A Great Send-Off

Monday: There was a funeral. Bert was conducting some important business and the girls wanted him to play so, to distract them, I produced a little dead mouse (one the cat had prepared earlier) for them to bury. They fell to this project with gusto. a box was needed, their Mum dug the hole and flowers were laid on the grave. As Rod said,

They're giving that mouse a great send-off.

Tuesday: I went to visit my friend, back in the nursing home. She's not too well, getting weaker but as warm and loving as ever. It is always a pleasure to spend time with her, short though that time may be for she is not fit for long visits.

Wednesday: A much needed haircut then I expect I went for a walk and wasted much time on silly things.

Thursday: The girls were here and had a playdate with three other girls. There was a funeral. They wanted to check on the banties so press ganged Bert to check on the eggs. Bert discovered eight new eggs under the clockers, removed them, got soundly pecked for his trouble and then found that there were only six of the original seven marked eggs remaining. We checked the eggs in the house and found a marked egg, cold as sin and, no doubt, containing a wee dead chick. There was a reluctance to check but Bert took the plunge and there was a tiny embryo in there not even as big as a child's finger nail. Funeral!

It was decided that the merest scraping of the ground would suffice for the smear so Martha got the very big shovel and made a very small dent. The chick embryo was carefully placed, covered with slate to prevent dogs from licking it up and, once again, my spring garden was raided for floral tributes. Martha wrote and read an eulogy then, off the top of her head, preached a short sermon at the grave side. I had no idea she was so religious. Seems like only yesterday she informed me that the Baby Jesus was just a made up story.

The Eulogy

At The Grave Side

Thursday Night: Read to the girls two chapters of The Faraway Tree and one story from real life concerning Aunt Josephine And How Her Ankle Got Cured. This story involved pears and hospitals and is one my mother told me. As always Martha quizzed me relentlessly and gave me the opportunity to explain that True Stories From Real Life may not be entirely factual but always contain a kernel of truth. 

Friday: I had taken a daily walk for sixty days straight but yesterday that came to an end. Then I ate far too many sweet things and this morning I recorded my lowest ever weight for 2016. Strange that.  After midday Zoe, Martha, Evie and Granny went to Ikea where I spent much money on pink flannels, dish scrubbers, bedding and picture frames.

Friday Night: Back home where I drank carrot and apple wine and spent even more money on a new camera. You can expect better photographs.

Tomorrow: Going to Fanad and wish I had my new camera. But at least there will be walks.

And what of my Facebook friend with the heart attack? He looks perky and is still keeping all updated. Open heart surgery tomorrow which will set him back a day or two. Fingers crossed he makes a good recovery. Did I mention he is a magician?

Facebook Strangeness

Sometimes I am amazed at the kind of things that people post to Facebook. There was the woman who threw her husband out and then, feeling sorry for herself, had rather too many glasses of wine,  got on to Facebook and produced a misspelled and incoherent rant about how he hadn't paid her for her birthday present and he'd gone leaving her without milk in the fridge. Sad and strange. She took it down the next day but it was too late. I'd seen it. But I was ashamed to have seen it and now I don't look at her posts.

Then there are the people who conduct family feuds on the site. Not surprising that they cannot get on with their family. Disparaging an ex-partner on social media? Not cool. Especially if there are children involved.

Sharing content from other sites that spread bullshit? I've probably done that myself but I wouldn't make a habit of it. It's not difficult to do a little background research before you post and it will keep your more discerning Facebook friends (like me) from thinking you a complete eedjit. And unfriending you.

But tonight I came across a post that stunned me. It's a guy, I don't really know him, from America - friend of a friend. He's lying on his back speaking into his phone. He looks so strange, telling some people that he loves them and that he is having a heart attack! He thinks he might be dying. Facebook is a strange animal. There be me - sipping a coffee, nibbling on a biscuit and there be him, mortally unwell, an ocean away and filming himself on a hospital trolley.

I hope he recovers. I won't unfriend him. For as far as I know he's not a Trump supporter. And I certainly won't be linking this post to my Facebook account.

Oh I forgot to mention, the woman who makes vague accusations that her parents murdered her brother. I stopped looking at her posts too.

Clocking Banties

Despite having attained a great age I have to admit that I know very little about broody hens. Apparently Pearlie was a great expert and by dint of being her son, Bert considers himself an expert too.

The big hens rarely troubled themselves to sit on eggs but these bantams, Honey and Flour are at it all the time. The first few times they tried it Bert advised that they be set under a box, kept in the cold and dark until the broody notion left them. I thought this very cruel but it worked. The reason they weren't left to get on with it was because the weather was still very inclement.

But spring is on the way and when Flour made a nest and started 'borrowing' the other hens' eggs I thought I'd leave her to it. She sat nicely for about five days and I never thought to mark the eggs. Every day there would be at least one more egg added to the clutch. Then one day she raced out to get food and when she returned Honey was sitting on her eggs. There were seven by now and on Bert's advice we marked them. They are both sitting side by side and the number of eggs under them changes daily. Sometimes Flour has the most of them, usually Honey has them all. I lift the unmarked ones every day and get soundly pecked (by Honey) for my trouble.

Hopefully we'll have chicks before Easter and (fingers crossed) that they will survive.

Unlike this one. Bernie was really old for a bantam and we didn't even realise she was clocking until I heard cheeping coming from the boiler shed. The fox got Bernie and the chick didn't survive. It tootled around on its own for a day then disappeared for those were the days when the chickens ran about the yard. That was nine years ago.

These two belonged to one of our Jersey Giants. It was July 2013 and I looked after them so tenderly. Then I went to Vancouver and instructed Bert to mind them carefully. He did not. Jess killed one of them and a buzzard (probably) got the other one.

So I'm cautiously optimistic about these Easter chicks but I'll take the wise woman's advice and won't be counting them until they hatch. Maybe there will be a yellow one. I do hope so.

In Which I Am Irritated.

Off to Belfast today to visit my old friend S, still in hospital. I had a look at that Tiger shop in the city centre which had been intriguingly described as a pound shop for middle-class people. I wasn't that impressed with it. The nicest thing in there I already owned, a Christmas present from Leitrim Sister. All I bought was a picture frame (they are better in Ikea) and a pair of reading specs, four times more expensive than the scally pound shops.

The train journey was not as relaxing as it usually is. On the way to Belfast some dreary bitch was blaring into her phone to someone, probably her mother as she finished the conversation by saying 'love you' in a taking someone for granted kind of tone. What's wrong with me? I don't find eavesdropping quite as entertaining as I used to. Is it because people expect to be overheard these days?

