Bonnie Takes Her Last Holiday. Again.

Bert and I have just come back from a short break in Donegal. We weren't on our own. We had four dogs, the Banjos and Swisser as well. Swisser got a new nickname – Professor Pants. She was waxing superior over dinner, told Jazzer and I that we had given over the control of our lives to our husbands because we are currently not working. I was having none of that. Just because someone is Professor Pants does not give them the right to judge how others organise their lives. Anyways Swisser was just pissed off that her youngest dog didn't get to come but we had to put a lid on it somewhere. Our caravan, we get to take all three of our dogs if we choose. We made a concession for the Banjo's youngest dog who is our youngest dog's litter mate. They are wild together. And as Swisser's youngest dog is also their litter mate the canine craziness would have been unbearable. He'll get to come the next time.

Once again it was Bonnie's last holiday. She is so old and done now that we have to lift her in and our of the van and she needs help getting up stairs and on to sofas. She was not able to get to Ballyhiernan beach because it meant climbing some pretty steep sand dunes so, just before we left, we took her to another beach that was easier for her to get to. Just seeing her there, plodding along, trying to keep up with the younger dogs was nearly tragic. Her back legs are getting weaker and it is much more noticeable when she is in unfamiliar surroundings. I wonder how much longer she can continue. But she had her little break, she was with people and dogs that she knows love her and I think she enjoyed it.

I wonder if she will be able to squeeze in just one more 'last' holiday?

By the way Swisser really is a professor now and about time too! I think adding Pants to her title will help her to keep everything in proportion.

A Cure For Procrastination

I am trying something new in my ongoing personal quest to reprogramme my brain.  It is this - when thoughts, such as these, pop into my mind,

I do not want to pick up that dirty laundry and take it to the washing machine.

Damn those dirty cups! It would be too dreary to remove them to the kitchen.

Why is it always me who has to check on Pearlie's fire? I don't want to.

Then that is exactly what I do. I pick up the laundry, I lift the cups, I fix Pearlie's fire. But first I must - have a cup of coffee, write this blog entry, check the time in Vancouver and the temperature in Fakenham, see if Natalie has uploaded new photos, delete some spam and have another cup of coffee.

It's an ongoing battle.

Note to self: I wonder if there is a site that takes tired old phrases such as 'it's an ongoing battle' and turns them into something fresh and new? Must check....

Fill Her Up

You Are 40% Left Brained, 60% Right Brained




The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning.
Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others.
If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic.
Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet.

The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility.
Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way.
If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art.
Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Are You Right or Left Brained?

Blogthings: Quizzes and Tests and Memes, Oh My!

Smarty Pants.

So I accquired one of these new-fangled smart phones. A young friend was upgrading and I remarked if he was thinking of selling his old one I might be interested. Then forgot about it. He mentioned it to me again and I checked the second-hand value. It was quite a bit dearer than I could afford at present.

Maybe I'll wait until you're doing your next upgrade and by that time I might have a bit more spare cash floating around.

He said,

Y'know I'd rather sell it to someone like you for (mentions a sum 35% less than its worth) than to some other wanker for £x.

How could I refuse?

By good chance I got my new phone set up on the very day that Jess ate Bert's old phone so was able to recycle my old phone to him.

So. I have a smart phone. It is fun but I wonder if it might actually be too smart for me. We shall see.

 Bert's old phone.

The villain who ate it.

Comment Spam

There is so much comment spam coming to this blog that I am considering moderating comments. It is not a step that I want to take but I'm getting very cheesed off at the amount of time I'm wasting deleting trashy, unwanted comments.

Yes. He Did It Again.

It was last September when Rusty first knocked me off my feet and he has went and gone and did it again. I was carrying a gigantic bucket of goodies down to their paddock and while I was looking for a sweet, clean place to dump it out, Rusty all impatience, barrelled through my legs and lifted me off my feet. Yes folks, for a split second or so I was sitting atop his broad back and he just kept barrelling on and I knew for certain I was for landing on my arse. Wish I'd followed through on that one for all I'd have got would have been a soft if muddy landing. But I thought it best to try to stay on my feet and that was my downfall. People, when trying to extol the virtues of the smaller pig, say, "They'll only grow to knee height." That is all very well but they forget to mention that the 'small' pig will likely grow to around two foot wide. I know that when Rusty dove between my legs I ended up standing on tippy-toes with my legs well extended and it was when I tried to keep my balance that I twisted my knee.

Oh! The agony. At first I couldn't even put my foot on the ground. As I stood there one-legged, crying with pain and frustration I really had no idea how I was going to make it back to the house. After a few minutes I found I could weight bear but it was no fun and I made my way slowly and uncertainly to the house. Bert was, as usual, totally unsympathetic although he did help me off with my wellies which were very filthy indeed.

That was three days ago. The first two were rather limpy and I had to go up and downstairs a step at a time like a one-year-old child. No more running up and down the stairs for me. Every step was painful but I soldiered on. That was the first piece of advice I got. Keep moving. Then someone else said, "You should stay off it. Rest a couple of days." Too late. I had spent those couple of days 'keeping moving'. Some folk said, "It will be months before that gets better." Who knows? It is three days since Rusty lamed me and today the knee is still sore but the strength is returning to it. I go upstairs and down in the normal way although it does hurt a little.

There is just one thing I haven't done since Tuesday morning and that is - I haven't gone near those damn pigs. Pigs are rough. Very rough indeed. Anyone who is tempted by the thought of a pet pig should bear that in mind. And did I mention the tusks?

A Party Of Sorts

This Saturday past was my mother's second anniversary. I chose to fill it with friends. The day went past. I spoke to a number of my sisters and I made an arrangement to visit with my youngest brother on the Sunday (today).

Swisser was supposed to visit yesterday but she cancelled. She texted Bert saying that she did not want to interrupt our party. Our party! I confess I was miffed of being accused of a party on Matty's anniversary. If it was a party this is what occurred, We ate sausages and mash cooked by Jazzer. We did drink wine. Mel visited us from Edinburgh and brought whisky. Bert drunk some of that and so did Jazzer although she ought not to have. Marty and Jazzer shared some of their experiences of growing up in Belfast during the 1970s and I read excerpts aloud from Lost Lives. Marty retired to the kitchen and played claw hammer banjo for hours.

There came a point in the evening, maybe after her second glass of Scapa, when Jazzer flipped. This is a regular occurrence. She goes from being a relatively normal person to one who is sensitive, defensive and argumentative. It goes something like this, I'll say,

Ben is an absolute gentleman. He really is an excellent young fellow. Everyone thinks the world of him. You couldn't wish for a better son.

Jazzer goes on the defence,

My other kids are fantastic too. They really are great. I won't have a word said against them.

And I say,

You've flipped you bint! Over the edge. No more 16 year old single malt whisky for you!

