The Woman In The Mirror

I have a wardrobe crammed with clothes. Some new, some very old indeed, some unworn and some worn out. And yet...when it comes to it, I sometimes feel there is nothing I want to wear.

Home clothes are easy. They are comfortable, lots of layers, suitable for working in (pottering, really) inside or out. I find it harder to decide what to put on when I'm going out and seem to go to the same few items again and again while other garments hang neglected. I decided a few weeks ago that I am going to wear everything, even if it is only for the time it takes to photograph myself in the wardrobe mirror. This is where it started.

The wardrobe in these pictures is not where I keep my clothes for it is far too small. It does have a decent mirror and the light in that room is good. The yellow jumper outfit is going out (lunch with Jazzer) the other three are home clothes. I am wearing four items from eBay, one gift scarf (thanks, Kerry Sister) and three charity shop buys.

Pictures one and two are for another lunch with Jazzer. Three is home wear and four is trying out. Bert was disparaging about four. Said something sneery about kilts. That dress was £20 in a charity shop in Stoke Newington but when new would have cost more than £100.

I've yet to wear those wide-legged trousers out. Bargain in TK Maxx. I wore outfit 2 to the shops and 3 & 4 were for hanging at home.

More stay at home outfits. Number 2 was today's clothes. I might ragbag the shirt. I caught it on a nail and don't care for it enough to mend it.

Going by that selection my wardrobe is 42% new clothes, 18% from eBay, 36% charity shop and 3% gifted. Seems about right.

Silly Spring

Merzy dotes and dozy dotes

And little cavvsy divy

A bird'll eat peanuts too,

Wouldn't you?

Dance like no one is watching

Play like no one is blogging

She said to him,

The Bann is great

It's not too late

To learn to swim

He said to her,

I would not dare

For I don't care

To wet my fur

What Chickens Think

There's a quare stretch in the evenings

It's nice to see a wee blink of sun

I wonder will the woman bring pizza again?

What Robins Think

Gardener - dig!

Any other robin comes near me I'll rip his head off!

Only 292 days to Christmas.

We Are All Old Now

I thought that when old Roy died that life with just two dogs, two cats and two pigs might be easier. I thought wrong. Roy might have been the oldest codger in town but he wasn’t the only one.

For Holly de Cat is thirteen and Big Fat Fred just a year younger. Judy will be ten in the summer and Jess eight in October. Rusty and Lily are ten this year too. They must be two of the oldest pigs in County Antrim. Bert and I both have our bus passes. Nellybert’s is no longer a Party House. We’re a Retirement Home!

Reason for this moan? I am rudely awakened every morning by the dogs needing to go pee. This morning it was six o’clock when Jess was headbutting my bedroom door. Then, when Big Fat Fred sees me he makes it clear he is ready for breakfast so I give him a little something in his bowl and return to bed for horrible anxiety dreams.* When Fred has finished eating he stands at the bottom of the stairs and gowls to be let into my private, secret sitting room. I prefer to keep that room closed as a dog (probably Judy) has a liking for peeing on my antique carpet.

Although Judy has been having fewer ‘accidents’ since the vet put her on the amazing tightening up the urethra drug. It’s also noticeable that her coat is glossier and she seems to have more energy. I’m seriously considering taking this medication myself as I too would benefit from a glossy mane, extra energy and a better functioning urethra.

The oldest pigs in the parish

*This morning's anxiety dream was all about Zoe having coronavirus and Bert and his friends using my best vintage china for ashtrays.

A Leap Year Wedding

I do not recall who might have called at Nellybert's this day twelve years ago. But, whoever they might have been, they would have been regaled with the pleasant news that we were planning a wedding.

Saturday, March 01, 2008

Last-Minute Proposal

Well, maybe not exactly the last minute but at around ten to midnight last night I asked Bert to marry me and he said yes. I wonder how he'll wriggle out of this one?

He didn't renege on his promise. We'll be married twelve years this coming August.

Roy

It was March five years ago when Roy came to live with us. He'd been Bert's Aunt Nessie's dog and after she died he continued living with Nessie's partner Paddy. Now Paddy was dying and needed homes for all four of his dogs. One went to Paddy's carer, two went into council care and we got Roy.