Then on the way home there was a crashing bore telling his companion about the interior decoration, layout and drinks prices of every club he'd ever been to. Not a word about drunken adventures or wenching. Every now and again his friend got a word in edgeways and the boring one was sort of half listening and dying to be doing the talking again. They got out at Antrim and the talkative one was as plain a young man as I'd seen in a long time. I felt a flash of sympathy for him for few girls would look the road he was on. No wonder he was able to take in all the details of the decor.

Thankfully my dear old friend did not bore me. She has Alzheimer's as well as other troubles and can be repetitive but even so she is still as engaging and pleasant as  ever she was. She thought she saw Shane's Castle from the window and I reminded her that it is in ruins. And funnily enough she was able to recollect the names of some of those long dead boys allegedly responsible for burning it down. Of course this was long before her time and mine.

I ate lunch at Cafe Airang where no one annoyed me as they were all speaking Korean. Happy days.

Five Days In March

Thursday

Woke up this morning despairing that I would not have a minute to myself for three whole days. Then I gave myself a good mental shake and rethought the whole thing. Today is looking after the girls day. What could be more wonderful than that? I wished it was 11:30 already so I could pick Evie up so the fun might begin.

Then tomorrow I have to go for a mammogram. How great that I get to have this for absolutely free. Three cheers for the National Health Service. Long may it continue.

And on Saturday London Sister arrives for a super-fast visit. We are going for lunch and maybe a walk. Something to look forward to.

Friday

Went for the mammogram and parked 30 minutes from the hospital. Walked past Evie's nursery school and spotted her, through the winter-bare hedge, playing on the slide. I did not draw attention to myself as peering at children through hedges is frowned upon. The breast-screening people have a new mobile unit. It is enormous and looks like it might have cost a million pounds. They told me that all of Northern Ireland got brand new units this year. I approve of this expenditure. Worth every penny of my taxes. Then I remembered that I don't have to pay tax any more. Worth every penny of Bert's taxes then.

Saturday

London Sister! We went to Harry's Shack on Portstewart Strand and had wonderful fish and chips. We got to sit next to the wood burning stove which was very cosy and much appreciated by LS, who feels the cold. The place was teeming with happy folk scoffing away and the service was excellent. I will be back.

Sunday

Mother's Day. I forgot all about it until the girls arranged a walk and picnic in Portglenone Forest. We met at midday and were greatly entertained by the littlest ones who were playing a complicated cat game which involved fishing (pretend) and climbing trees (actual). Hannah got to be an honorary cat and their names were Ginger, Chocolate and Sweetie.

Monday

Gardening and Cooking For The Family Day. I got a Mother's Day card from Katkin which had the loveliest message in it. Martha very excited as her bantam, Honey is sitting on a clutch of eggs and we are hoping for Easter chicks. I made a sausage cassserole with mash and kale and steamed chocolate pudding for dessert. Chocolate pudding is the current favourite with grandchildren and older relatives. After they finished they asked for the pot so they could scrape the chocolate sauce out. Before I got round to clearing the table (careless me) Ziggy climbed on to it and ate all the sausage out of the remaining casserole. There goes tomorrow's lunch.



I think I may have a day to myself tomorrow, hope I don't get bored.

And As We All Know, He Didn't...

Written eight years ago today. It was posted at just after 8:00 am when Bert was languishing in bed and all unaware that he was engaged to be married and that Nelly meant business.

Eight years later we have separate sitting rooms and separate bedrooms which is probably why we're still going strong.

In Other News...

We are canvassing everyone who comes to see us on their views on the EU Referendum. I am being quite rude to some of them. If nothing else I hope it will make them think.

Bert is reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck. And I am listening to On The Road by Jack Kerouac. We are both listening to Rhiannon Giddens who we saw a few weeks back in Derry when she guested with Transatlantic Sessions. That was the best gig I've been to in a very long time.

On Friday past we went to Banjo Man's fiftieth birthday party. What is he doing being fifty? I can barely fathom it. It was a good evening. I was the designated driver (I designated myself) and sat on my high horse tutting happily at all the drunken fools. Still drank two large G&Ts when I got home but that's all right because no one knows. Except Bert. And The Reader.

Tomorrow I'm going to Belfast to visit my friend in hospital. I won't bring Jack Kerouac as I only like to listen to audio books when I'm walking. For trains I like a proper reading experience. That will be Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I'm nearly half way through it. The war has not begun.

Leap Year Day

Women Propose to Their Men
According to an old Irish legend, or possibly history, St Brigid struck a deal with St Patrick to allow women to propose to men – and not just the other way around – every four years.
This is believed to have been introduced to balance the traditional roles of men and women in a similar way to how leap day balances the calendar.

Leap Year Day, 2008 fell on a Friday and because it was the weekend Nellybert had quaffed a bottle of wine, or maybe even two. We got ourselves to bed shortly before midnight and that is where I asked Bert to be my husband. He assented.

The next day I announced to the world that we were engaged. Bert had forgotten about my late night proposal and was surprised but not displeased. Our first Leap Year together was 1988 so it had only taken six Leap Year Days for me to get round to it. We married the following August, a very short engagement.

Regrets? A couple. I wish Bert had worn better socks. And I wish I'd asked my mum to be there.

Housewifery #1

Pearlie had this little book by L.C. Andrews titled Practical Lessons and Lectures on Cookery & Laundry Work. It was published in 1901, a quarter century before she was born so I expect it belonged to her mother or one of her aunts. It is fascinating and a reminder of how easy our lives are now compared to our great-grandmother's time.

I thought there might be some interesting recipes in there but they are mostly very plain. For example Lesson 5 has the following menu,

Sheep's Head and Broth. Brain Sauce. Fried Potatoes. Plain Currant Cake.

I could probably enjoy the Fried Potatoes and Currant Cake but there would need to be HP sauce on the potatoes and custard with the cake.

Looking on the bright side the meal only cost 8d. And the cake was the most expensive dish on the menu at 4d.

Lesson 17 gives some useful tips on what to watch out for at the butcher's shop - how not to get palmed off with elderly meats.

• The legs of old turkeys are rough and blackish.
• The bills and feet of old geese are reddish.
• Old rabbits and hares have wide and tough ears.
• If a lobster is freshly killed the tail will move when the eyes are pressed.

That must have been very useful knowledge back in the olden days.

