Day Trip to Rathlin Island

 Puffins are a big attraction on Rathlin Island. Looking down from the observation platform on Rathlin Island there are tens of thousands of birds on the ground and everyone seems to be looking for puffins easily identifiable by their bright orange feet. They were scattered among huge numbers of guillemots. I think they were guillemots and would be happy to be corrected as I have come late to the identification of seabirds.

These were the best pictures I could get. I used my long lens and cropped the image.

On the way back from the bird sanctuary we asked the driver of the Puffin Bus (yes, really!) to drop us off at the chapel so we could have a look around. I cannot imagine a lovelier setting for a church. Bert is standing close to the biggest clump of lithodora that I've ever seen.

This is the church for which Church Bay is named. The graveyard is full of sailors lost at sea, many of them unidentified or 'Known To God'.

With the help of Collins Complete Irish Wildlife I have identified this wader as a ringed plover. My education continues.

Harbor or common seals basking a short walk from the main drag. The main drag on Rathlin Ireland is barely wide enough for one vehicle. Pedestrians have to stand on verges and step over walls but it works. Bert and I sat basking in the sun and watched a group of twelve seals do likewise. We might have been there an hour or so. What could be sweeter than lying on fescue grass watching seals do very little?

A pair of eider apparently doing little. Maybe a little mollusc collecting.

Bert watching the seals from the kelp house.

This was a more comfortable spot from which to watch seals. As you will see we were a good distance from them. A decent set of binoculars and/or a camera with a bit of a lens is all that is needed to enjoy the view.

We travelled home on The Rathlin Express where we met the Spirit of Rathlin going back to the island.

Today, my peace and joy weren't hard to find. We had the best time. And are already planning our next trip.

Poor Ghost

This week's episode of Game of Thrones was shi...

NO SPOILERS!

At least no dragons died...

STOPPIT!

Even though the dragon was very naughty indeed...

It all went pear-shaped last week when Aegon Targaryen left Winterfell without giving Ghost as much as a goodbye pat on the head.

The Joy of Weeding

This is going to be a shorty as weeding is rather tiring. Not tiresome, tiring.

Now, the title - The Joy of Weeding. Some might consider that an oxymoron. Weeding joyful? Is that not a gardener's most hated task? I disagree. I find weeding extremely satisfying. Not the fiddly itty-bitty kind of weed pulling, the sort I like is when the area is so neglected that the weeds are monsters. Big brutes that have to be worked out with a big strong fork. Then, when the area is cleared there is the planting. Lobelia cardinalis (shop bought) and potentilla 'Monarch's Velvet' and eryngium, the latter two sown and grown from my own collected seed.

A robin kept me company as I worked. Tried for a picture but it wasn't great. The bee on the borage was a better shot.

Saturday

Aunt Lizzie and Bert.

It was a very fine day. Warm and sunshiney. There were a few visitors. I gave plants away and I bought some. I only meant to spend two pounds on a packet of white Cosmos seeds. My earlier sowing produced three pathetic seedlings of which only two have survived. I actually bought even more seeds, a half price pack of lily bulbs and some bedding plants which have already been potted into individual pots and will be grown on for cuttings in a few weeks time.

That is two quids worth of verbena. Very easy to propagate. I also bought petunias and fuchsia. Decades ago I did this every year. Bought bedding plants and propagated them myself. Then got out of the way of it. But I'm trying it again, if only for the sheer pleasure of watching them grow.

Cosmos 'Purity' from a previous year.

Perhaps the best thing about today was the weather, warm, bright and dry. Which was a blessed as my great-niece Miss Ava was making her First Communion. There were some lovely photographs to look at later in the day.

And a sweet message from Hannah, hanging with cats by the Med and missing her dog.

Straightening Up

So, there I was trudging towards my long overdue hairdresser appointment and feeling the familiar shortness of breath that is most likely the first signs of angina that tormented my poor mother in the last decades of her life. Did I mention that I am turning into a hypochondriac? Then I had this thought - could it just be my posture? A thought became action as I pushed my shoulders back, thrust my chest (tits) out and felt the benefits immediately.

