adequate

2. Nelly - adequate

3. Jane Austen - weak

4. Former Boss - weak

5. Charles Dickens - poor

Sally

Sally, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Bert's Aunt passed away in hospital today after an epic fight for life following a car crash 12 days ago.

Happy Birthday Zoe!

D'ye know if you upload a photograph to Flickr and tag it 'pregnant' loads more people look at it than if you didn't? What's the big deal? That is what I ask myself. There are a million-zillion people on this planet and each and every one of them represents a pregnancy and a birth. It's not as if it is a 'miracle' or anything. Pregnant-schmegnant! Big whoop!

Except - unless it's me or mine. I got pregnant when I was 20 and about 10 days before I was 21 I had a daughter. That was Zoe and it's her thirty somethingth birthday today. Big whoop!

And even better! She's pregnant! Another big whoop!

Happy birthday Zoe! Love you and love your bump and all belonging to it.

Happy Birthday

This blog is seven years old today! Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay!

In Which I Am Rather Peeved

Above - an item from the country's most expensive lending library courtesy of the British Heart Foundation. Charge £2.50 for a crappy book then ask you to bring it back! This irritates me. But then I am rather easily irritated.

Posterise Martha

Posterise - a fun application on Gimp.

The Women In White

Earlier today a few of us were discussing the apparent lack of innocence in today's children. I opined that there seem to be very few young girls around between the ages of 11 and 15 - not because they have all been imprisoned in nunneries but rather because they have taken on the appearance of girls of sixteen and older. Young boys don't seem to be able to pull this trick as easily.

Children really do seem to grow up fast these days. It has been reported that more than 40% of young internet users over 10 have been exposed to pornography and you can be sure that it is a lot more extreme pornography than the likes of my generation ever caught sight of.

I remember listening uncle telling my father a joke when I was about eight years old. I was smart enough to pick up that the punchline of the joke involved a word that ended in 'uck' but was not the word you'd expect it to be. I vividly remember walking through Paddy's Field on the way to my Granny's shop and reciting this list of words to see if I could identify what this word could be, buck, cuck, duck, fuck, guck, huck, juck etc. etc. Nothing seemed to fit the bill.

It was three or four more years before I heard the F-word courtesy of a fellow pupil in St Louis Convent Grammar School. The same girl brought tampons into class for our edification and education. I was most bemused. So that's what Tampax were for!

I'd spent my entire childhood pondering the magazine advertisements, looking at those pretty and lively women in pristine white clothes and wondering what Tampax could be. I searched for clues in the text and being a real innocent had no idea as to what 'internally' or 'applicator' might signify. I made up my mind. It was obvious really. All the ladies in white were healthy, active and sporty so Tampax must be some kind of aid to sportiness and vigour.

Oh innocent days. I was over sixteen before I sampled the product myself, only got it halfway in and waddled about in some discomfort through two periods of Anatomy and Physiology at Antrim Technical College. Ironic or what?

Little Children

Nellybert has been getting out and about recently, taking advantage of the esteemable Pearl-Ri being in The Home For Crabbit Oul Dragons for a fortnight. Of course, anyone else would have taken a holiday but, what with the Martha sitting, the signing on the dole and the hospital appointments, we hadn't a minute.

So we took a 24 hour break to the Inishowen Peninsula at the end of last week and today we went to Derry City on the train.

Let the train take the strain. Hardly! For some reason the world and his wife was out today with all their whinging, squalling bratlings in tow. A young one screeched its head off from Ballymoney to Derry on the way down. I was harbouring nasty thoughts. Then when we got off I saw its wee face and it looked so miserable that I felt bad for wanting it and its Ma thrown off the train. But here's a thing - during the entire journey, during its intermittent yelling and screechings the mother never once spoke to the child or tried to comfort it. Expect if I'd been it I might have hollered my head off too.