I wasn't even that enthusiastic. I'd never met Roy but Bert was keen to give him a home. He felt he owed it to Nessie. We went to collect him. When Paddy went into the hospital, his carer had taken on the job of feeding the dogs daily but they were still spending most of their time alone. I stayed in the van while Bert climbed over the gate and opened the front door and two dogs ran out. The smaller one just sniffed around a little, the collie (our new dog) was thoroughly delighted to see him, jumping up, his tail whirring like a windmill. I gazed at our new dog, the one that I was only mildly interested in and thought to myself, "I love him!" Love at first sight.

Close up, he was shaggy and smelly, rather worried. He'd never travelled in a vehicle before. We got him home. Introduced him to Judy and Jess who weren't impressed. Fed and watered him. He settled in.

Roy liked people, food, dogs, cats and lying just outside the door watching the world go by. Roy didn't like vehicles, collars and leads, walks, upstairs, balls.

As he became even more settled he learned to enjoy treats, herding pigs and walks.

But walks had to be on Roy's terms. There were rules. Only the back lane and woods. If he was spoken to on the back lane he would turn and go back to the house so we learned to pretend not to notice him. If he got as far as the woods he'd go off and do his own thing and then come back at a time of his own choosing.

We took him to Donegal once. Obviously, he did not enjoy the journey and when we got to the caravan he refused to go to the beach and spent the entire time either in the caravan or just outside it. That was his one and only trip away. Afterwards, the only journeys he ever took were occasional visits to the vet's surgery.

He never ever went upstairs. He wouldn't play fetch or chase balls. He was just Roy and he did things his way.

Y'know he wasn't even that old. Around eight when he came to us he must have been thirteen when he died. In the last year he stopped being able to jump up, wasn't able to get on the sofa any more. Even his tail didn't whir so much. He still loved his comforts, first in the queue for supper, had his favourite visitors, Les, Ben, Mel. Harassed Bert for walks in the woods, me for treats.

And then, this Tuesday past his legs just stopped working. They'd been wobbly for a while and he'd been taking arthritis medication. Bert tried to help him but he kept collapsing. Zoe said he seemed bewildered. Yesterday morning, first thing, I called the vet to request a home visit. We made the decision to have him put peacefully and gently to sleep.

He is the fifteenth dog to be buried here.

Polly, Molly, Danny, Penny, Chip, Jock, Rosie, Peppy, Paddy, Charlie, Bonnie, Holly, Maeve, Frank and Roy.

Nine family dogs and six belonging to friends

We'll never forget you, Roy..

And Again

Old Roy went out at around seven this morning for his morning pee. He came in, lay down and hasn't managed to get up since. He has been eating and drinking but, apart from one failed attempt, hasn't been able to stand upright.

This might be it for Roy. He's with us nearly five years now and he was an old dog when he came. I didn't expect him to still be here in 2020.

Feeling Better

Judy would like it to be known that she is feeling a lot better and is glad to be home. She would also like to give a big shout out to everyone at Oldstone Veterinary Clinic in Clough, and most especially her cousin Corinne Robb who was very kind.

Dog Talk

Judy, poor pooch, is unwell and is in doggy hospital. What seemed like an ordinary upset stomach (lots of boking and loss of appetite) has turned out to be an infection. Bert knew last night that she was sick when one of her favourite visitors turned up and instead of the usual ecstatic welcome, loud barking, full-body wiggling and jumping up, all she could manage was a few woofs, and a few tail wags before staggering back to her favourite armchair.

Jess is distraught. What didn't help is that we are looking after Zoe's dog Maya for a few nights and I think Jess believes we have swapped dogs. So I took her with me on a trip to Ikea to cheer her up. Which was OK until I decided to take her for a bit of a walk to cheer her up even more. The first 15 minutes were fairly OK but by the time we passed Decathlon she was not in good form. I realised that the constant road traffic, the people and the noise of the planes were affecting her. She is not a city dog. We started walking back and she looked so cringey and scared that I started to think that people might think I'd stolen her and was wondering how I could convince anyone, who might challenge me on that point, that I wasn't a dog-rustler.