That was my joy today. Overcoming shortness of breath with one simple change, that and getting my hair cut.

Honesty (my middle name)

Fake It Till You Make It

I had a meltdown last night. My husband doesn't understand me. Well, why would he? I barely understand myself. He said I don't try. That I love having something to moan about, like the new wooden worktops which are always covered in water or milk or something every time Bert has been near them.

I'm always trying. Trying to beat low mood (moderate depression). Today, after waking up and not wanting to get up I decided I'd fake it till I made it. Covers off, feet on floor.

Yay! You got up! Even though you didn't want to. You're amazing!

Into the bathroom. Someone has left parcels on the floor. Say what you like about our dogs. They use the bathroom. Even though it's our bathroom and theirs is supposed to be the very far corner of the front garden (meadow). I picked it up (using toilet paper), flushed it, washed my hands (thoroughly).

Wow! You picked up the dog shit, flushed it, washed your hands after. You're wonderful!

I made coffee, went back to bed. Read my books.

Look at you! You're awake, reading your books! Enjoying them! 

Then. Shower. Just in case I get myself together to go get my Worzel Gummidge hair sorted, soaping away.

Get you! Showering! What you like? Awesome!

And so on and so on.

At some time in the late afternoon as I trotted briskly towards the bus station, I said to myself,

There you go! Picking up the grandchildren, just like any regular granny. 

And here I am. Blogging. Faking it till I make it. Beating low mood and moderate depression into a corner. Fucking it up. Saying, what do we say to fucking low mood and depression?

NOT TODAY!

Regular Granny and number 2 grandchild

Foxgloves and Wine

In an effort to spark joy I planted some rather anaemic looking foxgloves that have been hanging around the polytunnel far too long. Feelgood will kick in if they grow and bloom and if not, I’ll have to make do, with with the thought that I have finally dealt with them.

Freezing today. The seeds that I’ve sown are making slow, slow progress. Really, I’m not enjoying the garden as much as I’d do normally.

Spoke to Leitrim Sister which was quite cheering. Unfortunately, she cannot make our long-awaited trip to Rathlin because, fortunately, she’s been hired for a long-term research post. I’ll have to make do with Bert.

My joy today has been dealing with the anaemic foxgloves and the glass of raspberry wine I am drinking and the log fire that is burning in my grate. It’s not much but will have to do.

Foxgloves of Dreams

A Day In May

This is a sad day. The tiny bit of hope we had for our brother's little granddaughter has been dashed.

My only positive feelings are for the courage of that little girl's parents and her closest family as they love and care for her. It is humbling. Beyond words.

That One Off The Telly

Who's your woman?

Last time you saw her Cersei had her chained in a dungeon with your one from Mia and Me.

What else was she in?

She was married to Stringer Bell but then his mate shot her.

Dead?

As Hector.

Some mate.

After that, she lived in a flat in South London and guess who was in the flat below her?

Who?

Luther's mate. The one that shot her.

Did he shoot her again?

No. Frank Gallagher shot her. With a bow and arrow.

What he go and do that for?

She'd gone clean mad. She had the Queen Mother's corpse in the bath, whether she killed her or not I don't know but they'd been having some kind of abusive relationship and she'd the Queen Mum chained to the bannisters.

Just goes to show...

What?

What goes around comes around.

Sure there is nothing as cheery as a good box set.

Dogs

Dogs make me happy. Mostly they do.

But maybe not when I'm wakened by imperious barking at five am by an old collie who just wants out to chase pigeons off the yard. That would be Roy.

Definitely not when I go to the bathroom at five am, before opening the double doors to let Roy out to woof at pigeons, and I step in a big flood of piss left by one of the bitches. I'm not sure if that is Judy or Jess but I intend to find out. Nature camera needed, or should that be a call of nature camera.

Certainly not when Ziggy decides to challenge a German Shepherd in Portglenone Forest and its owner gets really grumpy and says, should be on a lead and did you not see the signs in the carpark? Bert says we're not in the carpark which was true as we snuck in through the old graveyard having parked for free in the grounds of Aughnahoy Chapel.