The recipe for plum pudding isn't that different from the one my mother used. I might give that a go. And interestingly the recipe for shortcrust pastry calls for the addition of baking powder. I wonder why that should be? I'm going to try it and see. My pastry is very good. Will BP, as the book calls it, increase its fabulousness? We will see. Another thing. If there is any heavy duty cleaning to be done keep those skirts short.

Buying Stuff

On Thursday the girls and I went to our favourite charity shop, the one near the playing fields where the business plan is to pile it high and sell it cheap. Before we got there I had a talk with Martha about 'being discerning' and about not wanting the first thing she lies eyes on as she comes through the door. My talk fell on deaf ears as the first thing she laid eyes on was a box of china dolls all for a quid each.

We tried to be discerning. I spent 60 pence on a Kate Grenville book and a polka dot Cath Kidston mug, Martha bought a china doll, some plastic shoes and a tiara. Evie also chose plastic shoes and a parrot toy that she had no need of. Together we spent less than £3. Later that evening at Swisser's I told her about my mug (they're about £6 to buy new) and she shrieks,

I hate Cath Kidston! It's so twee.

I said rather glumly,

I suppose you hated Laura Ashley too when you were young.

I did!

There was a time when I yearned for Laura Ashley. I could just see myself in a lavender sprigged dress, a straw boater and a sweet little cardigan. Of course I would be in a field of buttercups and daisies but sadly Laura Ashley just wasn't for me. It was for willowy girls with moderate bosoms, girls like Diana Spencer, not sturdy country girls like Nelly Moser.

Willowy Laura Ashley type

Me. What was I thinking of, heading into a brambly wood in a voile skirt?

Minor Successes

...which don't include keeping up with my blog.

I have taken a walk for 25 continuous day and take an average of 14000 steps per day. I'm eating a healthier diet, enjoy six alcohol free days per week and have lost 12 lbs since the 11th of January.

And I feel a lot better for it.

Today I sowed lettuce and onions.

I'm sorting out my photographs but am only about 10 per cent through them.

I'm working on my tolerance. When Bert does something annoying (often) I ask myself, would you do that Nelly? Usually the answer is yes.

I'm thinking very hard about getting the new sewing machine out. My sight is better now so there's no reason not to.

Two batches of wine were begun, Strawberry & Raspberry and White Currant. In addition, ten gallons were racked and the Carrot & Raisin bottled. One bottle, Blackcurrant & Apple, was drunk (in company) and Bilrus pronounced it 'a triumph'. He's very kind. Gus tried my wine for the first time and if he didn't like it he didn't say. Bert informed him,

If you criticise her wine she never offers it again.

That's true enough.

I Learn About the Wheel

From the Granagh Road today

It has been a month now since I caught myself on. Truly tired of being a fat wee fecker I decided to eat better, drink less alcohol and walk more and I am happy to report that, so far, it's all going rather well. My daily walk has become a habit, I'm enjoying cooking and eating, I feel better and I have breathed out 11lbs of excess tonnage. And one of the things I'm enjoying most is that virtuous feeling when you don't eat all the leftovers, instead having them for lunch or dinner the next day. I love not being wasteful.

Then I found myself craving music/audio-books for the daily walk but I had nothing to play them on. Although there were two iPods that had been lying in a drawer for several years but they were probably broken. I dug them out, charged them up and tried them out. One was kaput but the classic worked! Unfortunately I'd forgotten how to use it. This is were the internet comes in handy. I found a video that some fellow had made for his elderly mother who must have been a complete eedjit but it was useful. My first walk (yesterday) was all about Massive Attack (the Tricky days) because I couldn't remember how to use shuffle. Eventually I worked it out with a little bit of assistance from that eedjit's son.

On my walk today I thought I had it on shuffle but it was alternating between Sinead O'Connor and Ry Cooder and that didn't seem very shuffly to me. Anyway I stopped for a pee up a laneway on the Granagh Road and stuffed the player in my pocket. When I resumed listening the sound had diappeared and I thought my headphones were broken. So back into the pocket it went and home I marched. Back on the internet I learned all about the wheel. I used to know this stuff. Where did my knowledge go?

Another problem. There was a lot of music on that iPod that I didn't want to listen to anymore. And of course I'd forgotten how to manage the player. I knew it had something to do with Rhythmbox. I don't do iTunes as my OS is Ubuntu. I've spent hours today figuring it out and I just got it sorted. I added John Lee Hooker, Rhiannon Giddens and the Milk Carton Kids. I'll add more tomorrow and maybe some audio books. Maybe Wolf Hall. I have the book but it's far too big and heavy. Far better to have it read to me.  

Take One Haystack

Young women nowadays probably have more photographic images of themselves than at any time before. And often these pictures are very glamorous. The hair will be just so, the make up impeccable, the duck pout and Victoria Beckham hand on hip pose perfected.

It was all so different in their grandmothers' day. Back then when the camera came out girls tidied their hair, took off their aprons, grabbed their best chum and headed for the nearest stack of hay. For everyone had one - the perfect backdrop to to a beautiful snapshot.

Pearlie with her arm round Maggie Mitchell. Photo taken in the 1940s.

Aunt Sadie and friend. Also 1940s.

Dehydrate Bad Hippy

... or in other words, Happy Birthday Dede.

What a day it is too. Your first birthday with a Ph.D. We couldn't be prouder of you.

Red Velvet Jeans

We watched a short video of Martha's third cousin Conor McCavana dancing in some seriously tappy shoes. Quite different to Martha's version of tappy shoes. Hers are little plastic dress up heels we picked up in a charity shop.

She was here yesterday and she brought her princess dress with her. As she said, “Just in case.”

Then there was a little accident and Martha had to change into her skinny jeans. She was not pleased for she hates jeans these days. Later in Lidls she moaned under her breath. “I don't like jeans.” I said to her, “Don't look at them. Put your head in the air and pretend they are red velvet trousers. I'll do it too.” So there we were, striding along, me in the cheapo supermarket jeans I've been living in for months and I don't know about Martha, but I was imagining well-fitting red velvet jeans and swear to God, I immediately felt better about myself.

Written in 2013. Martha never has accidents nowadays.

Fermenting

Strawberry and Raspberry fermenting merrily

I had two lots of yeast to choose from last night. One, from VinClasse, smelled a little sour and is three months from its sell by date. The other one (Youngs) was fresher but there wasn't much of it and I wanted it for white currant wine. It might be a while before I get to Nature's Way in Belfast. So I asked Bert to sniff the VinClasse, second opinion and all that. Of course he was wreathed in pipe smoke and could smell nothing else but his aromatic tobacco which reeks like old woollen socks sprinkled with essence of vanilla.