It seemed to work. Jazzer calmed down. Maybe twenty minutes afterwards this exchange Jazzer's pup Dora jumped up beside me. I stroked her absent-mindedly. Dora is our pup's sister so I don't wish to show favouritism. Jazzer's old dog Frank is snuggled up on my other side. Jazzer reciprocates on the other sofa by scratching my old dog's ears and giving her lots of pets. Old Bonnie groans with pleasure. I say to Mel,

Dora really is the sweetest little dog. She has a lovely nature.

Immediately Jazzer says,

What about Frank? Frank is a lovely dog too! He has a lovely nature as well.

I turn to her sympathetically and say.

Wise up you daft bitch. Can I not even say something nice about one of your dogs without you taking it as a slight against your other dog? Start drinking tea this minute!

We sure know how to party in Springhill.

Supper Time

While Nelly blogs, Bert makes the supper. Tonight we are having poached egg on toast with a side dish of grilled tomatoes and sausages.

What will Pearlie eat?

She might try a wee sausage if I peel it for her.

Pearlie cannot be having any foodstuff with a skin, a crust or a peel for she hates texture nearly as much as she hates music. Music she cannot be doing with,

I weesht ye would turn that oul dinnle aff.

She does like some music. She likes old-fashioned dirgey hymns such as 'How Great Thou Art' and she likes Scottish pipe bands. All else is dinnle.

And she likes her sausages peeled and her fish fingers shaven of breadcrumbs. She wants the crusts cut off her bread. I won't do that. Crusts cut off bread? That is just attention seeking. Since I've been giving her pan slice intacta I've noticed she eats much more of it for she nibbles right down to the crusty brown skin. That has to be a good thing.

And do you know something else? They put coverings on processed foods for a reason. Ever seen a skinned sausage? There is only one thing worse and that is a peeled fish finger. Those breadcrumbs are there for a reason. They are there to make the 'fish' look white instead of a dirty greeny-grey colour. We serve the stripped finger to Pearlie with a side of bread and butter and a cup of tea. Nice, warm tea. She  drinks her tea and eats the bread right down to the crusty brown skin. And later on the cat will eat the unwanted and unappetising fish finger. I'm going to tell Pearlie that fish fingers have been prohibited by law.

Fanad Lighthouse

Fanad, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

If you should happen to be looking for me this weekend I'll probably be on a dander to that there lighthouse.

Home Truths And Happy Birthdays

Last week was for pondering and gardening. Writing? Not so much.

A week ago Mrs Thatcher popped her clogs which made for a lot of discussion, thinking and remembering.  A friend of ours told us once that there was a bottle of champagne he intended to drink when she finally expired. On Friday I asked him if he'd done so. He said he had changed his mind, that he would not allow her to affect his present as her policies had affected his past.

Then I was presented with a home truth by my dear husband, which landed true and took root. Still thinking about that one and will write about it another time.

Then I realised that Pearlie Blue has been living with us for almost five years, not four as I'd previously thought. They do say time flies when one is enjoying oneself. It was around about this time five years ago that she fell and broke her hip. When she recovered from that (something I thought she'd never do) she moved in here. I well remember telling her that she would be coming to live with us and her reply which I thought might display some pathetic gratitude or other sentimental feeling. Not our Pearlie. Instead she snarled,

I should have been in with youse ten years ago!

I murmured something about that not really being practical. Imagine! An ambulatory Pearlie wandering about, interfering, poking in drawers, standing in the way. She was always tremendously good at being in the way and still is I suppose.

So, sowing and planting and watching Game of Thrones and Mad Men, listening to and absorbing home truths, thinking about the eighties and the eighty-somethings, going to Ikea with my darling girls and taking our darling girl Hannah out for her birthday. We ate at Spice and went to see Good Vibrations. Good film. Lot of Game of Thrones actors in it.

It is Hannah Banana's birthday today so I must finish this and go see if I can find the birthday cake candles. Not that Hannah cares but it is extremely important to Martha.

Two Down, Three To Go

It is probably ten years or more since I lumped Margaret Thatcher, the Queen, Matty, Pearlie and Ian Paisley together as a cohort. I banded them on age as they were all born within a nine month period. If Matty was feeling 'old' I'd say to her, "Have you seen the state of Paisley? He's looking his age for sure! And the harples* of him! You? You're like a lilty** yet!" Or she'd think her mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be. "Sharp! You're as sharp as a tack. Didn't you win a tenner for completing the Irish News crossword the other week? Imagine being like Maggie Thatcher. Sure she has to be told every day that Denis is dead. Wouldn't that be awful?"

And there was always Pearlie who, couldn't walk, could barely eat, had no way with her and had precious few friends. While Matty was, without doubt, the most popular woman in her road and rarely wanted company or outings.

And the Queen. "Mum, that poor woman. Sure she's great for her age and wants for nothing but she has hardly a minute to call her own and almost her entire family are on welfare! At least your kids have jobs."

Ten years ago I'd have wagered that Pearlie would go first, then Ian Paisley. After that it would be Thatcher, then Matty at 95 and the Queen at 100 or more. Instead it was Matty, the youngest of the five who was first to pass away. Now Thatcher has gone and it's happy for her I'd say. There was a recent photograph of her sitting on a park bench, in a good wool coat, wrinkled stockings and a pair of Hotter shoes on her feet. A little whippet was beside her and she was petting the dog which looked like a smaller, finer version of my Judy. I never liked Mrs T. Some part of me admired her as a person and a woman but I hated her dogma. I hated her stance on Ireland. But I loved that picture with the dog. She cannot have been all bad.

I was in hospital having Hannah when Thatcher went to war with Argentina. I was in hospital this morning when I heard of her death. Nobody seemed to care. It was just a diversion, like the Jeremy Kyle Show.

And I wondered who would be next. My prediction - Ian Paisley, then Pearlie, then the Queen. Surely Pearlie cannot outlive the Queen?

And hopefully I will outlive them all. The news from the hospital was good. So far.


* harple - limp
** lilty  - bouncing, energetic woman

A Pet Day

Bert is opening and banging shut all the cupboard doors looking for 'something nice'. He lives in hope that fairies come to our house while he is asleep and leave vol-au-vents and macaroons for him to eat in the morning. Tough luck Bertram. The only fairy in this house is the Lidls fairy and she has left you some porridge. Try not to spill dry oats all over the floor like yesterday.

Meanwhile, in a town not very far away, a friend is reading the previous paragraph, which was posted on Facebook this morning. Within the hour her husband Rod had arrived at our door bearing a selection of fancy cakes. "I heard that Bert wanted something nice to eat." He then bundled our two younger dogs into his car and took them off for an hour's walk by the River Bann. He does this a lot so dogs are always thrilled to see him. In fact, Jess has been trained mostly by Rod and his wife. Trained to the lead and being trained not to bark at strangers.