One thing is for sure. She won't be going walkies in a built-up environment, next to an airport ever again.

Where Jess belongs.

Mid-Term Sleep-Over

When the girls come to Nellybert's for a sleepover we like to provide healthy food options - like chocolate milkshake devised from Martha's own recipe, milk, chocolate milk, chocolate ice cream, cream, ice cubes, and squidgy shop-bought chocolate sauce. She forgot the marshmallows. What did it taste like? I don't know. The very thought of it made my few remaining teeth tingle.

Evie turned it down as well, so it was just Bert and Martha.

Hallions!

Slime time! They are so experienced at making slime that I no longer need to supervise. My role is to provide them with the ingredients and to admire the results. And, of course, to clean up afterwards.

Every bowl in the house is put to use.

My favourite.

Thursday night is Music Night at Nellybert's. The girls never heard Bert and Les play together before. Evie runs to tell me,

They're really good!

So I go with her to see and listen and there is Martha getting her clarinet out and preparing to join in. She got a lot of compliments too.

That trampoline has seen better days.

Posing up a storm. For exploring the overgrown brambly wreck next door Martha is wearing a grey tulle skirt and unicorn socks.

Climbing trees.

The Naming of Things

The technician is the modern missionary bringing every bird, every grass blade, wave pattern , and molecule into the fold of human knowledge and domination. As we continue to unfurl our presence on earth, must everything have a name and a use? 

Robert Perkins, Talking to Angels, 1996

Reading this reminded me of two conversations with Hannah. The first, some time ago, when we were walking in Bert's wood and Hannah pointed out a favourite tree. I couldn't identify it and said so.

She said,

You always need to name things. It doesn't matter to me.

I found that a strange thought for, it is true, I do like to name things, be it tree, flower, bird or butterfly.

More recently, since Hannah has moved out and lives looking on to a wild place full of birds and mice and foxes, we were talking about the birds she watches from her window. Bert has put up feeders and I offered a spare bird book. She declined it saying,

I love watching them. I don't need their names.

It's a different outlook on enjoying nature. Mine is different, I want names, information, domination. I love binomial nomenclature and regret that I have only sparse knowledge of Latin.

My girl told me that there were chaffinches out back of her place, and a robin and a bullfinch so she knows a lot more than she's letting on.

Hannah's wilderness

The book she refused. Too many ducks.

The House Slugs Are Back

Judy, dear old thing, has become slightly incontinent in her old age so Bert and I are on high alert during the night hours. One woof has us leaping from bed to make sure that the good brown dog gets outside in time.

The other night it was me up at half-five in the morning. While Judy was outside watering the garden I took the opportunity to have a pee myself. And it was while I was sitting there that I noticed two dark smudges on the wet room walls. Two slugs, one minuscule, one merely tiny.  I disposed of them, not like four years ago when I flushed all house slugs down the toilet. Nowadays I'm much kinder and I left those babies outside to make their own way in the world - whilst secretly hoping a blackbird would eat them first thing.

Next evening, I'm in the kitchen, making biscuits, (Bert begged me) sleeves rolled up, covered in flour, the very picture of a devoted and kind wife. Then I feel this soft plop on my forearm, like a drip from the ceiling. I look up. Nothing to see there. I look down and there it is, a tiny slug, translucent, a half-incher. It's the same breed as the wet room slugs. Where the hell did it come from? Thanks be it landed on my arm and not in the treacle and walnut cookie dough. Not that we'd ever have noticed it.

Bert has taken Judy to the vet and she suggested that the incontinence might be due to a hormone imbalance. Propalin Syrup was prescribed and it has made quite a difference. Maybe it's my imagination but Judy also seems livelier, more energetic. even glossier. I'm thinking of trying her prescription myself.

Doting

The term “wee dote” refers to someone who is cute/adorable especially in the facial skin region; usually made use of as slang in Northern Ireland. It originates from Shakespearean language “to dote on someone” i.e. to show affection. 1) “aww look! he's such a wee dote, I want to hug him.”28 Jul 2019 (Quora reply)



Recently, one of Hannah's friends (female) enquired,


How's your wee dote of a Mammy?