There were more monsters on the way home. A wee lad, probably about 4 or 5 wailed himself into sobs and hiccups for twenty minutes steady. I think he wanted something he didn't get. Once again there was no interaction from the parents. The child was completely ignored.

I'm sure it's not universal but I do notice that lots of parents do not give their children any time or attention when they are out in public. Even the seemingly good kids get ignored. There were three generations sitting opposite us - a little girl of about eight, her mum and the granny. Mum and Granny had a continuous and very repetitive and dreary conversation for nearly an hour. The child was hardly spoken too. When she got excited about something she spotted from the train window she was roundly ignored. Wise up adults! Children, if you give them a chance, can be interesting too.

I Miss My Baby Owls

baby owl springhill 2009, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

For the second year running there has been no long eared owl babies at Springhill. I miss them very much.

We think that buzzards took over their nesting site. Last year there were at least three young buzzards reared on our land. Buzzards are OK but I'd much rather have owls.

Brass Bed

window, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I've had that old bed for nearly thirty years and I paid thirty pounds for it. The woman I bought it from was moving to Kuala Lumpur. There is an interesting story around her move that involves art thieves, drug dealers and dodgy barristers but it is not mine to tell. She was a generous woman that had the brass bed before me, for, with my thirty pounds in her pocket, she took me out to the Golf Club where we drank gin and bitter lemon. That was as far as it went for it turned out I wasn't her type. Not butch enough.

Bert and I dismantled the bed today. I'm turning the spare room into a little office/workroom. It will be good to gather all my paperwork and hobby kit into one part of the house.

What shall we do with the bed? Traditionally, in rural areas, old bedsteads were used to plug gaps in hedges. And we do have a couple of heifers with the wandering inclination.

It would be an ignominious end to a 19th century bed originally hailing from County Donegal. People probably died in that bed, for sure they were conceived and born it. I'm sure more than fifty people slept in it since I've had it. Those notable folk singers Tommy and Colm Sands were among them. And Hannah began in it.

New Pigs

Duroc Boar (below) Pietrain Boar (right)

new pigs, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Eight new pigs for fattening up. Lily and Rusty were most unamused. But if they knew what the newcomers' fate was they might think differently.

These ones were sired by Duroc crossed Pietrain. Bert said he was the most aggressive pig he's ever come across. I hope the younguns don't take after Daddy.

Cheers!

Back on the drink again!

28 days off the sauce except for last Thursday which was exceptional circumstances. I still don't know for sure if I'm an alcoholic but rest assured the situation is being closely monitored. At the first suggestion that I am edging towards having 'Bert' and an outlined denim pocket tattooed above my left breast I'm checking straight into rehab.

Wheelbarrow!

Hannah, Martha and I visited two toy shops today. In the first one Hannah fell in raptures at the Sylvanian Animal families. They didn't have meercat families in her day. Martha was very keen on a pink scooter but it was a little bit advanced for her. What we were really looking for was a wheelbarrow. Martha already has a green bucket for egg-collecting and lots of gardening tools but she has no wheelbarrow and she is very fond of toys with wheels.

The wheelbarrow in the meercat and scooter shop was a bit flimsy so we had to go to Camerons. That's where I always bought my girls their Christmas toys. They had some great barrows there. Martha picked a red one and, although I preferred the green, it was her choice. Back home she was aghast when she realised that it was in bits and in her view 'Broke!' but that's whan grandas are for. Bert sat himself down in the polytunnel surrounded by a gaggle of girls, average age 18, to watch him build the barrow. As one of those girls was me and another one Martha you'll know, if you're good at sums, that Sylvie and Maggie are still a fair bit off their teens.