So, while our dogs are being exercised we get on with our day. Ben, our current house guest, is making wooden guns. He is only 13 so that sort of thing pleases him. I don't see the point of the end product but I do approve of his learning to use saws, drills, lathes and the like. He is supposed to be mending the lid of the hen's nest box but he'll get round to it some day.

It was a beautiful today, blue skies, soft white clouds, bird song and bees. One of our hives did not make it through the winter so only the one left. Bert rotavated and ploughed and we put in a few potatoes. I planted onions and weeded the greenhouse, Les carried on with the erection of his poly tunnel and Marty did some therapeutic potting. We ate a lot of buns.

Good Friends

A thing I have noticed as I have grown older is that the friends Nellybert have now are good people, people to cherish, people to care about.

They are all ages but mostly they are younger than us. Tonight they were 13, known from birth, 33, known since teens and early to mid forties, known for 20 years. All good people and they all love dogs.

We are blessed with our good friends,

A Dead Rat And A String To Swing It With

Bert had been cleaning and levelling the sand beds in the polytunnel. He stood back to admire his work.

Look at that! Smooth or what? You could play bowls on that!

Les says,

Or marbles. It would be a good surface for marbles.

I say,

Marbles! You never hear tell of marbles these days. The young ones wouldn't know what to make of them a-tall.

Les,

Aye. It's all sitting at computer games nowadays.

Me,

Mind you, our grandparents probably wondered why we didn't play with hoops and sticks. Or spinning tops.

Les,

They probably said – sure spinning tops aren't good enough for the young ones today. It has to be marbles for them.

Bert says,

And what about a dead rat on a string? Sure the young ones today wouldn't know what to do with a dead rat on a string.

I looked at him.

A dead rat on a string?

Aye! Don't tell me youse boys never played with a dead rat on a string.

Bert – if any of us had as much as touched a dead rat Matty would have brought us in and scrubbed us down with Dettol! What was Pearlie thinking of, letting you play with dead rats?

Sometimes I wonder if Bert's mother was fit to rear a child.

Acme Boy Scout Whistle

When Pearlie first came to live with us she wanted a whistle. She knew there was one somewhere in her hoard but, despite her niece's best efforts, it could not be located. Then she wanted the niece to buy another whistle but I put the kibosh on that notion. The very idea of being whistled at like a border collie!

In time, as I sifted and disposed of Pearlie's hoard, I came across the whistle and very nice it is too. Lovely piercing tone to it, sweet to handle and easy on the eye. I immediately checked its value on eBay and found that it wasn't worth much. I did not tell Pearlie that I'd found it which was very bad of me but, knowing her, she probably nicked it from someone in the first place. I mean to say, family of girls, where would she get a boy scout whistle, other than by going through someone's cupboards. Did I ever mention that she's a bit of a magpie? I'm convinced she is currently stealing my teaspoons. I bet her handbag is full of them for I know the cutlery drawer isn't. Thing is I'll never know until she's dead as her handbag never leaves her presence. Oh well. If collecting teaspoons makes her happy then who am I to deny her one small pleasure?

But the whistle. I try to keep it on my person so that when I get one of those unsolicited calls I can say, "Just one moment. I'll just fetch Mrs Moser," then I get Pearlie's whistle and blast it down the receiver. Bert thinks this is a horrible thing to do, people only doing their job for which they get paid a pittance. I expect he's right. I'm just not a very nice person.

Face Like A Fur Hatchet

Bert has been away for a couple of nights. He's been to a concert in Dublin and is due back today. I have been doing his morning and evening chores and looking after Pearlie. That's not a big deal except, I could not help noticing, that tending the animals is far more rewarding than tending to Pearlie. They seem pleased to see me in the morning, they relish their food with gusto and they appear happy to be alive.

Pearlie? Not so much. The first thing I do for her is put on the kettle for morning tea and a refill of her hot water bottle. Then I fix up her fire. I take a lot of care over this, my aim being to start a cheery blaze immediately. When Bert starts her fire he stirs up the ashes, throws a log on and hopes for the best. If it goes, great, if it doesn't he starts again. While I'm doing the fire I can feel her eyes on my back, glaring balefully at me. Should I look over my shoulder she will be glaring balefully. She only speaks if she wants something else done. Truly you would think I was setting the fire around her ankles in order to murder her. When I bring in her tea and bread she looks at it with disgust as if it were rank poison. The only thing that gives her a glimmer of pleasure is the hot water bottle. And this is a woman who has enjoyed a cosy warm bed, the central heating on for two hours and a gas fire before getting her cheery blaze and rubber jar.

The truth is she's always glum and she is especially glum when the darling son is away. I'll be glad to see him back. Tomorrow morning it will be him going in to see the oul' doll with the face like a fur hatchet. It will be at least an hour later than I go to her and the fire-starting will be haphazard enough. Her first word to him will be some sort of a whinge and he'll laugh it off. But I suspect that inside herself, behind the baleful looks and the whiney voice, she will be just as pleased as a Pearlie can be.

Boundaries

Bert and I went to visit Peter a couple of days ago. Peter is a guy who, after he retired, took a plot of land at our last place (Clint's place) and grew hedging liners. He was there for ten years at least, the most decent man you could imagine. Around about the time we moved up here his wife started to fail in health and about a year after we left he wound his plot up. I'm sorry to say that Clint was glad to see him go because Peter's easy-going ways that fitted so well with Nellybert did not sit as well with Clint's vision of the perfect smallholding. The difference being, I suppose, is that we like to share and Clint does not. 

We'd invited Peter to the new place but his wife's needs were more important that Peter's need for the fresh air and a bit of space to grow things. Since then Peter's wife has continued to decline and Peter himself had his own health problems. It was chastening to compare his caring role to ours. His wife has got her clock out of kilter. She sleeps for most of the day and wanders the house at night. This means that Peter has to stay up late to look after her. He does not get enough sleep or fresh air. He has no outlet, no time to himself. He has no respite.

Thinking about it since I have realised that, even though having Pearlie living with us does affect our lives, we are actually quite fortunate because she does have a routine that fits in with some semblance of a normal life. To be honest I would not tolerate it any other way. In the first few weeks after Pearlie moved in she thought it was appropriate to call on us in the middle of the night if she needed pillows adjusting or somesuch. I spoke to her plainly. I explained to her that we would only be prepared to look after her at home if she could accept that we needed an unbroken night's sleep and that if she felt she needed attention at night then the only option would be residential care.

So, after seeing what Peter calls a life, I can see that our situation with Pearlie is a far more tolerable one. She has a good mind and she knows what is what. She knows we'll look after her and she accepts that she no longer rules the roost. This is how it should be. I will need to remember that this is how it might pan out for me too. The world belongs to the people who can keep the fire going, drive to the chemist, cook the milk puddings and protect the elderly from the occasional unsympathetic carer. Which is another story altogether.