I was not best pleased to hear this. Wee dote? Nelly?


Bert says,


You're about the furthest thing there is from a 'wee dote'.

That's better. Even though...


My stature, if not my waistline, might be described as 'wee'.


And it's true that I am a 'Mammy'.


My facial skin is in pretty good nick for a sixty-something.


My dogs find me adorable.


But I am not a 'wee dote'. Although there is a possibility I might be approaching my dotage.

A Wee Dote

Pondering Time

No blogging yesterday even though it was the Youngest (Leitrim) Sister's birthday. She knows I was thinking about her.

Leitrim Sister isn't the only one to be occupying my thoughts for I've also been thinking about my Katkin and my Antrim family. And about the olden days - when Martha was a baby.

For I've been sorting out bits and pieces, trying to declutter and in the process, I've been checking out DVDs from a decade ago, when Martha was a baby. Her entire existence seems such a short time to me. She was brand new then and her life was uncomplicated and magical, her parents entranced with her. Watching it made my heart ache for I thought too of Ava, who didn't even get to be ten.

It must be an old girl thing this looking back. When I was younger I'd go through old photographs and enjoy them but then, that was more than just a remembrance of things past. There was all the time to come as well.

There is some sweetness in the thought of one's future running out. How many more seasons for snowdrops, celandine, dog violets? How many more sunsets, how many more dogs?

And yet we plod on Bert and I. Living these last few decades, wasting our time. Maybe that is what time is for. Squandering. Maybe not.

Martha's first birthday

Twelve

The depths of the wood

Twelve will be my new magic number. Twelve batches of wine at a time, for dealing with 20-25 makes it seem like a job which is probably why I ignored all two dozen flagons in the year 2019. It's all been sorted now bar the bottling and the drinking and I'm down to 17 gallons.

Also, twelve books on the reading pile. That had crept up to eighteen and reading was becoming just another chore. I finished three last week and have not added any others, not even the Sara Baume that Hannah gave me for Christmas. My current top book is The Secret Commonwealth and I'm still reading Human Traces.

We watched Dunkirk last night and I enjoyed it. Mark Rylance, Tom Hardy, Cillian Murphy. How could I not? Bert said it was OK. Not his favourite war film. He prefers darkness, I like heroes. I'm simple like that.

February Second

The second day of February and I am charging through the country wines, which were ignored entirely in the year 2019. Racking. bottling, sampling and note-taking. A few didn't come through but most did.

Sampling. Deary, deary, deary me. I'm sampling a rhubarb as we speak. Slightly hazy, good flavour, probably very strong. I never measure for alcohol content, tasting tells the tale.

I have given very little thought to This Brexit Thing. On Friday evening if there was one mention of the b-word on telly we changed channels. And ended up watching Graham Norton but when the extremely creepy Jim Carrey came on we had to abandon.

The first week of February is heavy on family birthdays. Brendan from Kerry, Mark from Norfolk and Dr Leitrim sister from...Leitrim - lá breithe shona duit. The rest of the month brings birthdays for the Antrim branch of the family, Leanne, Morgan and Cara.

Feliz cumpleaños to all of you!

Sixth Bright Nite

For anagram fans everywhere. What I really think.

Incurs Tact

Fly If Bungler

Retract Guilty

Oh Blames Snoot

The Art of Coarse Wine Making

I neglected to make any wine last year. Neither did I update any winemaking records. And I'm usually particular about my records. There was no need, for not only did I fail to start any wines, I completely ignored the 23 gallons of various wines fermenting in a cupboard. No racking, no bubblers changed, nothing done. Forgotten about.

The first thing to do was change the bubblers. They were disgusting, full of dust and dead fruit flies and some were filled with a primordial soup. I'm certain had I left them any longer, new and unpleasant life forms would have emerged from the cupboard. While I was doing this I took tentative tastes of the wine and, surprisingly, most of them were drinkable.