Martha was delighted with Wheelbarrow! And solemnly set off on her maiden voyage. She happily transported an empty eggbox to the henhouse and an eggbox containing one egg from the henhouse to the kitchen. She then carried a load of grapes from the house to the pig pen and watched while Sylvie and Maggie fed them to the kune kunes. On the way back from the pigpen Sylvie's mum threw a weed in her barrow and Martha said nothing. As soon as Sylvie's mum was out of sight she took the weed out and gave it to me. It seems that Wheelbarrow! is far too posh to carry dirty weeds. It was raining and Wheelbarrow! was getting wet so she brought it into the house where she made a thorough inspection of its underside. She was distressed that some German Shepherd fluff was stuck to its wheel and this had to be removed. I did this. Then she anxiously pointed out more hairy mess and I had to clean this too. The barrow then had to be polished with a tea towel. I wonder if Martha really understands the purpose of Wheelbarrow! But it is very red and shiny and new. So who can fault her?

Nelly's Garden

Nelly's Garden, a set on Flickr.

Just a few wee photos of the garden looking good.

The Empty Chair

After Mammy died we decided that we would not be in too much of a hurry to dispose of her possessions. We all felt that we needed some breathing space.

But eventually, we knew it would have to be done.

In this past week a great deal has been done. A great deal still remains to be done but the task has been started.

Kerry Sister has been here for a week and she has worked hard. She left this morning. This afternoon I was baby sitting and called out 'home' to say some sort of a goodbye and while Miss Martha slept, I wept and wept. A lot of tears have been shed in Matty's house this past week.

My parents built that house nearly forty years ago and they hadn't a whole lot of money to do it with so, when the time came to fit and furnish it, they had to make economies. As the years passed Matty replaced nearly all the original furniture with better pieces. These last few years she had it nearly the way she wanted it. I was with her a few years back when she bought her three piece suite and I remember thinking, 'that's going to outlast her'. We all encouraged her to improve the house because we knew how much pleasure she got out of it. The two youngest sisters were very handy and they built her kitchens and laid wooden floors. Every time they came home there would be a project, either woodwork or decorating or hanging new curtains. The young brother would be getting her to modernise her light fittings and overseeing the general maintenance. The rest of us would help out in other ways – maybe driving her around searching for the perfect thing or helping out with a few extra quid towards a new carpet or curtains. I'd get her plants for the garden and I wasn't the only one either.

She was still at it after the diagnosis of terminal cancer - a new back door in July 2010, the Leitrim sister re-upholstering stools and footstools for her. She was even re-organising the china in her corner cabinet from her bed when she couldn't get up.

So – with such a mother you can imagine how painful it has been to take her house apart. To even think about the removal from her home of all the nice furniture she waited so long for is hard. But it is the small things that scald my heart. Her slippers, her handbag, her toiletries and her address book. Her hand writing in this or that notebook. Her bedroom, with her matching wardrobe and chests of drawers and all the personal touches gone now. There are no clothes, no books, no holy pictures, no rosary beads – all that remains now are her embroidered slippers, her toilet bag and a cupboard full of empty hangers. And soon, very soon that will be gone too and Matty's house, our home place, will just be an empty shell.

Great Aunt Nelly

I have a great niece!

Congratulations to Connor and Leanne. I'm looking forward to seeing the little one soon.

A Visit To Rathlin

For many years now I've been meaning to visit Rathlin Island. But somehow the months slipped away and it was winter and then I'd have to defer it for another year.

But this year I was determined to get there. Swisser was up at the weekend and I asked her to come with me. She had been many times before but was more than happy to go again.

We went over on the old ferry. There weren't that many people on it and I'd say about half of them were members of the PSNI. Swisser and I were intrigued. We wondered if there was a serious crime wave on the island and the police were going in mob-handed to sort it out. There was a Massey Ferguson tractor and bush-whacker on board as well as the police Land Rover and an unaccompanied trailer load of building blocks. When we got to the island the crew asked the police to take the trailer off the boat and they happily obliged. It looked odd to see a police vehicle hauling building materials but Rathlin seems to be that sort of place. People just do what has to be done.