Missing Matty on Mother's Day

I have made Matty a home made Mother's Day card this year. I have made it out of pictures of her with some of the people that she loved. If I'd used pictures of all of the people she loved, those pictures would have been so many and so teeny that they should barely be seen.

A Weekend In Fanad

I went to the Fanad peninsula in Donegal over the weekend with Miss Martha, Miss Evie, their parents and Judy. We stayed in a caravan just beside Ballyhiernan Bay. It is next to a big beautiful beach which the girls loved.

I was very agitated and worried before I went but returned in a far calmer frame of mind. The only snag was the usual one, Martha will wake up at around 6 a.m. and will be very loud and noisy. Judy was not impressed. I had to tell Martha stories. My favourite was the story of a girl who lives in an empty house and each morning there is a box outside her door with something she needs. At first Martha was sensible. The girl had some basic clothing, a dog basket, a blanket and porridge.

So all the girl had to eat was porridge and every night she had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket but when she woke up in the morning there was a box outside her door. What do you think was in it?

A beautiful yellow dress.

So the next night the girl had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket and she had nothing to eat all day but porridge. The next morning she woke up cold and hungry and outside her door was a box. What do you think was in it?

A lovely pink skirt.

A fashionista in the making for sure.

Pigs Might Fly

The weather last few days has been very fine for February but I have not been able to enjoy it as I am, as they say in Norn Iron, 'dosed with the coul.'

I have noticed since I started hanging out with toddlers that I get a cold about four times a year. It used to be only about once or twice a year. Small children are germy little beasts.

Another thing I will not be able to enjoy is a quiet house for Bert is away and there is just me, Pearlie, the two cats, three dogs, 7 chickens and 5 calves. Unfortunately I am responsible for feeding all these creatures. Although the pigs, Lily and Rusty are quite capable of helping themselves. This is to be avoided and I have asked Bert to put all the pig and calf feed in a safe place. He put it in a trailer with sides down, right at the edge, good and handy for a tall pig standing on hind legs. Luckily I got to it before they did so the only way they're getting into that trailer is if they sprout wings and fly.

In fact, must go and see if they have broke out and are rampaging through the yard.

I have very high hopes that I will be feeling better tomorrow.

Postscript. Darn pigs were nowhere to be seen but they had left a trail of tumblings behind them. Pigs are rough. I eventually found them in Bert's workshop where they had broken open a big bag of peanuts intended for the birds. Perhaps they thought eating bird food would help them to fly.

Dog Visitors

Nellybert has dog visitors almost every day. They are nearly as many as our human visitors. Today we had Lucy, accompanied by Clint and Rex, accompanied by Swisser. Lucy is a very good visitor. She farms and does not be in the house much. Of course, like all farmers. when she does come indoors she brings half a yard of filth and dung in with her. Judy does not like her much. Judy was very annoyed to see Lucy riding in the cab of the tractor with Clint. She must have thought Lucy had shocking airs about herself. To console Judy I had to take her out in the van when I went to buy my wine ingredients and my Guardian.

Rex, our other dog visitor, is a sister of Jess and she greeted him as she greets all her litter mates, first by growling and snarling viciously, then by having around thirty minutes of fairly good-natured tussling and tumbling. Rex is a nice dog and much bigger than Jess but he has a sweeter temperament. Of course he shit in the kitchen and his mistress was very cross indeed. I tried to explain to Swisser that other people's houses are 'outside' to four month old dogs and she shouldn't berate him. I also told her that I'd far rather put up with the dog's poop as listen to her shrieking at him. I think she took it in good part.

What To Do When The Muse Departs

Over a week now since I committed a word to The Garden and that was merely a link to another person's blog post. That other person being my sister and that blog post being so damn good
that my poor muse was utterly devastated, became a dessicated leaf and blew away in the breeze.

But I eventually caught it, gathered it up, watered it with tears of salt and am currently trying to breathe life back into it. So while the muse fights for its life in intensive care I shall tell you what I've been doing this past week.

I ate a burger. It was sourced from my local butcher who informed me that sales of burgers have risen sharply since the tales of Tesco and Findus and the rest serving up Old Dobbin have become news. What do I think of this? I think it a disgrace and not because I object to eating horse (although I prefer not to) but because they cheat us and because welfare standards are not being met in these dodgy abattoirs. A few years ago, when things were going well and everyone felt rich because their home was worth close to half a million quid, the fields were full of horses. Now, with the price of feed sky-high, there are less of them. They had to go somewhere.

I finished watching Game of Thrones and miss it a lot. I watched the last two episodes back to back six days ago and what with the thrills and the tension, not to mention sitting in the same position (tensed up to the max) for two hours I've got a sore hip that keeps me awake most every night unless I load up on paracetamol, hot water bottles and wine.

I resisted Game of Thrones for ages even though lots of it was filmed around these parts - Ballintoy, Murlough Bay, The Dark Hedges, Shane's Castle and Tollymore. There were also a few people I know playing extras in crowd scenes. It was exciting to see my friend Danny trading vegetables with another extra in the foreground of a scene supposedly set in the Iron Islands.

I also finished listening to my latest audio book, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It was dense and far from light and I had to listen to parts of it several times but what a book! I'll carry it with me for ever. Not literally of course because I'm not sure I even have a copy of it. My favourite character? Karenin, Without a doubt. Although I didn't like him as much in Anna Karenina. And now I have started Madame Bovary. I will, I will be well-read!

And Nellybert acquired a time-share in Donegal. How exciting is that? I told Miss Martha and Miss Evie's folks about it today and we are all very excited.

And Ben Reed is spending mid-term break with us. Quite honestly he is The. Best. Boy. Who. Ever. Lived. I might have to do a blog post on him sometime.

There is also stuff about Pearlie but it is far too dreary and awful and I don't want to talk about it. Yet.

A History

My sister wrote this. It is worth sharing.

Painting Time

Martha said,

Granny. I want to put my smock on and paint.

OK. Let's go upstairs and get the paints.

She spotted some acrylic paint.

I want those.

Those are for big people. You can have the ones you used last time. 

But I'm a big girl now. 

Well. You'll have to wear an apron as well as your smock because you wouldn't want to get paint on the new pinafore your mummy made you.

I squirted out a blob of every colour and I showed her how to mix them to make different colours. Red and white for pink, red and yellow for orange, blue and red for purple. She was very absorbed. But before long she was mixing too many colours together and I explained that she would end up with a sludgy grey or brown colour. But she was enjoying herself and I thought it best to let her learn from experience. While she was mixing her colours I  left the kitchen to get something something from the freezer. Evie and I became rather engrossed out there and I started looking for rhubarb to make another batch of wine. We were less than five minutes. When I went back to the kitchen I found that Miss Martha had created a dark, dark colour and....