Is it any wonder that we rarely walk the dogs in places where humans abound.

There were some doggy fans in the forest who didn't moan at us for our unrestrained hounds. There was little Willow, 17 months old who fell in love with Ziggy. He liked her too. She wasn't a German Shepherd. And there were two little pre-school boys who loved all the dogs and who told me that they didn't get a picnic. I said we didn't get one either. Their parents were lovely too. Seems like for every asshole we meet there are another ten good people, some of whom are very young indeed.

Horticulture

What am I grateful for today? A fine day which I spent weeding. I'm always grateful for my garden even though a good part of it is wild and overgrown. The insects like it, wildlife likes it, I like it.

I have a friend who disparages gardening. She is devoted to her career and doesn't want to retire. Fair enough. However, she'll often say things like,

Oh! I'd hate to be retired. I'd hate to have nothing to occupy my time but gardening.

This annoys me. I feel as if she is putting me down. (really I should get over myself). I'll say to her, you don't have to garden when you retire. You could do anything. Work freelance, write a book, volunteer, anything.

Doesn't stop her giving off about horticulture.

Next time she does it I'm going to say,

No, you definitely shouldn't take up gardening. You're sure to be shite at it!

I really need to work on being grateful for my friends.

In the meantime, a link to our gardening successes in the year 2018.

Bert and the NHS

How could I not be grateful for the National Health Service? Ok, it's not perfect, far from it, but the benefits, the blessings it has given our family over the years are numerous.

For instance, this morning Bert and I travelled to Whiteabbey Hospital where he had an appointment with a dermatologist. He has this weird growth on the side of his face which popped up on a weird discoloured patch that has been there for years. Bert spent a good part of his early twenties in hot countries and never, ever used sunscreen. In sunny weather at home, he bared as much skin as possible and never used sunscreen. I've been chirping at him for months to go to the doctor. Eventually, he did and his GP said,

Probably just a wart but best to get it looked at by a dermatologist.

The appointment came quickly and the dermatologist said,

Probably just a wart but best to have a biopsy.

And that's the next step.

Thank you National Health Service.

Bluebells

Well. Anyway. I must be feeling in much better form because I'm considering myriad and multitudinous blessings which I will instil into just one word  - bluebells.

Bluebells come just once a year, in the month of May, give or take ten days or so. Martha, Evie and I (and Ziggy and Maya) went to Portglenone Forest today. There was something new to be explored, an old burying ground right beside the forest. I'd never visited it before.

Evie was really delighted to see that Mr Ladybird (Mr?) was still hanging about since her last visit.

Always there are white sports in a bluebell field.

Bluebells and forget-me-nots, wondrous combination.

There is a gate that leads to Portglenone Forest. We explored then returned via the graveyard. On our way back, we met a young woman photographing the bluebells. I said to her, at the top of this path there is a glorious old graveyard smothered in bluebells and forget-me-mots. She followed us there. Thanked us. And took pictures.

Blessings, a lovely Spring day, Martha and Evie, bluebells, forget-me-nots and sharing with a fellow photographer.

Bert's Planting

New growth

Bert planted the wood nearly twenty years ago, a few acres at what is now Clint's place and around 14 acres here at Springhill. By the way, no-one but ourselves and a few ancient relatives of Pearlie call this place Springhill. I think the name might have been chosen by the previous owner, Mr Kernohan. He was an educated man, a schoolmaster and there might have been airs. Teaching was a very respectable profession in Ireland, in the early part of the twentieth century. I must have airs myself because I like to use the name. It is a steepish climb to our place and there is a spring although that is somewhat diminished since the mains water went in.

A neighbour once stopped Bert and asked him when he planned to cut the wood down. He replied, 'Never,' and she was less than delighted to hear it. Her house is on higher ground again and she complained to Bert that since the trees grew up she and her other neighbours have been unable to see what's taking place on lower ground. Why she should feel the need is beyond me. It's just tractors and boy racers on the road and cattle and sheep in the fields. Same as her own road.