Nevertheless he pronounced the yeast fine and I tossed it into the bucket thinking to myself, if it hasn't started fermenting by tomorrow I'll re-yeast. No need to worry for it was off and running by bedtime. I've used yeast with added nutrient for a long time now and it is always quick to get started.

I really wish we had a decent wine supplies shop close by. There is a place near Ahoghill but it's more about beer and every time I go there there is always something needed that they haven't got. Which is annoying.

Went And Gone And Done It Again

Went and let the home made wines get out of control again. I have 23 batches on the go, 24 if I count the raspberry and strawberry one I started today. And there is still enough frozen fruit in my freezers to make at least another six batches.

Today I racked off four batches that have been sitting around since October last year. Two were blackcurrant. It has a good flavour but is a little on the sweet side which is a pity as I made it in bulk, five gallons altogether. I'm sure somebody will like it. Swisser definitely as she is fond of dessert wines and Jazzer, she will probably go for it too. I also racked two that I've never tried before. The first was gooseberry. Maybe a little sharp but not so your eyes would water. I like it. It's the first time I got to the goosegogs before the blackbird. We definitely need more gooseberry bushes. The other was beetroot and blackcurrant and it is rather good. The earthiness of the beetroot balances the acidity of the currants. Bert thought it tasted of cherries.

Strawberry and Raspberry Stage I, before yeasting

Then I started a new one, the strawberry and raspberry. Easy recipe.

Slightly over 3lbs of fruit, a gallon of boiling water (cooled) and a bag of sugar then a wee bit more. I used a yeast and nutrient mixture which was still in date, but slightly old. It might not work out so fingers crossed. Before adding sugar I squished the fruit up using my incredibly clean hands and tried not to think about how the strawberries looked and felt like slugs. And I dissolved the sugar in hot water before I added it to the fruit mixture.

And this is how I keep track of my wine making activities. The coloured entries are finished wines.

Click to embiggen. But you knew that.

Living in a Backwater

There are times when this bloody place makes me sick. Of course I'm talking about the Six Counties, Northern Ireland, the Backwater Province, the Land that Time Forgot.

In November the Northern Ireland Human Rights Commission went to court to argue that Northern Ireland's abortion legislation was in breach of human rights law.* The judge, Mr Justice Horner, ruled that there should be exemptions in the law for women who were victims of sexual crime and for cases of fatal foetal abnormality. Northern Ireland's Attorney General, John Larkin said he was 'deeply disappointed' with the decision. Today the Christian Brothers educated QC, has appealed against that decision.

For we live in a place where the Christian religion rules the roost. Some of our elected MLAs are fundamental creationists who believe the earth is a mere 4000 years old. The pro-life movement is strong here. It's about the only movement that brings Catholics and Protestants together. Although their protests can be quite amusing as the two religions sing different hymns both the same time. Those old nuns and their Dana-esque companions will be belting out Faith Of Our Fathers while the Born Agains give Nearer By God To Thee some welly. Is there even such a creature as the pro-lifer without faith? I don't suppose there is.

I've never been able to grasp why people should be so concerned about the unborn whilst doing absolutely nothing to help unfortunate children already in existence.

So we'll see how this goes. I pope that Mr Larkin gets a good slapping down but this is Northern Ireland. We're not quite ready for the twentieth century, never mind the twenty-first.

*The 1967 Abortion Act does not apply to Northern Ireland

Two More In The Box

Three more boxes of books hit the recycling bins this afternoon but not before Bert pulled one out. It was a book on submariners in the Second World War. I thought he'd read it. I finished Lucky by Alice Sebold this morning. It began with a harsh description of a brutal rape which was hard to bear but as I persevered with Alice's story I found it gripping and uplifting and a well written book that I'm glad to have read.

My second choice was a slim book called Leaving Riverton by Jodie Something. It doesn't matter that I cannot remember the author's name as her writing was stiff and dreary and I won't be wasting any time on it. Straight into the box for disposal.

In other news the Catching Myself On project is going well. I have lost 5 pounds and am feeling a whole lot better.

Too Many Books

Staying for now

Thursday There are too many books in this house and too many bookshelves as well. I have three bookshelves in the spare room, one in the bedroom, two in the hall, one in the attic and a wall of shelves in my private, secret sitting room. There is a pile of books on Bert's bedside table and another pile on mine. Far, far too many books.

So I have decided to cull them. I've been off loading as I read for about a year now but am finding it far more difficult to deal with the books that have been sitting around for decades without ever having been read.

I'll need to live until I'm at least eighty to read all these books if I go through them at the rate of one per week. It also needs to be taken into account that I'll want to read books I haven't bought yet. Heck, I'll want to read books that haven't even been written yet! This is the plan. Lift a few from the shelves, glance at them, then choose one and read twenty pages. If it turns out to be tedious get rid of it at once but if it intrigues, finish it, then get rid.

I chose Lucky by Alice Sebold and shall let you know how I get on with it.

Meanwhile here is a rough guide to what went into the recycling boxes.

There were about thirty that I'd two or more copies of. Mostly classics.
All plays except for the complete works of the Bard.
Stacks of crime fiction as they are mostly all the same.
Anything by Alexander McCall Smith.
Lots of old history books.
Everything about Dora the Explorer and Spot the Dog.
Herman Melville for if I ever feel the need I'll get it on audiobook.
Surplus books on birds and the like. How many bird books does a person need? I've still got too many.
A novel by Jill Tweedie that I've never read which for some reason depresses me every time I look at it.
Chick lit with embarrassing covers.
All books about dieting. There were only about three.
Ancient book on palmistry printed to cheap paper.
Pearlie's tattered school books.
Shabby copy of The Origin of the Species. I will never read that from cover to cover. Ditto famous tomes by J.S. Mill and Adam Smith.
All sociology classics, Captive Wife, Street Corner Society etc.
All seriously out of date ECDL and computer manuals.
Christian books except Bible and few improving Sunday School prizes that belonged to Pearlie and need further investigation. Such books fascinate me.
Nancy Drew series. If Martha and Evie ever want to read those they can get them at the library.

Friday. I have completely cleared two bookshelves and have only the ancient books, cookery books and Irish Interest books to go through. There are seven good sized boxes of surplus literature to be re-homed. Bert wouldn't let me throw out any of the D.G. Hessayan books, not even the one on lawns. He also refused to part with any books on pruning.