...she had painted

herself!

Big girls! You couldn't take your eyes off them for a minute.

Fish Girl

Hannah and I took Judy and Jess the puppy to Waterfoot. It was Jess' first trip to the coast and she liked it a lot. The only thing is, she was not happy to share her beach. She seemed to believe that it belonged only to Nelly and all who belong to her. It will not do that she has a growl that would not shame a fully grown German shepherd. This is behaviour we will have to try to modify.

Another thing Jess liked about her beach was the number of dead fish lying around. there were dozens of them and she was happy to eat them as they were. We had to prevent her as we didn't know where they had come from. Later on an old chap told us that there had been a fishing event the previous day and the small ones were thrown back. Jess growled at this poor old fellow in a very nasty and threatening manner. She did not like the cut of his jib.

It must be strange for a small dog to be taken to the seaside and find that someone has arranged an 'all you can eat' buffet, and then not be allowed to partake of it.

It's a tough life being a dog.

In The News

Is it nearly a week since I last looked at Nelly's Garden? Sure doesn't time fly when you're enjoying yourself?

I had the Leitrim Sister up for a few days and the country wine had a very mixed reception. She caught me racking the orange and tasted it then pronounced it rank poison. The raspberry, while tasty enough, was "too strong". I suppose that is a fault of sorts.  Maybe it is too strong for I had one of those hangover thingies the next day and I didn't like it.

The weekend rushed past in a flurry of visiting and being visited. I can say without any fear of contradiction (for if you contradict me, you are just plain wrong) that a lady from Tannaghmore, formerly from Armoy, makes the best soda bread in County Antrim and probably the world.

And Liam Neeson received the Freedom of the Borough in Ballymena today. Miss Martha and her mummy appeared in the local TV news as part of the crowd that welcomed Liam to the Town Hall. I'm sure this will not be the last time Martha appears on a news programme.

 Pictures are screen shots from UTV player

Baby Bliss

Yesterday afternoon Martha and Evie came out to have fun in the snow. As the day wore on I got a bit fretful that the snow wasn't as pristine and wonderful as it had been in the morning but then I realised I was being very silly because at ages one and three snow is simply snow - magical white stuff for playing in and with.

Martha was tremendously proud of her first snowman. She ordered a carrot for his nose but the carrot store was empty. A small onion made an acceptable substitute.

Meanwhile over by the sheds where slushy puddles abound...

Snowed In!

Snowed In......

Well. Not quite. However the weather forecast yesterday was dire enough to have Bert fretting.

How will we get to the shops?

We'll walk!

How?

We'll wrap ourselves in huge layers of clothing and we'll strap rudimentary snow shoes to our feet. You'll fashion hiking poles for us and we'll have knapsacks on our backs and we'll schlep down to Cully through the snow.

I suppose we could do that.

And as we trudge along we can wave at all the normal people driving down in their cars.

Sartorial Failings

I hear that onesies are having a moment and thank God that I am past all that sort of thing. Mind you, dressing like a toddler is no new thing here in Northern Ireland. Many of our young and would-be young have been wearing hooded romper-suits for years now. This year they are often accessorised with a scarf covering the lower half of the face and a Union Jack casually draped over the outfit. Hoods are worn raised.

Bert can sometimes be spotted following the fashion. No hoodies or flags for him but he has been wearing onesies for absolute aeons. He calls them boiling (boiler) suits and he gets them from the pack man or at Killyless Stores. He just doesn't feel dressed without a boiling suit and around home he'll wear one whether at work, rest or play.

Yesterday he went to the cloakroom and pulled a boiler suit from the hook then proceeded to step into it. He had shrugged his shoulders into it and was about to start fastening the poppers when he gave a gasp of surprise. I turned from the washing up to see what was up and there he was, trying to fasten another boiler suit over the top of the boiler suit he was already wearing. See! They're like a second skin to him. He said that he couldn't understand why it was so hard to do up and thought he'd put on weight.

There was another wardrobe malfunction this morning. He is up early these mornings as he is doing civic duty. I noticed that he had on a very nice pair of trousers that I'd not seen him wear before. They fitted him beautifully. They were trousers that I'd bought him at the Marks & Spencer outlet store in Antrim and they'd hung in his wardrobe for more than a year. I complimented him on his appearance. We ate our porridge and he rose to make coffee. I couldn't help admiring how the well cut trews showed off his neat and shapely backside. Then I saw it.

Bert feel your arse!

He groped around it until he came to the big Blue Mountain cardboard label.

It's just as well I noticed that before you got there! 

I was wearing these trousers when I was there last week.

Note to self. Check husband before he leaves house unless he is having a onesie day.

Happy Birthday Get Well Soon

Happy birthday to sister Ganching. I didn't know whether to send her a birthday card or a get well card. What a rotten way to spend a birthday - in bed with 'flu.

Another Blog. Why Not?

I'm considering starting another blog on the topic of making country wines. After all, I've been doing it  for sixteen months now so I must be an expert, mustn't I?

Achievements

I have been feeling rather flat this past week. First of all there was the post-Christmas slump, then there was a nuisance of a head cold and then there was the dank and gloomy weather. Even the antics of the pup were not sufficient to pull me from the doldrums.

At this particular time Bert has to be out of the house during office hours. He is on business that must be done and I am left alone with dogs, cats, pigs and Pearlie. I told myself I had to to pull myself together. So this morning, the first morning of Bert's absence I decided to list my achievements as the day progressed. I made this decision in bed so my first achievement was -

1. Get out of bed.

This was swiftly followed by -

2. Attend to Pearlie's morning needs.
3. Attend to the morning needs of hens, pigs and dogs. Cats do not have morning needs.
4. Get out of bed. (Because I returned there after meeting the morning needs of livestock and old ladies.)

By then I had four achievements and it wasn't even ten o'clock! I can tell you that this cheered me up so much that I didn't even bother counting any further achievements.

Onwards and upwards!

Happy New Year Now I Am Old

Read somewhere today that old age officially begins when one is 59 years old, two months and two weeks. That was, for me, the 23rd November, 2012.

I think I can live with it. After all, what's the alternative?

Happy New Year to everyone, young and old.

My Boxing Day Party

So - after a fortnight's shopping, cooking and freezing I was pushed out of the kitchen at the last minute and Bert took over. I already had the oven loaded with the children's food, pigs in blankets and shepherd's pie. By the time I realised what was going on Bert had all my gorgeous food back in the freezer and the adults also ate pigs in blankets. I think one of them might have got a portion of the shepherd's pie. They also ate some kind of a lacklustre salad, something entirely vile called 'chicken balls' and some insipid naan bread courtesy of Mr Asda. No one got to taste my vegetable curry, Bulgarian chicken or my spicy Caribbean beef. My parboiled potatoes were not roasted. My home made garlic bread was barely tasted. They didn't heat up my delicious red cabbage and no one fancied it cold.