But not this elderberry. Started in November 2017 it tasted unpleasantly musty and looked like watered-down blood. Down the sink it went.

This rhubarb was started in September 2018 and this is the first racking. It is good. I'm drinking a glass of it right now.

So, after a year of neglect, it seems not too disastrous. I intend to give a lot of this wine away. Although anyone who reads this account might not fancy it! Peter and Billy will give it a go. If you see this post guys, I have Beetroot & Berries, Strawberry & Raspberry and the good old Rhubarb 14 waiting here for you.

The rhubarb patch is showing signs of a revival. Here's to Rhubarbs 15, 16 and 17. Slainte!

Busy, Busy Day

Two trips to the dentist. Please don't ask. And in between a woodland walk and lunch with first daughter.

Then an evening chat with second daughter, the Norfolk one. There were also brief convos with Anglo-Irish grandchildren, James and Emily. James and I discussed trampolines and I'm not sure what Emily and I were talking about. She might have blown me a raspberry.

Third daughter got her foxy door knocker screwed on.

An Urban Fox relocates to Cullybackey

Now she's in with the hipster-crowd on Columbia Road, E2.

Then Bert and I watched The Holocaust Memorial Day Commemorative Service which was dignified and moving. Even hopeful.

Afterwards, I said,

From now on I'm not letting anyone, anyone at all get away with saying anything racist, sectarian or sexist. What should I say to anyone who does say anything like that?

He says,

Tell them they should be affronted at themselves.

And then?

Tell them that they are the sort of people who would have stood by and let genocide happen.

Growing Season

It may only be January but it's growing season at Nellybert's. I've been growing my waistline and Bert has been growing his hair. He hasn't had it cut for at least six months.

Are there photographs? No. Some things are just too...

Perhaps I'll ask Evie and Martha to draw a picture. That might be kinder than a photograph. Here is one from a time when Bert's barnet was a good deal shorter than it is today.

Illustration by Martha, 2018

Ten Years Before

Some things never change much. There are still funerals to be attended and Swisser (since elevated to Professor) is still every bit as daft as academics are reputed to be. Because I am weary I am going to recycle (recycling is a good thing, is it not?) two posts from January 2010.

The Last Of The Line

On Tuesday my mother’s only brother passed in his sleep. He lived by himself but he was not alone as his nephew lived next door, his younger sister and her husband in the next house along and another nephew two doors down. So while he had his own home he also had plenty of company when he wanted it. He was a man of regular habits and it was his habit to go to his sister’s house every morning where family and neighbours would have a cup, discuss the events of the day and generally enjoy a bit of craic. On Tuesday he didn’t turn up and his sister knew something was amiss.

The doctor was called and pronounced that he had died sometime during the night and that his passing had been easy. Had he lived another day he would have been 79 years old. He was a man of strong faith and I’m told that he prayed for us all every day of his life. I don’t know what we are going to do when all the old ones are gone and we have no one to pray for us. I found myself thinking about that during Dessie’s funeral Mass and thinking too, that maybe I’ll have to take up the praying myself.

When they carried his coffin out of the house I told Bert that there would be no need for him to feel obliged to give it a lift as Dessie had enough nephews and nieces to carry him to Cork. Funerals are an occasion to see how all the cousins are getting on and I’m sorry to say that there are none of us getting any younger although most of us are wearing well. There was even, on Matty’s account, a creditable show of cousins from the other side of the family and it was good to see them there. Even the one who came up behind me outside the chapel and remarked,

Did ye sleep with the dog last night?

I can only assume she meant I was covered with dog hairs and I anxiously checked the matter with the Kerry Sister. She said that I was not and that she had given me the onceover herself before we’d left Matty’s house.

I never really answered the cousin as I was a bit surprised that she’d made the remark. It came across as unkind. I suppose if I was honest I could have said,

I did sleep with the dog as it happens but I wasn’t wearing my coat at the time.

Ah well. She showed the want of a kind old uncle to pray for her. I may have to add her to my list when I take it up myself.

Swisser's Vole

Bert comes into the kitchen and tells me,

Swisser’s been showing me pictures of her vole.