I'm about a quarter through Lucky and it is so harrowing that I had great difficulty getting to sleep last night.

Moving on

Catching Myself On

It is here at last. The 11^th of January, a day I have been anticipating since well before Christmas. The reason I was looking forward to today was that it was the date I had set for catching myself on. The first of January would have been far too soon. A body hasn't even finished the Christmas food, never mind the alcohol and here at Nellybert's we were also receiving unsolicited donations of other people's Christmas food and drink. Tired of eating pannatone? Take it to Cully. A surfeit of Mr Kipling's mince pies? Nelly will soon redd those up. You don't actually like Bailey's Irish Cream? Gorby-guts does. She puts it in her coffee instead of milk and reels about until bedtime.

I began by weighing myself (a rarity) then I reported the result to Bert who said,

You're not! I have a heifer calf out there doesn't even weigh that much.

I had a look at those calves this morning and thought to myself I couldn't possibly be as heavy as them. At a pinch, if he really had to, I reckon Bert could lift me bodily. There is no doubt he'd do himself a mischief if he did but there is no way on earth he could pick up any of those calves.

How did the day go? It went well. I ate moderate amounts of healthy food and felt the better for it. There was just one thing. I had the strangest feeling, a feeling I haven't experienced for a very long time, a kind of flutteriness in the belly area. I believe it might be called 'peckish'.

So I distracted myself by researching typical weights of summer born Hereford heifers. That Bert! I'm only slightly above a third of what those calves (probably) weigh.

Listen With Granny

Martha and Evie like to listen to music when they are travelling with us in the van and as the only CDs that Bert had in there were by Joe Moore, Rod McAuley and Erroll Walsh (all local musicians that we know), the music they were listening to was exclusively folk and country.  Good as these fellows are I thought it was time to broaden the children's horizons. The first new piece of music I introduced them to was the Best of The Small Faces. The first track was Lazy Sunday. Play it again, said Martha. So we played it again about five times on Thursday the 2nd of January. On the 9th of January her first words on getting into the van were, "Put on 'Lazy Sunday'" We listened to it three times. She knows almost all the words now. The first Thursday...

Who is singing?

Steve Marriott. It's from a long time ago. He's dead now. 

How did he die? 

He died in a house fire.

Then she was too busy learning the song.

The second Thursday...

He died in a fire. How did it happen? 

He did a silly thing. He had too much to drink. Some people think he might have been smoking in bed. Some people think he might have fallen asleep and a candle got knocked over. He died from the smoke of the fire. He wouldn't have known anything about it.

(I never like to miss an opportunity to point out the risks of an unattended candle.)

Where is he buried? 

I don't know. He might have been cremated.

What's cremated? 

It's when dead people are burned in a fire instead of being buried in the ground. I'll check it out for you.

I did check it out. Steve Marriott died in 1991 at the age of 44. And he was cremated. He was a talented musician and a great singer and from the tender age of fourteen/fifteen I was a fan. The Wee Manny tells me that the Small Faces played the Flamingo Ballroom in 1968. Apparently on the exact same date that Ogdens' Nut Gone Flake was released. The Wee said that one of the local hard men attacked Marriott on stage and that Marriott came off the stage and battered him.* I don't know if that is true for the Wee Manny is well-known for his far-fetched tales. I certainly won't be bringing that one up with Martha.

According to The Mojo Collection (pub. 2000) the band regretted releasing Lazy Sunday as a single as they felt it pigeon-holed them as a novelty knees-up band. Forty-eight years later I think it's still a fun track, one to share with the grandchildren. It's not my favourite Small Faces track though. That would be Tin Soldier. Released in 1967 when I was fourteen years old. I was transfixed and I have never stopped loving it. Nearly fifty years. Where does time go to?

*Back in 1978 at a Stranglers gig I did see with my own eyes Jean-Jacques Burnel come off the stage to batter someone.

A Wee Run To Omagh

Apart from a few visits to the Ulster American Folk Park I don't know Omagh all that well. It's the sort of town I usually pass by. But Bert's clarinet needed a to see the doctor and the last person he took it to charged him an awful lot of money. So he phoned around and someone recommended Reynold's Music in Omagh town. Jonathan, the owner offered to post Bert the articles he needed or, if he cared to come to the shop he'd sort it there and then. It was another rainy day in Cully so we decided to make the trip.

It was my very first visit to Omagh town centre and I found it charming - even on a damp, dank January day. Jonathan's shop was easily found and Jonathan himself was very welcoming and helpful. He recommended somewhere for us to lunch - next door! And while we relaxed in The Kitchen he got on with the repairs to the clarinet.

Looking forward to our next visit to Omagh and hopefully next time we'll leave earlier and have a look around the town. And the bill for Reynold's Music services. I wouldn't like to say exactly but it was considerably less than that other guy in Ballyrobbery.

 Turns out there's a lot more to Omagh than that annual bluegrass festival. And here's a thing - Bert maintains that the A505 between Cookstown and Omagh is, at 26 and a bit miles, the longest road between towns in the whole of Ireland. I wonder if that is true. The internet isn't telling.

Rainy Day Woes

Today I did not go for a walk but I did go to visit and old and very dear friend who is recovering from serious illness in a nursing home. That did me far more good than a walk. Anyway, it was teeming down with rain and I have a big worry on my mind. This is the kind of worry that actually belongs to someone else. The weight of it is on Nellybert now but it is going somewhere else. I really wish it did not exist.

In other news, I need a new camera. Readers may have noticed the absence of photographs. I do have the means of taking pictures but not rainy pictures. I'm so glad we live on a hill and that Bert has wood working skills, the tools and the wood. We will have time to build that ark. Such a shame so many of our animals are sterilised.

Sunday, Muddy Sunday

Another drear and soppy day. It is a squelchy walk to the hen run these mornings but at least Flour the bantam isn't clocking any more. Imagine! Going broody in December/January. It's far too cold to bring out chicks and it's not good for chickens to spend three weeks sitting on a nest in the bleak midwinter. She was persistent. We'd keep lifting the eggs from under her and the next day there would be another two or three under her. She must have brought them to the nest herself. Our friend Peter said they gather the eggs up under their wings and transport them to the nest. He also said she needed to get a cold arse to put her off the notion so Bert put her under a bucket and set her in a shed. the next morning I looked out the window and there was a hard frost. Good part, ground not squelchy; bad part, Flour's arse might be a bit too cold so I raced out to the shed and set her free. She joined the others and is now (thankfully) completely off the notion of clocking.