What was I doing while Bert was barking orders in the kitchen? I was conducting wine tastings with some carefully selected and appreciative people, the kind of people that do not eat Asda chicken balls. I served the damson first, They were in ecstasies. Then it was the blackberry and raspberry. It was pronounced even better. By the time we were on the raspberry they were in country wine heaven. Swisser even offered to give me high sums for the rest of it. I told her it was beyond price.

Best bit? Miss Martha singing 'You Are My Sunshine' accompanied by Marty on the banjo.

Evie's best bit? Chicken balls.


Worst bit? When Jazzer got her mitts on Bert's clarinet and created a racket that sounded like a large drake in a bog being run over by a John Deere tractor.

Christmas is Coming

fourpups, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

These four will be under my feet this Christmas. They will be almost ten weeks old. Big enough to try a bit of turkey.

All I seem to have done this past week is cook and prepare food. And there is still more to do. I have been so busy I actually haven't had time to eat. I certainly haven't had time to blog.

Oops! Must race. The oven timer is bleeping again.

Pot, Kettle And All That Sort Of Thing

Today Bert called me a hoarder. He said,

You know, you're a hoarder.

I said,

I know. And so are you. State of those sheds.

He did not reply.

The reason for this? He was clearing out his a cupboard in his room and was about to bin several boxes of his mother's memorabilia, old letters, postcards and the like.

I said,

She might enjoy looking at those.

Ah. Sure I gave her a packet of them. That'll do her.

Later on I went into her and she was poring over old letters and cards. I said,

There were more of those. Bert put them in the bin.

She said,

Ach! They bring me back memories.

I borrowed her tool for lifting items off the floor and retrieved as much as I could from the bin. Luckily they were newly emptied so there was little else in the bin. She passed the afternoon with them.

Bert's sheds are packed with stuff. I expect most of it will come in useful some day. There are a lot of potential projects out there. The thing is, he'd need to live to 150 years old to complete those projects - if he could be arsed.

He keeps stuff, I keep stuff, his mother keeps stuff. I had a debate with her this morning about whether she should keep an empty plastic soft drink container. She desired to decant her Lucozade into it even though Lucozade already comes in a plastic bottle. She is saving the tops of plastic bottles because she believes that somewhere there is someone who can turn plastic bottle caps into wheelchairs for needy children. I have told her that this is a crock of nonsense but she does not believe me. Yesterday we had a small argument about keeping bottles of spent medicine.

When Pearlie was up and about she collected and hoarded on a larger scale. She still does it although her lack of mobility prevents her from being really serious about it. These days it is newspaper clippings, bottle tops, over the counter medicines and postage stamps. Sure what is the harm? She's done it all her life, it's part of who she is and it doesn't really impinge on our lives.

I collect books, china, photographs, fabric and kitchen equipment. The books and china do take up a lot of room. Bert collects wood, maps, trees and boiler suits. We're all every bit as bad as each other. But he has sheds. And fields.

Meadow Street

Back in the 1970s Northern Irish bars stopped serving drink at 11pm and you were out the door at 11:30pm. If the publican or bar staff did not comply with this rule they could expect a visit from those big lads in green, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. But when you're in your teens or twenties and you're having a good time you don't want to go home before midnight. That is why if Kevin was around we'd often end up back in Meadow Street. Kevin, God love him, did not have the usual family thing going on, his Mum was dead and he lived with his Dad. Ned was a real character who usually spent his weekend evenings drinking in O'Rawes, a pub which, for some reason, didn't seem to have an obligation to close at the usual time. Ned would roll in some time after midnight in the best of form and, if he was in the mood for it, call in to see who was around and have a bit of craic with the company. Though not with me, for I was heart-feared of him.

The Wee Manny and a friend

Kevin had a wee terrier dog called Trouble. Trouble was also a character and danced only to his own tune. He had a back leg missing due to a brush with a moving vehicle but it never kept him back. The leg he lost was the one that he used to balance on when he needed to piss. You'd have thought he would have swapped balancing legs but not Trouble. Instead he somehow managed to balance on his two fore legs while he lifted this one remaining back leg to make his water. It was a sight to behold. Trouble was not one of those dogs who bothered himself with people and while he was prepared to tolerate the weekend invasions of young post-pub visitors he would not take kindly to being petted or stroked. Indeed he would have taken the hand off anyone who would have tried it.

Ned could be sharp too. Sometimes after he'd gone to bed he'd rise again and come down to us and order everyone out of the house. The thing to do was to look down, stay quiet and allow him to grumble himself back to bed. Nobody ever left. Oh - many the good night we had there and even the odd bad one too.

Christmas Night 1976 and I'd just been dumped

I remember one Christmas time when the bars had been packed and afterwards Meadow Street. Someone, I forget who, had a bit of hash and he rolled a joint. I was anxious to give hash a go for I'd never tried it before. The joint made its way around the room, everyone taking just a few drags. At last it reached the girl next to me. I was so excited. But she smoked and smoked and eventually finished it and stubbed it out. Then she remarked, “I don't know what people see in that oul stuff for it never does a thing for me!” I had to wait a while longer for my first smoke of a joint.

A few weeks ago I passed by Meadow Street and I thought of the scores of evenings we trekked there after the pub, not wanting the evening to end. And I thought of a tale that a musician friend had told me. Way back in the 1960s Cream were playing in Ireland. A local music promoter was driving them around and invited the band to stay in his home. The story is that Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce took up his kind and hospitable offer. But what of Eric Clapton? Apparently he was so wasted that he spent the night sleeping in a van in Meadow Street. I'm sure he wasn't the last.

Hardy Fruity Toot!

Happy Birthday Katkin.

That was the day you strolled down the Murphystown Road to hang with Auntie Sheena. You might have mentioned to us that you were going to call on the neighbours.

Pongerooni

Tonight I have rather pungent hands. First of all I moved a chilli plant from this room to the kitchen. It is on its way to Pearlie's room a.k.a the warmest room in the house. Under the bright and unforgiving kitchen lights I noticed that the plant was hooching with greenfly. So that's why it isn't doing very well. On Bert's advice I attacked it with the garlic infusion that Zoe made for the pups. But the spray doesn't work very well and the strong garlic water ran all over my hands. I needed to wash them very hard as my next task was preparing eight pounds of oranges for wine.

After that was done I gave the chilli another drooking with the garlic spray. My hands now smell of orange peel and garlic. Interesting combination. I am now repellent to greenfly, mosquitoes, ants and vampires and shall sleep content tonight.

The Ratty Song

The other evening I sang Martha a made-up song about a rat then promptly forgot all about it. A few days later she said,

Granny, sing the rat song.