Badger skull

I've come late to appreciating the wood. Bert and Hannah both love it and Martha and Evie's Dad has built a camp in it. He uses cameras to capture film of wildlife, mostly badgers and foxes and over Easter they all had a sleep out. Zoe said it was hard to sleep because of the bird noise.

This evening I took the dogs walking while Bert finished grouting the kitchen tiles (Hurrah!) I went into the planting feeling very frazzled and came out feeling relaxed and happy. So that's surely a blessing. The first of the month.

Tonight's sky

Last Day Of April

So. Matty's eighth anniversary came and went and I was really miserable. It wasn't just the anniversary, it was remembering that I felt really old when she died and kind of grateful to have had a mother so long and now I am eight years older again and feel that I'm not doing anything particularly great with my life and not finding much joy in it.

And I'm cross. Oh, so cross. Everyone (nearly everyone) annoying me. Wondering why everyone (nearly everyone) is so stupid, so obtuse, so ignorant. The *nearly* is a get-out clause for anyone who has been in my vicinity recently. Of course, I'm not talking about you. Obviously. It's not you, it's me.

Guess I'm depressed. Again. I thought I was done with all that.

However. It's not going to last. I'm sure of it. I've got all kinds of special tools to deal with it thanks to a special someone. She'll know who she is.

Other news. Hannah has gone to Europe for a month, Ziggy left to Nellybert's tender care. I'm trying to arrange a trip to deepest, darkest Norfolk to see my Englander grandchildren. Bert has a significant birthday approaching which might allow him more affordable travelling. The hens are laying well and the Irelander grandchildren have been camping in the woods.

Every day in May I'm going to blog my blessings. It's a special tool.

Here's one for the last day of April. All about home.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/17223773@N00/albums/72157681925080226

Dandelions

At this time of the year dandelions are in their full flush of flowering. This is the time to make dandelion wine if one is so inclined. Not me, for my freezer is still full of raspberries, gooseberries and redcurrants and anyway, dandelion wine is fiddly, faffy and, in the end, overly sweet.

When we were children dandelions were ‘piss the bed’. I tried making chains from them in the school playground. Bigger kids taunted me. Touch those and you’ll wet the bed. I was embarrassed. How did they know? I wet the bed anyway, even when I didn’t touch dandelions.

There were counting games. How to tell the time using dandelion clocks. We’d blow the seeds away, one o’clock, two o’ clock and so on. It was always mid afternoon or early evening with dandelion clocks.

These days dandelions have other meanings. For those of us who consider ourselves ‘green’ they are no longer a pernicious and evil weed, but rather a valuable source of food for early pollinaters and caterpillars and no decent gardener should ever be without them.

But now, at this time of the year, this first flush of dandelions on roadside verges bring back poignant memories. In the very last days of our mother’s life, when I was making those daily journeys to her home and the weather was so fine, the dandelions carpeted the central reservation of the dual carriageway and every year since then when they bloom in profusion I am nearly undone.

Snatched From The Jaws

It is a really lovely morning and I'm pottering around waiting for the first of the happy campers to emerge from the wood. All the doors are open to let fug out and Spring in. Then comes an odd noise from the kitchen. I investigate and there is Big Fat Fred with something tiny in his mouth. I think it might be a field mouse. He runs outside but I catch him and prise his jaws open. Out falls a little bird, a goldcrest. I assume it is dead. It's not. There is some movement. I bring it to Bert. He says leave it somewhere safe and see how it does. I find a box, place the goldcrest inside. Immediately it flies towards the window. I catch it and take the bird outside and place it in the rhododendron hedge. That's a good, safe place for little birds as it is too tangly for the fat cat to get into. The goldcrest looks a bit dishevelled and sits for a moment, then flies further into the hedge. I can still see it and fetch my camera to take a picture using a close up lens. Fifteen minutes later the bird is still there. After thirty minutes it has disappeared. Hopefully to live, fly and breed another day. And to stay out of the house. Cats live there!