And I've been walking every day since the year began. Today it was so wet I wore my wellies. Not great for tramping the highways but at least my feet were dry. Walking was the good part. The less good part is that I had trifle for breakfast. Roll on the eleventh.

Good Intentions

New Year is often full of good intentions which, as the year progresses, fall by the wayside. I have good intentions. I've let my walking slip and I eat and drink too much. I'm actually drinking a glass of wine as I write this and I'm in the middle of making a trifle. The thing about eating and drinking too much is that I'm way too old for that sort of carry-on. It would be very sweet to see Martha, Evie and James reach voting age.

So, Jazzer and I set a date. The 11th of January. That is when we are going to up the exercise and lower the scoffing and imbibing. I've started already with the daily walks and have noticed already that my pace is improving. It can only get better.

In other news I decided to streamline the books. An hour I spent at that today and managed to put three in the recycling box. There are masses of books on my shelves that I have yet to read and as many again that I'd like to re-read. Perhaps that should be another good intention. Read more books. Another reason to live at least another eighteen years. Wish me luck!

New Year's Day

When I was very young I believed that the manner in which one began the New Year would influence the entire year. If that were so I will spend 2016 slightly hungover and in a very idle mood. I'm still tired from the holidays and this is all I can manage today but I will, I will, try harder in 2016.

Happy New Year!

Christmas in Norfolk

Nellybert and Judy have been in deepest, darkest Norfolk for four days now. It was a tremendous palaver organising care for two dogs, two cats, seven chickens, two pigs and a rake of cattle but we appear to have managed it.

The nearest we got to the Queen was listening to her lecture her subjects this afternoon, after lunch but I'm sure she is coping without us.

Baby James had a very enjoyable Christmas, Santa Claus came but now, like lots of others I'm sure, he is tired and worn out after a surfeit of  Turkey and grandparents.

Tomorrow is our last full day here then back to Cully on Sunday.

I Dream of Queenie

It is eight days to my favourite day of the year, the day after Christmas. It is my favourite because it is the longest time until Christmas the next. I got all my shopping done, most parcels delivered, one returned because I omitted to put the house number and it is off again too. I was putting some bits and pieces in a wardrobe today and noticed a box, I pulled it out and there were a number of presents I had bought for various family members that had been forgotten about! Old Timer's syndrome strikes again. Mind you, I bought them in  summer time. Months ago!

We are off to Norfolk on Monday and have a schedule of animal and house sitters arranged. No more the days when we threw some clothes in a bag, a mattress in the back of the van and just took off. I miss those days. Still, it will be good to see Baby James and his people again.

I saw some pictures in the news today of the Queen and Prince Philip alighting a train at King's Lynn station. The very same tatty old station that I came through when I was travelling to Katy's. She'll only be a few miles away. I wonder if I'll bump into her?

Apparently the Queen features in more British and Irish dreams than any other human being. I've dreamed about her a few times myself, no later than last night. I bumped into her on a tour of one of her houses. She and one of her ladies-in-waiting were polishing some banisters. They were both posh old birds but really friendly and chatty and it turned out the Queen knew everyone I knew and was asking about everyone. It was a really pleasant dream.

I told Bert about it and he said, "Of course she'd know all about you. Aren't you her subject?" That rankled a bit. He said he's never once dreamed about the Queen his entire life. Not very loyal of him, is it?

The Life Cycle of Slugs

It has taken me a long time to be able to tell this story for I really hate slugs. They are more loathsome to me than any other creature. My first very close encounter with the horrible slimy things was on the shores of Lough Neagh. I might have been six or seven and my cousin Patrick the same age when I made the mistake of letting him know that I disliked slugs. The ones around the lough shore were very big and black, the kind that seem to skim through coarse grass. Of course he started picking them up and throwing them at me. Of course he did. He was a boy. I'm sure he enjoyed watching me run and hearing my screams of terror. I don't remember if he got in to trouble for it, probably not. I was just relieved that none of his sluggy missiles got caught in my curly hair. Uggh!

But that's not the story - that's just a bit of background. Here's another story. It didn't happen to me but to my sister. It is the Story of the Slug Dance. My third and fourth sisters lived in London when they were very young and not having lots of money they lived in a rather damp ground floor flat. But they were young and enjoying themselves and where they lived didn't matter much to them. One evening they decided to make themselves a treat. I don't remember what it was, maybe custard. Anyway the third sister was standing at the stove, in bare feet, stirring a saucepan when she felt something tickle her foot. She looked down to see a great big slug slithering over her toes. Spoon flung into the air, custard everywhere - she's doing the Slug Dance and fourth sister killing herself laughing at her. I could never have laughed knowing there was a slug in the house. Houses are supposed to be slug free spaces.

Which was why, a while ago, I was very surprised to see two very small slugs climbing the wet room wall. Sometimes one might find its way into the house on a lettuce or cabbage, but two? Crawling side by side up my white panelled walls like two friends out for an evening slither. I disposed of them and thought no more of it. The next day there was another one. Like the other two it was tiny, a slug in it's infancy. I wondered how they were getting in. The next day brought another two until on day seven I said to Bert,

That's seventeen altogether!

And he says,

You're counting them!

As if this was a strange thing!

 I had finally figured it out. I'd brought a house plant in that had summered outside and placed it on the wet room floor. There must have been slug eggs in it which, in the heat of the house, had hatched out so all my little baby slugs thought it was spring and were off looking for food. They were the kind that eats decayed vegetation. Actually good slugs. If one can say that. Of course I had the plant out by the roots, no eggs left but I flung it out anyway. And that was that. Except a couple of days later slugs eighteen and nineteen turned up. I killed them. Then a week went past. We were a slug free zone. I rejoiced. Then slugs twenty and twenty-one appeared. I flushed them down the toilet. That was three weeks ago. It's over. I think.

Tale of the Riverbank

I have been trying to get back into the habit of taking a daily walk and as this place is close to home I've used it quite a bit recently, sometimes with the dogs, sometimes without. It is one of those walks where you are expected to keep dogs on a lead. I don't like those kind of places. Probably about half of the folk who walk dogs there do obey the rule. I'm one of the half who usually doesn't.

It really is a lovely walk, along the riverbank part of the way and there are bluebells in Spring. And  it is truly beautiful in Autumn when the leaves are on the turn. And there are donkeys. But this walk also has its downside. You are in sight and sound of the pig processing plant and sometimes you will hear the pigs screaming when they are being unloaded. That is probably the worst thing. Then the path leads to Galgorm Manor Hotel (very swanky) and the new building that they have erected looks very ugly when seen from the riverbank. The second worst thing (after the screaming pigs) is some of the other people.