We set off walking to visit the RSPB bird sanctuary. It was a fair walk on a hot day but glorious. There is no intensive agriculture on the island and consequently the meadows and verges are teeming with the flowers and wildlife that I remember from fifty years ago. We saw harebells, wild angelica, meadowsweet, a variety of thyme and all the meadow grasses and flowers that are rarely seen at home.

I enjoyed the reserve. Although there were lots of other visitors the ambience was pretty wonderful. Just people of all ages delighting in the spectacular views of the colonies of birds. We saw guillemots, razorbills, fulmars, puffins, cormorants and many other seabirds. The guides were helpful and informative. I'd recommend this to anyone with even the slightest interest in wildlife.

Of course by this time my big silly face was as red as a tomato from the sun, so we decided to take the Puffin bus back to the harbour. That too was an experience. The driver was packing punctured bicycles into the back compartment, rescuing cyclists, everyone who got on had to clamber over a dog called Theo and no one minded and meanwhile the Puffin driver had us all in stitches with his banter and nonsense. He gave a running commentary of the history of the island and a bit of current affairs as well. We got dropped off at a little bay where grey seals were enjoying the sun at the edge of the water.

We weren't the only ones either. I'm sure there must have been twenty other people, most of them children, observing the seals. The animals did not seem too perturbed. I got the impression they are well used to it.

We never did find out exactly what the police were up to (even though we asked them) but I don't think it involved anything worrying for they all looked pretty happy and were enjoying the views, taking photographs of each other and they seemed to like the bird sanctuary. It will ever remain one of life's mysteries for me.

We took the new fast ferry back which was smooth and speedy but not nearly as much fun as heading over with tractors, trailers and the polis.

I can't wait to return to explore the rest of the island although I'll be lucky ever to hit on such a beautiful, beautiful day.

And I can't believe I waited so long to visit somewhere practically on my doorstep yet one of the locals told me that there are many people in Ballycastle who have never visited the island. Imagine!

The Sting

I had big plans for today but they didn't work out. For the second time in just over a week one of our hives swarmed. I came over to see the sight but didn't don the bee suit (big mistake) as I was right in the middle of a gardening project. Bert said, "They're really quiet, they won't touch you." He was probably right about 29,999 of them. The Psycho Bee stung me right in the throat. I was annoyed but not too worried. While Bert went off to capture the swarm I returned to my gardening. Young Rainey turned up and I broke off to chat with him.

It must have been forty minutes before I realised something was up. My skin felt on fire and little pimples rose up all over me. My chest felt tight and I was itchy all over. I got a pain in the middle of my back. I felt panicky. Young Rainey was Googling bee stings on his iPhone and reading out the symptoms. I panicked some more. He advised I went to the doc. I pooh-poohed thinking that I was imagining everything except the rash, which was getting worse by the moment. When my hands started to swell up in front of my eyes I did realise something was up.

I got my rings off in time and got Bert to take me to the GP which, luckily, is only five minutes away. It was out of hours so I got seen straight away. According to the doc I was having an allergic reaction, uncomfortable but not life-threatening (TG). He prescribed steroids (six straight away) antihistamine and an adrenaline shot in case I got stung again. He did not suggest we get rid of the bees.

I got worse before I got better. The hives all ran into each other and made giant hives about eight inches long and 3 inches wide. I felt as if I was on fire. But I did not scratch. I was nauseous and could not eat. I was shattered. Although it was a sad loss of a glorious day I spent most of the afternoon sleeping in bed. Here's hoping for more garden work tomorrow.

Not Psycho Bee

The thing is I've been stung lots of time before with minimal side effects. I wonder what was different about this time?

And the bees? Apparently, according to our favourite bee man, who knows everybody in the Irish bee world, we've got 'swarmy' queens and they'll never settle until we change them for sweet-tempered, settled queens which we'll probably have to import from England. See this bee-keeping lark? It's not easy. And don't get me started on bastes (cattle).