I can't even remember the tune and I don't recall any of the words except I fancy that there was a cat that met a horrible end. I vaguely remember thinking it might have been rather a bloodthirsty song for a three-year-old. But I was consoled when I considered that a jaunty tune takes the edge of many a gory tale. So - a jaunty tune, a sliced up cat, a vindicated and heroic rat....

My Living Will

Another funeral today, a friend's mother, in her 93^rd year. I hadn't known her for long and I certainly never knew her in her prime but she was a lovely woman, humourous, generous, always smiling and with a great zest for life.

Afterwards I said to Bert,

That went off very well don't you think?

And he said,

Sure don't funerals always go off well?

I got to thinking about that. Usually they do. But I have come across a few exceptions in my time.

Years ago when I was new to the funeral game I attended a service for one of the grand old dames of our parish. The chapel was packed. Suddenly there was a tremendous clatter and crash at the back and the priest suspended the ritual and rushed down the aisle. Turned out the old lady's nephew had suffered a fatal heart attack and, as everyone present agreed, no better place for it and handy to Father for the last rites.

There was a similar story about the doors when a fellow came back from the building in London to attend the funeral of his older half-brother. He took a turn at the wake and never recovered and to save time and money the family doubled up the funeral and buried them together.

The saddest funeral I ever was at was that of a boy of 17, the son of a work colleague. He was killed in a car crash where the boy at the wheel was consequently charged and convicted of dangerous driving. His family were great people but they were not particularly religious. In this country there are a lot of people who believe that a funeral cannot take place without the assistance of a member of the clergy. Someone, somewhere had gathered up an evangelical pastor to speak at the graveside. This man stood there and preached the 'born again' sermon. There was a great deal about 'sinning' and 'eternal damnation'. There was mention made that the unfortunate boy had not been 'saved' so we could all reach our own conclusions on that. There was not one word of comfort for the family. The poor child's mother was in a fainting condition and his older brother looked like he might choke the pastor. I'm sinner enough to wish he had.

I've never forgotten that. It must be a comfort, for those that believe, to hear priests and ministers talk of eternal life. But not everyone buys into established religion. My parents are both dead now and I do not (although I reserve the right to change my mind) feel that it would be appropriate for me to have a religious funeral. The parents would, if they'd outlived me, been devastated to have me buried outside the faith. But now there is no one who'd really care. Say a prayer for me if you wish but keep priests and ministers away from my graveside.

Walking

little white horse, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Seven years ago I started the good habit of taking regular walks. That continued right up until Matty got ill. I expected to get back into the way of it after she died but it did not happen. It is only now that I am trying again for walking calms and energises me.

Before Matty died I was working regularly and took a half-hour walk every lunch-time. My base was in Kells and there is not a road within a five mile radius of the village that I have not walked. I always took my camera just in case I saw something interesting.

Of course, in the two years I've been out of the way of walking, I've stacked on the weight. I wouldn't care to admit how heavy I'd got but for some reason. I don't know why, I recently lost about 12 pounds. At first I thought I was dying of something but then, when I had a good think about it. I realised I just wasn't comfort-eating as much. So I decided to get back into walking.

Two minutes more every day and I just walk out the door and go - no more getting into the car for it is still broken. I've not got back to taking the camera for I've enough to do with my pedometer, the mobile for timing and the audio book on the iPod. Around the doors just doesn't seem that interesting. But perhaps I'm being pessimistic for that delightful scene above is around the doors for those who live on the Maine Road near Woodgreen

My Cultural Life

Reading with my eyes - My Life by Bill Clinton. My this is a big, big book. I picked it up in an excellent charity shop in Bellaghy last Saturday. I only bought it because it was well indexed. Also got an Andy McNab for Ben, 13 and a picture book for Martha, 3 and all for £2.

Also reading with my eyes - a lot of historical nonsense by Philippa Gregory.

Reading with my ears - The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. Contains huge spoilers for Anna Karenina. Luckily I've read that.

Watching - film of Birdsong. Is very pretty to look at but absolute dung. The Stephen Wraysford character is played by Eddie Redmayne, who also did a stint as Angel Clare in Gemma Arterton's version of Tess. He was annoying in that and he is annoying in Birdsong although he is tremendously good at looking like a mooncalf, I will give him that. Birdsong is so shite I can only watch it about ten minutes at a time. If I wasn't a Catholic I wouldn't be watching it at all but you know how keen we are on suffering and penance.

Also watching - Homeland. What is it about Eton and the current crop of British actors? Redmayne went there too. Homeland is very exciting but I feel as if I'm being played with. It's no The Wire (more Eton old boys) or Breaking Bad.

To be watched - Treme and Boardwalk Empire. I'm reluctant to begin for these things do rather take over one's life.

Of Pups and Patience

I had all the available family round for a kitchen supper tonight and afterwards Bonnie and I went to bed for a little rest. Three hours later and I'm still there and me with the latest episode of Homeland to watch!

It's been a hectic weekend but an enjoyable one too.

Ben was staying for the weekend. On Saturday morning we went to visit the pups. I tried to take a picture of each one individually but it was tough. I think I may have photographed some more than once and some not at all. They are wriggly and run everywhere. They live in an old shed and it did not make for the most suitable of locations for a photo shoot. Too much stuff in it. The dam is a spaniel and the sire a border collie and I think the collie look will dominate -  although that is no bad thing. I'm looking forward to having our lot back here. I'd been thinking back to other puppy times and remembering how messy they can be. Then I remembered something far worse. They chew things. Judy loved eating my shoes and must have destroyed at least a dozen pairs. We will have to be very vigilant this time as I have hardly a shoe to my foot.

We had Jazzer and Aunt Lizzie on Saturday afternoon and Ben and I baked cakes and biscuits. Jazzer did the ordinary cooking and Bert fed the old girls their wee morsels. It was a fine bright evening on Saturday. The crescent moon hung low in the sky and soon disappeared. The stars were wonderfully bright. Ben and I got sleeping bags and lay on the trampoline watching shooting stars. There were plenty to be seen. Jazzer joined us for a while but, not having a sleeping bag, she did not stay long. Bert, being 'coul rife' did not even chance it.

Despite these joyous, happy things I was a grumpy sod on Sunday. Maybe not enough sleep, maybe a glass of wine (or two) that I shouldn't have finished. Who knows? The weather was damp and horrid and I ate too much. Then I caught Ben tipping some custard into the bin.

Where are you putting that?
The bin.
The bin! (In tones as incredulous as Lady Bracknell's)

There followed a lecture about waste and recycling. Sometimes I don't know how that boy puts up with me. He's a lot like Bert. Patient.

After our visitors left Bert watched Homeland (I'd already watched it) and I polished up a part of the family tree to send to my cousin. I have all this information and have yet to make complete sense of it. I hadn't realised that my great-grandmother gave birth to fourteen children in 23 years of which two died under the age of three and one in infancy. It was nearly half past one before I got to bed.