Bernadette

It's fifty years today since Bernadette Devlin was elected to parliament as the member for Mid Ulster. She was 21 years old. I was a few years younger than that, too young to vote but still very keen on politics. I remember her as one of the few who could give Ian Paisley a bloody good argument in the TV political discussion programmes at that time. How we cheered her in our house. For Paisley was a verbal bully and our Bernadette was well able for him.

When she was elected to Westminster the Daily Mirror had her on the front page. I don't remember the headline but it was patronising, concentrating on her gender, youth and fashion sense. She was photographed on a playground swing as if she was a little girl. I was very cross about this. Hardly a mention of her fierce socialist politics, instead comments on the length of her skirt. But it was 1969! Everyone wore short skirts then, even Elizabeth Windsor.

I tried to find the photograph on the internet using the keywords  'Bernadette Devlin Daily Mirror Swing'. No luck. Except for the news item about her taking a 'swing' at the Home Secretary, Reginald Maudling on the day following Bloody Sunday. 

The Lilac Dress

Yet another freezing day. Apparently, this blustery chill wind is coming from Scandinavia. It is to ease tomorrow. My Irish grandchildren arrived just after lunch for a sleepover that I had completely forgotten about. According to their mother, they were very excited and had been looking forward to it all morning. Yet the first thing they did when they got here was to have a big row about the contents of the dressing up box, in particular, a lilac taffeta dress and a toning lace trimmed shawl. Evie said never gets a chance to try the new items first. Delicate negotiations were carried out and Evie got her chance to wear the dress.

She looked very nice in it too but did not agree as Martha had told her it would look horrible on her so she wasn't so sure. Her red sequinned shoes (several sizes too big) don't appear in this picture as we got photo-bombed by Maya.

Here we can see the red shoes peeking out. Martha, ever the stylist, had informed Evie that they "wouldn't go."

An hour or so later and Martha was back in the favoured costume and Evie was happy in her hoodie and fluffy blanket. All are enjoying 'How To Tame Your Dragon'.

Blossom Oh Dearie

Well, here I am exhausted again, the result of two days and nights of socialising with the Banjo clan who mostly all talk at once and then a very early start for the airport this morning to deliver Miss Hannah to Norfolk for the celebration of her birthday with the Englander side of the family.

The weather has turned very cold with a nasty wind coming from the East. So brisk is the breeze that it blows the washing off the line and my glasses off my face. It has also blown the blossom from the apple and plum trees. There is always something to blight one's hopes of a bountiful harvest.

I've had a quiet day. Just one outing to the local shop where I stocked up on chocolate and biscuits. Needless to say, this was a short-lived pleasure and I am feeling both guilty and unhealthy.

Blackthorn blossom, hardier than plums and apples.

I Actually Quite Like Mondays

The weekend plan worked out well except Saturday turned out to be a very fine day so tiling was abandoned in favour of gardening.

We started a new flowerbed and most of the plants in the picture were planted, mostly verbascum and aquilegias. The rest of those pots were cleaned up and mulched. They are pines that Zoe grew from seed, a fig and some lilies. On Sunday Bert started the tiling and I tidied the garden.

That's a work in progress.

Today was another fine day. Bert spent the morning on the tiling and I helped with the cuts by spraying water while he used an angle grinder. He forgot to tell me to be careful of flying dust and tonight I have a sore eye. Tomorrow he will be purchasing a tile cutter to finish the job.

I spent the afternoon making dinner and having little chat with the girls. Martha and I were looking at pictures on Flickr and she noted that I get a lot likes from 'Jean' and 'Ganching'.

Who is Ganching? 

I told her about blogs and blogging and that Ganching and I have been writing blogs since before she was born.

It might be fun to see what I wrote when you were born.

We found this from the day of her birth,

Today was always going to be a busy day. We'd planned to go visit, with a view to procuring, Kune Kune pigs. Later we'd be going to the Wee Manny's for a surprise birthday party.

What I didn't expect was hearing from Dave that Zoe has been safely delivered of a daughter, our first grandchild. She was a week earlier than expected - the impatient little thing!