For, despite the anguish of the pigs and the horridness of the hotel, the walk is very popular and particularly so with dog walkers. Some of the dog walkers are the type who pick up their dog's shit in little black bags then hang it on the low branches of trees. How can people be so vile? Many of the dog walkers are pleasant people who smile and say hello. Some are not. The last time I went on the walk, a few days ago, I had Judy, no lead on her, bad, bad me. There is one narrow part at the beginning and a thin schoolmasterly, vinegary little man was approaching. He had with him a thin, vinegary, yappy Jack Russell Terrier. As soon as he spotted Judy he gathered up his yap dog, and back tracked. I bored on, ignoring him. As we drew level, he's standing there with his skinny dog in his arms and Judy and I just didn't see him at all. He muttered,

Should be on a lead, Should have it on a lead.

Judy and I pretended not to hear. A bit further down the path we met a lovely young woman with an Rhodesian Ridgeback also off the lead. Judy and the Ridgeback had a bit of fun together. Afterwards I pondered the thin man's words. I suspect he would not even have spoken to me had I been a man for he seemed a timid sort. I'll bring a lead with me next time.

Sleeterday

Today turned out to be a pyjama day. Woke up to the above and rushed outside to take a photograph of it but I had to hurry as it was melting by the moment. It looks nice but it felt horrible. White stuff always improves the look of a tatty winter garden although I could not be bothered to remove the orange thing lying in the middle of it. What is it? It is an orange plastic creel used for gathering spuds from about forty years ago. Why is it lying there? Bert threw it to encourage the dogs into the long wet grass to wash the cow dung from their paws before they came into the house and jumped all over the furniture. Isn't he considerate? I told him, for I'm always nit-picking, that most people throw balls or sticks. I shouldn't be surprised if there are crocuses growing through that thing in the springtime.

Thy Inky Travesties

Rascal

Soulful

Tourist

Model

 Zany

Knowing

Glamorous

 Bride

Tired Mummy

Happy Birthday Katkin, see you soon!

Funky Funk Donkey

I really do hate this time of year. It's dank and gloomy and I have a rotten cold which I caught from Bert and he caught from Evie. Bert's was man-flu but I got the girly version which means I still have to make the dinner.

Thankfully Christmas will soon be over. My heart always lifts after Christmas. My favourite day of the year is Boxing Day because it's 364 whole days to the next one. This year we are going to Norfolk to see baby James and his folks. We are taking the van and, I swear, we could have got flights to New York for the price of it.

Today's achievements? I went out and looked at the polytunnel. I lifted some begonia corms and harvested some kale. Made a chicken pie (frozen pastry) and crispy kale for dinner.

Today's goggle box fix? The last episode of Catastrophe and most recent episode of Fargo. I watch too much TV these days.

Most irritating thing on the news? Donald Trump. As nephew Ryan wrote,

I'm with you Donald, and I also think we should ban the sea until we know more about the rain.

Most heart-warming news item? The donkey that was rescued from the flood.

Happy Donkey Saved From Floodwater Mike is the luckiest donkey in all of Ireland.
Posted by The Huffington Post on Monday, 7 December 2015

Bruno

Ah Bruno. He was Bert's very first dog, one he had from a puppy. He came from a neighbour, a collie crossed with something. Who knows? In the days before neutering, responsibility and quiet roads male dogs were always wandering around impregnating bitches all over the place. And as roughly 33% of the dogs in Ireland were Border or Glenwherry collies most of those dogs were collie crosses.

Pearlie named him. She named all the dogs. Bert didn't care for now he had his very own puppy that followed him everywhere. Bruno even followed him to school, the Diamond Primary School, only a stone's throw from his house. The day that Bruno followed Bert to school was also the day the school photographer was there. Back then, the road wasn't as fast or busy as it is now and folk didn't concern themselves if their dogs strayed on the road.

Nowadays we're always taking photographs. Almost everyone has their own camera phone and most people have a digital camera as well. It's a far cry from the time when film and photo processing were expensive. So now our photographs are mainly digital and practically free. Even our pets have hundreds of pictures taken of them. But, as far as anyone knows there is only one photograph of Bruno. The one the school photographer took.

Bruno was about three years old when he was knocked down and killed on the Dreen Road. He went down the steep bank at the top of the lawn and was hit by the breadman. He was killed in exactly the same place where Charlie was to die more than forty years later. Little wonder we have it fenced off now. The Dreen Road is a dangerous place for a wandering dog.

Bruno lived at a time when photographs were precious. Maybe there was no camera in the few years that he lived. But it is rather wonderful that there is one excellent picture, taken by a professional photographer, to remember him by. Every time Bert comes across it he sighs. He loved that dog and the day the breadman came up the lane to tell them that Bruno was dead was one of the saddest of his life. 

Ungava by R.M. Ballantyne

I do like poking around derelict and abandoned homes. Once, a good while ago, I found some old damp books in a derelict farmhouse and I removed these illustration pages from one by an author I was familiar with. R.M. Ballantyne wrote about a hundred books but the only two I'd read were The Coral Island and The Dog Crusoe and they were old-fashioned even when I was reading them. Today, whilst sorting out my filing cabinet, I found the pages mouldering in a sad and forgotten file called Hobbies & Home. So I scanned them and stuck them on Flickr. I even checked out the book on-line. I might have enjoyed it if I'd come across it in 1965. There was even a girl in it!

Link to my Flickr

https://www.flickr.com/photos/17223773@N00/albums/72157659499609283

The Weekend of Pies

These past weekends have been busy, busy and yet, I barely left the house. My first husband and his beloved were here this past weekend and stayed with Nellybert on Thursday night. The beds cooled on Friday then we had Jazzer and Ben on Saturday. Bert went to a bachelor party (Young Rainey is getting married!) and Jazzer and I drank wine. I'd been at that oul craic on Thursday too and sure it tires a body out. Tonight I drank no wine but racked a rhubarb and a blackcurrant. Had tastes (as one must) and found the rhubarb to be good and the blackcurrant a tad on the sweet side.

On the Thursday I made a cheese and onion pie as Mick doesn't eat meat and it went down well. the pastry was delicious. On Friday we had a lot of visitors and as the last one was gathering up to leave I said to Bert,

Any thoughts about supper?

And he said,

I just put a pie in the oven.