Her hole?

No her vole.

Vole. What’s she on about?

Says there’s a vole in her back yard,

Her hole!

Says it’s been there for a week.

It’s probably a rat.

Says it sits on the windowsill and looks in at her. Says it twitches its whiskers. Says it’s a cute wee thing.

It doesn’t sit on her windowsill and look in at her!

Come and see the wee film she took.

I go into the other room and Swisser reaches me her phone. I watch a little film of a large brown rodent sniffling and zigzagging about in her herbaceous border, its big scaly tail snaking behind it. Sadly she has no footage of the charming creature sitting sweetly on her sill looking in at her.

Well! What do you think? It’s a vole, isn’t it?

It’s a rat.

Sunday Catch Up

The sky this morning

Rained all Thursday morning but, thankfully eased off when I went to meet Martha and Evie from school. Evie had a tremendous hufflepuff because Martha won the coin toss to establish who would get first go on Granny's PC for spelling revision. She recovered enough to work on a painting of trees,. I was pleased to hear her remark.

This picture is going great.

Love her self-belief.

Emily, our youngest (Anglo-Irish) granddaughter had her second birthday on Friday. I thought about her all day and wished that she lived closer to us. 

Friday was going to be a leisurely day, just some grocery shopping and preparation for a supper with Swisser and Hannah. Then Hannah's car wouldn't start and She needed a lift to work. Then, because her friend's father was seriously ill in hospital, a lift to Antrim town. I thought I'd do my food (and wine) shopping while I was there but couldn't as I'd left my purse at home. No matter. Turned out I'd everything I needed anyway, except wine and Bert got that. Then picking Hannah up after the hospital visit. Supper was good, veggie lasagne followed by a raspberry and apple crumble. 

Saturday brought sobering news of a death. Not unexpected. I hardly knew the man, we'd only chatted a few times when he'd called to pick his son up. But I knew of him. He'd been a history teacher at a local grammar and was very well-liked in his community. 

Today has been a quiet day. A few callers dropped by. I'm surprised that all everyone wants to talk about is Harry and Meghan. What about the Labour leadership contest, the bushfires in Australia, the impeachment of Donald J Trump, the coming election in Ireland? Who cares about the Sussexes? Not me.

Only thing left to say is goodnight from me and goodnight from Big Fat Fred.

Gorbin' and Aytin'

On Sunday I baked scones in order to delight Swisser who was calling around. It's just as well she brought her own supply of tasty treats as those scones were the worst I've ever made. I could not figure out where I'd gone wrong as my scones are usually quite delicious.

Bert said,

You would have been a popular girl during the Bogside riots.

Me,

Why?

Those scones.

I'm thinking, he must mean that when the Derry folk wearied of civil unrest they'd call round to my house for a reviving cup of tea and a hot buttered scone before hitting the streets for more rioting.

He said,

When they run out of cobblestones they'd use your scones instead.

Ha! Very funny.

It was yesterday before I figured out what happened the scones. I was going to try again. This time I wouldn't use the mixer. I'd do it all by hand. This time I'd use fresh buttermilk instead of past sell-by date (October 2019), this time I'd make sure the oven was pre-heated to the correct temperature.

I gathered my ingredients, buttermilk, egg, butter, salt, soda bread flour. And I realised what had gone amiss. There was no soda bread flour and I'd used strong white by mistake. No wonder the scones were as hard as rocks.

Soon remedied. Off to the shops for the proper flour and as I'd decided to make a bread and butter pudding as well I added cream and sultanas to the shopping list.

And it all turned out really well. The scones were up to my usual standard. Bert had made a vegetable broth so we had that and cheesy scones for supper. It was good and I ate too much. In fact, I barely stopped eating the entire evening.

It was close to midnight when I realised I was a thousand steps from the recommended number so I thought I'd march around the house for a while until my pedometer marked the desired 10,000. And it was while doing this that I thought how ridiculous I was. Nelly, striding from room to room, counting steps, circling the kitchen island all whilst chomping on a big wedge of bread and butter pudding.