So now I must go and wash the smell of pig from my person and get myself ready to visit Zoe, Dave and daughter.

And a few days later,

How fascinating this little human being is! And really, all she does is nurse and poo and burp and pull the most peculiar faces. I'm told she cries but, so far, never in my presence.

She is, of course, far more beautiful than the normal run of babies. She is, which goes without saying, already displaying signs of superior intelligence. And, for a creature barely a week old, she is amazingly strong and active and alert.

Am I besotted? I think I must be.

But I had an oven to attend to and salads to make and Martha wanted to read more. About ten minutes later she was able to inform me that I'd written hardly anything when her sister was born and that Evie was almost a year old before she featured in Nelly's Garden. Sibling rivalry. I told Martha that Flickr was where I'd put all my Evie pics. I hope I wasn't telling a lie.

My Plans For The Weekend

These days, weekends don't mean that much. Every day, excepting Monday and Thursday, is the weekend for me. Nevertheless, I have plans.

Tomorrow morning I plan to be awakened early by Roy, barking to get out. Realising it is Saturday I will get up at whatever ungodly hour it happens to be, pull on a pair of jeans over my pyjamas, stuff my feet into my gardening boots, wrap myself in a big coat and head to the garage for the Saturday Guardian.

On my return, I will start breakfast whilst perusing the magazine.

I will remove jeans, boots and jacket and return to bed with coffee and bits of the paper.

Sometime later I will get up, feed and water the chickens, drink more coffee, check the internet to make sure no celebrities have died in the previous 12 hours and drink more coffee etc. etc.

By now Bert will be up and aching to begin tiling the kitchen. I will have cleared it to aid him in his labours. To further help him, I will repair outside to sow vegetable seeds in the polytunnel.

At some point, I will return to the house, admire Bert's progress and if it is a fine day will work in the flower garden. And after that, I will simply potter about.

If visitors turn up and if they are at all politically minded I shall run my latest survey past them. Which is,

Name the worst Prime Ministers in your lifetime?

So far most people are saying May and Cameron.

On Sunday... oh, I haven't a clue about Sunday. I'll potter a bit. Maybe sow more seeds. Read. Take some photographs if it's fine. A walk?

10 Things I Did Today

This blog post is a steal from Ganching for I really do need some inspiration to keep this blog on the road. You do know that this Brexit shambles has a large number of people suffering from low spirits, despair and bad nerves? I am one such person and it is even affecting my night's rest. This morning I was awakened (by a dog) from a dream where a hot young priest was being fed into a hospital incinerator. Mind you that particular dream might have been more to do with Fleabag than Brexit.

So, the ten things.

1. Got up at 7 o'clock. Which was really 6 as my body is not yet used to British Summer Time. Why? Dogs.

2. Went to Newtownabbey and picked kitchen tiles with Hannah's assistance.

3. Sowed four different kinds of sunflower.

4. Watered the polytunnel

5. Went for a short walk.

6. Sat staring at the computer screen in silent despair as I realised that's all I actually did today because cooking supper barely counts as it was only mince and onions which is one of Bert's favourites.

Then...

7. Thought about charging my phone.

8. Poured a glass of wine.

9. Watched a clip of Stephen Colbert,

10. Updated Nelly's Garden. Does that count?

All in all, a quiet sort of a day.

A Cold Nose

The dog wakes me up almost every day. Which dog? Sometimes it is Judy who pads into my bedroom and bumps me with her cold nose. Sometimes it is Roy who barks insistently from a downstairs room. If it is Roy there will usually be a cat sitting on the other side of the patio doors. The time will be somewhere between 6-7:30am. I get up, make coffee and when all dogs and cats are inned, outed and inned again, I return to bed to drink coffee and read. On Saturdays, I throw on some clothes and drive to the garage to buy the Guardian.