And that was when Pearlie started to say her prayers. Out loud. I said one too. God give me patience.

We Like Lots Of Wine

I have just bottled the birch sap wine. There was a glassful over after I filled six bottles and I have sipped it while watching a programme about Canadian wolves. I think I am drunk and wonder if this is a good thing?

Since I started making wine in August 2011 I have bottled  the following. Those in italics are ones that have already been polished off.

Blackcurrant (one bottle left to age)

Carrot

Peach

Rhubarb 2

Blackberry & Raspberry

Rhubarb 1

Raspberry

Beetroot

Bramley

Damson

Parsnip 1

Parsnip 2

Orange

Birch Sap

The blackcurrant was far too dry and acidic. I won't be using that recipe again. 

The carrot is a beautiful colour but a bit on the sweet side. I'll make it again but try for a dry finish.

The peach was wonderful. We drank it over the July holidays because it popped the corks. It's OK to drink peach young. William (my mentor) declared it to be the nicest wine he'd ever tasted.

We tackled a bottle of rhubarb at the weekend and it was very pleasant. I've made three batches of rhubarb and they are always different colours. William said he has the same experience. This one was pale pink. 

The bramley is gone. I used a recipe that called for crab apples. At one point I topped it up with cider and that's what it tasted like. Strong Somerset cider. Apparently apple wines should be drunk quickly. No problem.

I've only had sips of the rest. I'm really looking forward to the Blackberry and Raspberry. That came about because there just weren't enough blackberries last year. Another one that promises to be delicious is the damson. There were damn few damsons this year so, sadly, I'll hardly be making that one again for a while.

The birch sap has a very refreshing taste to it. Miss Martha's Dad tapped the birches and helped me make it so he gets half of it. Quite fitting that I bottled it on his birthday. Happy birthday Dave!

And still in the demijohn are the following

Dandelion

Nettle

Japanese Knotweed

Pear

Strawberry

Blackberry 1

Orange & Apple

Blackberry 2

Rhubarb 3

Peach, Nectarine Etc.

Rosehip

The nettle is far too sweet and I don't know what I'm going to do with it. The orange & apple was made from fruit juice, my first attempt and a very easy recipe. It is supposed to be a quick and simple wine that can be drunk while other, more interesting wines are maturing. We shall see. 

I was reading a book on wine making the other evening and apparently one of the pitfalls is that the wine maker gets too carried away and before you know there are ten or twenty demijohns bubbling away. I mentioned this to Bert and he looked baffled. "Where's the problem in that?" he asked. 

With Friends Like Us

Swisser was here this evening. Like most of our peers and cohorts she is usually full of chat about illness and death. She had recently had her cholesterol checked and apparently it is sky high. Consequently she had cleared out her fridge of forbidden food and the minute she came through the door she was doling out crisps. Bert and I ripped the packets open, searched diligently for the blue packet of salt, ripped, shook and scoffed. That was, of course, before she told us about the cholesterol. We had thought she was just being generous. The next thing she produced from her handbag was a big lump of Stilton. We weren't feeling cheesy so we left that for later. Then she brought out chocolate and we got tore straight into that.

It was only after Swisser left that I remarked to Bert that perhaps we were not as supportive as we might have been. After all, a friend comes round, tells us about some health problems she is having, a diet that she must stick to and here is some food that she loves that she cannot eat ever again or any more. And we go, sucks to be you, snarf, snarf, yum, yum.

But we're not completely horrible. We gave her some pickled onions that were only three and a half years past their sell by date. Sadly she forgot to take them with her.

Beyond Redemption

Like many elderly folk Pearlie does not hear too well. However, in her case, that often depends on what is being said and who is saying it. For instance when Cousin Margaret or Aunt Lizzie are with her, Pearlie cannot understand a word I say. I'll speak to her and she'll look at me quizzically, screw up her face as if I'm speaking Mandarin or Gaelic, then turn to her relative and remark. "What did she say?"

I went into her room at midday today and asked her,

Well. Are you ready for something to eat? 

What? 

Do you want a bite of lunch? 

I cannae hear you. 

What do I usually ask you at this time of day?

She looked at the clock and barked at me,

An egg!

<><><><><>

For a long time now just as I've been settling down to sleep I've been mildly irritated by Pearlie starting to mumble and drone at around the midnight hour. I thought she might have been reading her Bible aloud and even though I found the droning noise annoying I felt I could not take exception to a lady in her eighties communing with her Saviour. I felt it would be denying her human rights.  There was also the matter of not giving her the pleasure of knowing she was getting on my nerves. But there was this one night I wanted to know for sure. Was it the Old Testament or the New? I crept down the stairs and found that she was not reading from the Gospels. She was merely saying her prayers and, like a child will do, she was praying for the people she knew. I listened for a while and my name was never mentioned. She obviously thinks that I am beyond redemption.

Happy First Birthday Miss Evie

Oh! The exuberance of being one. Happy birthday darling Evie.

As Good As It Gets

Martha and Evie's Mama went back to work last week. Martha has been hanging out at Nellybert's for two years now and has pretty much found her feet, or to put it another way, worked out how to rule the roost. But Evie is another matter. She's new. She's finding her feet.

Last week Aunt Tricia (Kerry Sister) was around and we spent the first Evie day in Carnlough where we bought the best toy ever (an interactive  musical telephone) and had a roast beef dinner in the Londonderry Arms. Miss Evie is very partial to roast beef. On the second day we had Hannah and that worked out very well too as both the young Misses are very fond of Auntie Han.

Yesterday there was no Hannah and no Martha so Miss Evie and I borrowed Bert's van and headed off to Drumkeeran to visit two very dear friends of my darling Matty. One of Matty's friends is recovering from a bad fall and is only recently back in her own home. It is always a delight to see her as she loves, without condition, the seed, breed and generation of us all. The only thing is, she always cries when she sees us, thinking of our mother. The next visit was to her sister-in-law next door. We entered to the delicious smell of baking scones. It was just like visiting Matty. There was apple tart and custard as well as scones and Miss Evie enjoyed it immensely. She'll never taste her great-granny's home baking but, thank God, they're still making wonderful scones on the moss road.

Today we had both girls and Auntie Han to help me out. (Words will never describe my gratitude.) We had a relaxed, easy-going day. Martha and I went food shopping, then Evie and I had a walk while Martha and Hannah whipped up some biscuits. There were stories and drawing, dancing and Pingu. Bert did some serious baby-dodging but that meant plenty of outdoor chores got done - roses pruned, pig houses sorted etc. etc.

At lunch I looked around at my grandchildren, my helpful and generous Hannah, my baby-dodging husband and my dogs and I thought to myself, "This is what I always wanted. This is as good as it gets."