Which was all very well except it was a stinking pie for one he'd bought at the garage earlier in the day.

So what am I going to eat?
Sure you went out for breakfast this morning with Mick and Linda.
Breakfast? That was nine hours ago. And you were invited too.

I was raging. So while he helped himself to a factory made pastry and dog food pie and a slice of bread and butter I made myself a proper dinner of chili sausages, garden peas, onion gravy and mashed potato. Boy did I take trouble over that one spud, mashed it and buttered it to perfection. My plan was to eat it in front of him and take great pleasure in his dinner envy. I was going to serve him a couple of Rennies as those shop bought pies can be indigestible. In the event, I shared my lovely supper with him even though he didn't deserve it. I'm far too soft-hearted

Then next day it was Jazzer. She is always planning ahead when it comes to eating and likes to take control of the cooking as she is very particular about her food. For a start she doesn't like cooked vegetables. She fancied steak pieces and I suggested a pie. She cooked the filling. It was good enough but she has a heavy hand with the Oxo cubes. The pastry, delicious as always, lightened it. Jazzer always serves potatoes with pie. I would never do that as it is double carbs. Not that I care about the calories - it just seems a bit stodgy. I prefer vegetables or salad. And Jazzer's mash is scary. I think she puts about half a pound of butter in it and you  can feel your arteries furring up with every forkful.

So pie and mash will be off the menu for a day or two. Tonight it was home cooked soda bread and butternut squash soup, tomorrow spaghetti bolognese. No wine until the weekend. I'll let you know how I got on with that.

Back To My Fifties

A recycled post from November 2005

Not Social Workers

You may already be aware that Mr Gerry Anderson, the much-loved Radio Ulster presenter, is a former Social Worker. Last week on his show I heard him describe some of his former colleagues as ‘not of this world.’ The best example he cited was of the just graduated Social Worker who asked a Belfast mother if her son ‘accessed his external environment’ only to be met with total and utter bafflement from the mother until Gerry translated this as, ‘Does he go out much?’

In my experience there are two kinds of social worker. These are the goody-goody social worker and the druggy-druggy social worker. Goody-goodies are usually greatly resented by their clients whilst druggy-druggies are often admired and respected. Unfortunately most of the druggy-druggies spend half their time out on the sick suffering from stress because, as Richard Ashcroft so eloquently puts it, ‘The Drugs Don’t Work.’

My colleagues and I may work in the social care field but we are Not Social Workers. We don’t have the professional qualification that brings in that extra several grand per annum but often the Not Social Workers are educated to a high degree. Among the Not Social Workers that I have known and know are holders of degrees in Archaeology, Media Studies, English, Journalism and Philosophy. In those rare quiet moments when we can tear ourselves away from discussions on how best to improve the levels of care and support that we give our clients we can, thanks to our educational qualifications, hold some very intellectual and enlightening conversations.

Why only the other day I was hearing all about La Tene scabbards found in riverbeds in Ireland and then a critique of the later novels of Philip Roth. I found myself at a disadvantage with the Roth discussion, as I had never progressed beyond Portnoy’s Complaint. It was suggested that this was probably for the best, as I’d likely find his later works far too shocking and offensive owing to my advanced years. It is a well-known fact that the older one gets the more tender one’s sensibilities become and the more easily shocked one is.

I myself hold a B.Sc. (Hons). in Social Administration & Policy but this is a very boring subject and no one wants to hear a thing about it. So for non-work related convo topics I have to fall back on things I read about in Heat and tales about the ‘Olden Days’. Funnily enough I’ve never yet encountered any Computing-type degree holders among the Not Social Workers. So while we former Philosophy, Journalism and Media Studies students are cleaning out cupboards, doing shift work and being verbally abused by the dispossessed all the computer wizards are sitting in cosy warm offices, minting money and writing their blogs in work hours. Sigh! 

Paris

Cannot bring myself to change my Facebook picture to the blue, white & red that so easily, and so superficially indicates that I am appalled by the horrible events in Paris that took place on Friday the 13th, November 2015. Because horrible things happen every single day.

Achievements - Day 1

It's true that I seem to be getting lazier as time goes on. Perhaps I've been beating myself up about it too much. So I decided that now and again, to encourage myself, I would list my achievements. Today wasn't exactly hectic but I did drive to Coleraine, picked up my friend's son and drove him to Antrim so he would be in place for his grandfather's funeral tomorrow. It was a lovely drive down. I went by Kilrea and drove alongside the Bann into Coleraine. The autumn colour was glorious and the river placid and swollen with all the heavy rain we've had recently. As always, when I pass that way I think that some day I must park up and go walking in Castleroe wood. I've been thinking I should do that for more than twenty years.

Then when I got home I threw together two gallons of wine made from raspberries, strawberries, blackberries and elderberries. I'm expecting it to be delectable.

And that was that. The sum total of what I achieved today. Except for writing this post and being truly lovely to Bert for the entire day.

In Which We Go To A Hooley

Last night found Nellybert at the Riverside Theatre in Coleraine at a Declan Nerney show. This time last week I was unaware of Mr Nerney's existence. In fact, when Brendan Quinn (who was guesting) offered us free tickets I thought he said Declan and Ernie and imagined some obscure folky duo such as McGlynn and O'Flynn or Cooney and Begley.

It was like being transported forty years back in time and not in an interesting way. Nerney was like a cross between Gene Stewart and Gerry Marsden. I'm sure he'd take that as a compliment. Best part of the night? Overhearing a punter saying that Brendan should have worn a cowboy hat and that he still had a great voice for a man that must be near eighty years of age.

Strawberry, Blackcurrant and Elderberry

All this week, whenever I've thought of updating my blog, I've thought - I updated it a day or so ago, no pressure. Then I looked and it's been a whole week! So, here goes...

It's been a good week. Really enjoying my new eyes. I expect I've been so busy seeing stuff, no time to be writing blogs. I had a check-up on Thursday and apparently all is well, eye healing well and given the go-ahead to drive without spectacles, I am, officially, no longer myopic.

Tonight, looking forward to a quiet night in with the ridiculous Downton Abbey and the outlandish Homeland. Phone goes, Rod and Tracey are calling out. Excitement! Haven't seen Tracey in ages. Time to break out the best of my wines. I chose an Elderberry and a Strawberry and Blackcurrant. The craic was, as they say, mighty and the wines went down a treat. It's nights like this that I'm glad I make delicious alcoholic drinks and that I have good friends to share them with.

Cheers!