Today I was awakened from a vivid dream, which some might even call a nightmare. I was lying on a filthy bed in a derelict house. Derelict houses regularly feature in my dreams. In this dream/nightmare, I could not move and thought I might be dead. There were at least two other nameless people lying on beds near me and they were definitely dead, rotting in fact. I decided I was still alive and got up and left the house and the dream segued into that one where one is out in public improperly dressed. It was quite a relief when I felt Judy's cold nose against my face.

Passengers

I spent a couple of hours weeding and tidying in the polytunnel and found this bee lying on its back, too tired and spent to fly away. I tried it with some honey and its proboscis came out immediately and it started to feed.

This picture was taken using a magnifying app on my phone. That was when I saw the mites crawling on the bee. At first, I thought this was the cause of its ills but it turns out that these mites are often to be found hitching a ride on bumblebees. The mites feed on the debris to be found in bumblebee nests, such as wax, pollen and tiny insects. They are not harmful but sometimes when too many are clinging to the bee's body it can make flying difficult.

And that is the new thing that I learned today. I put the bumblebee in the garden near some flowers and left it and the passengers to get on with their lives.

Spring

Spring's here. Which is, I suppose, a good thing.

The clocks will soon go forward, the evenings will be longer and there are seeds to be sown. I can hope again.

Yet - everything feels wrong. I am filled with anxiety and am comfort eating like a savage. My granny jeans (Gap) feel tight and so does my chest. The doctor says I probably have a mild infection and has prescribed an antibiotic. That's a week ago now and I haven't picked it up. I should, even if it is only to tuck it away for a time of greater need.

And I cannot find the kitchen tiles I like. And my garlic isn't thriving and my friend's little bantam rooster died while I was looking after it. And Brexit. And Scott Walker died.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Thoughts...

Sometimes life seems far too sad and serious to just, y’know, blog…

There was New Zealand. Thoughts and prayers obviously. Except I think we don’t actually do enough thinking. I’m thinking that the right thing to do would be to stand up to hate, to fearmongering, to lies. Let no-one away with it. Prayers are OK. Let’s pray that the world becomes less hateful, less fearful and more truthful. Let’s start with our own selves.

There was Cookstown. A local incident but still shocking and horrible. Thoughts and prayers? There will be plenty of those this Friday when the three young peoples’ funerals will be held. Such a waste of promising young lives and such sorrow for those left behind.

Conversations With Strangers: Part 2

My second conversation with a strange one took place outside the restrooms in Marks and Spencer. We'd been to the rally, taken the girls to lunch and I was all on my own waiting for them to come out. There was a comfortable seating area and I was feeling rested and content.

There was a woman close by, around my own age, fussing with a wheeled shopper. She asked me,

Do you know if the buses have started running yet?

I had to confess I did not know that.

She said in grumpy tones,

It's those protesters at City Hall. No buses running because of them. I don't know what they're even protesting about!

I said,

It's not a protest. It's a rally, part of International Women's Day. It happens every year.

Well, I don't know what they need to be out shouting and marching and stopping the traffic. There's no need for it!

Of course, I informed her (with some delight) that I had taken part in it. She did not look impressed.

Humph! I don't see the point of it. Stopping the buses. They need their backsides kicked! 

So I said to her,

You know how this country is. Everyone enjoys taking to the streets for a bit of a march or a parade.

She never even answered me. Just flounced off pulling her wee shopping trolley behind her.

Conversations With Strangers: Part 1

On Saturday I went to Belfast with Zoe, Martha and Evie to take part in an International Women's Day rally. Three generations of one family ready to Reclaim the Agenda.

I was on the train first and while I was waiting a woman, close to my own age, struck up a conversation. I've got one of those approachable faces. As all inhabitants of the British Isles are wont to do she started with the weather. It has been rather changeable recently. Then things took a different turn.

What do you make of Brexit?

I was surprised. One doesn't expect such a blunt question from a stranger.  Still, I answered her.

Absolute shambles.

She agreed.

This Karren Bradley. What do you think of her?

She should resign. Possibly the worst Secretary of State we've ever had.

She agreed then said,

I liked the last woman. What was her name again?

Theresa Villiers. Awful woman. Hadn't a clue about Ireland. Supported Brexit. 

What about Geoffrey Whatshisname?

Who?

The Labour man.

Jeremy Corbyn?

Yes. Do you like him?

Perhaps not the best Labour leader for the present time. What do you think?

I prefer the Conservatives.

Really? Conservative with a small 'c'?

What do you mean? Oh! I hear the train coming. I'd better go out and find a place.

Three minutes later the train did come. I didn't see my interviewer again.

 Zoe and Martha on the train

 Gathering for the rally

Flying Tiger

My second conversation with a stranger in the next post. She spoke violently and rather than sloping off, she stormed. All I could do was laugh.

March Reading List

For several months now I've been reading 10-12 books simultaneously. I was inspired to do this by Will Self, who in answer to the question,

What are you reading currently,

Replied, 

Before I read digitally, I’d be reading perhaps 10 books simultaneously – but now I read as many as 50 at once...

This intrigued me. I don't read digitally apart from journal and newspaper articles so thought that 10 would be a good number to start with. So far it has worked out well.

Since embarking on this project I usually have ten on the go, never more than thirteen. I have a system (I love systems) where I aim to read three of the books every night. If there is time, and there usually is, I read three in the morning. That way each book will get picked up every other day or so.

When a reading session is finished one book is retained, the one I am most eager to go on with, and two will be returned to the back of the queue and two picked from the front for the next session. This method has increased my reading dramatically and I have completed more books in 2019 than I'd normally read in half a year.

The books are a mixture of fiction and non-fiction and there is normally a couple of very light reads among them. These light reads are not necessarily the most enjoyable but I usually persevere.

Currently, I'm reading twelve books, fiction by Charles Frazier, Esther Freud, Kate Atkinson, Patrick Ness, Toni Morrison, Anna Burns, Sebastian Faulks and Matthew Thomas and non-fiction by Stephen McGann, Suki Kim, Edward Stourton and Catherine Simpson. Stourton is the light read. I may not finish it.


Half of the books are from the local library, one is a new book (Milkman) and the other five are second-hand. I got Jazz in Amsterdam.  Varina and Human Traces I'm reading after Bert. He loved both. Almost finished Hideous Kinky and have just begun Simpson and McGann. 

  I should return to this theme in a few weeks time so that we can all see how I'm getting on. One more thing, I should add a previously read book to the mix. There are novels on my shelves I've had since I was sixteen years old. I'm sure some of them could bear another read. After all, there must be some reason I've held on to them for half a century.

Blogger's Block

I struggle these days with Nelly's Garden. Two recent posts have discouraged me. The most recent was A Bit Of A Siege in which I described some fraught visits to Ikea. A response (from a dear cousin) worried me. I'd been critical of some aspects of my Ikea experience but ultimately felt that part of what went wrong was my own fault. My cousin had a relative (her husband's side of the family) who worked in the Belfast store and she was concerned, on his behalf, that I had a less than satisfactory experience. That worried me. Made me think that my attempts at light-heartedness might be making someone else feel less than good about themselves.

What can I say? I'm a snowflake. At least no-one has got in touch to rail against me for disrespecting the besieged defenders of Derry.

The other posting that attracted opprobrium was Alpha and Loudmouth. I wrote that one out of shame. Shame because I listened to vile racist abuse and did not speak up. In the comments in response to a regular commenter, I remarked that both women would have been Trump supporters if they lived in the USA. I am certain of that. This drew fierce comment from another regular commenter. I get it. I was associating racists with Trumpism. And I stand by that in the context of this place.

The thing is, I know my conservative (right-wing) and Loyalist neighbours. They don't trust Catholics, they don't like foreigners, they have little compassion for immigrants. They voted for Brexit, even though as citizens of Northern Ireland that was very much against their interests. British right-wingers mainly approve of the United States' current leader.

Definitely, Trump gets a very bad press in the kind of papers I read but I do understand this - not all Trump supporters are racist but, it does seem, that most racists are Trump supporters. And this is what I would like to know, and I know I have at least one Republican Trump supporter who reads this blog, is this - what is it about this man that you support?