So I decided to give my digestive system a holiday and fasted until four o'clock this afternoon when I had a bowl of vegetable soup and three scones. And then later on a big wedge of bread and butter pudding.

By the way, Rusty and Lily just loved Sunday's hard scones.

Right Up His Street

Nelly: Hey! How do you fancy going to the cinema tomorrow? My treat.

Bert: What to see?

Nelly: Little Women.

Complete silence from the Bert corner. His brow furrows and his mouth twists a little. He's thinking hard. Thinking about what he should say.  Then he speaks.

Bert: Mmm. Not really sure what I'll be doing. Maybe think about it tomorrow?

Nelly: Hah! Just kidding about Little Women. 1917 is on in Antrim.

Bert: Oh yes! I'd really like to see that. Let's do it!

I'll go see Little Women with Jazzer.

Screaming At The Moon

It's the Wolf Moon tonight, the first full moon of the year and so-called because wolves howl a lot at this time of the year. There was also a penumbral lunar eclipse but too much cloud cover to see anything. It would have been better observed had it been last night when skies were clear and the moon, nearly full, was beautiful. No howling wolves here but foxes woke me from sleep with their screeching and screaming. It was close to the house, maybe as near as the orchard and when I opened the window I could hear twigs and branches snapping so maybe in the overgrown wilderness behind Hannah's rooms. 

I listened for a while. They were much too close to the chicken run for my liking although the hens were securely locked up. But, mating season and they were preoccupied with other matters. Hens were unperturbed as were the dogs. I closed the window and returned to bed. Excitement over.

Then dreamed an amusing dream about fervent Unionists rallying against Nationalism. A purple car containing Shinners was driving around Ballymena terrorising the locals. The Orange Order was mobilised, a pipe band skirled up and down Wellington Street and people strode purposefully around costumed as B Specials, WWI volunteers and nurses. There might have been wooden guns. My role was to pour oil on troubled waters, to bolster confidence, to explain that things weren't as bad as they thought. There was also something about working in a hairdressing shop in Harryville and wanting to give up the position, but feeling that I needed the money and then remembering that I was a pensioner and need never go out to work again. That was a relief. 

I woke up to Judy's cold, nudging nose and this gorgeous morning sky and...

wallflower in bloom. In January?

Stats And Stuff

I have been writing Nelly’s Garden for 15 years, 4 months and 12 days. During that time there has been 3133 published posts which works out at a post every other day and we all know that’s not happening. So, what’s going on? What has changed over the past 15 years, 4 months and 12 days?

I became fifteen years older and a small bit wiser.

Back in 2004, I didn’t actually expect anyone but a few fellow bloggers to read the damn thing.

Now so many of those fellow bloggers have quit. Some of whom I greatly miss.

Then one becomes disheartened.

Gets to thinking, who even fucking cares what I blog?

Becomes self-conscious. People come up to me at funerals and address me as Nelly.

Run out of things to say.

My husband doesn’t read it.

Many of my friends don’t read it.

Sure I hardly even do anything anymore.


And some of the things we do are secret.


And I don’t want to offend anyone.


Peak blogging year was 2005 when I wrote 486 posts. What was going on in 2005? I had a job, there was a lot going on, a lot of material for blogging. Looking back, it’s a wonder Nelly's Garden didn’t get me the sack. Nowadays, with absolutely everyone on social media, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram most people tend to be much more careful about work-blogging.


My slackest year for blogging was 2013, just 99 posts that year. I vaguely remember feeling very flat. Matty had died in 2011 and that took a lot of getting used to. And we still had Pearlie, getting frailer and frailer and that was hard too. Bert tried to cheer me up by buying me a ticket to Vancouver and that was a good experience although there was no blogging from British Columbia. Martha and Evie were pre-school age then, always fun but tiring too. 

So here I am, in 2020, wondering how much longer I can keep this thing up. My sister, whose blog is nearly as old as mine, posts every day. And has a full-time job. I don't know how she does it. Actually, I do. Her life is more interesting than mine.

There! I've answered my own question. I just need to get a more interesting life. Either that or start spilling the secret stuff. Wish me luck.

This is the very first picture I posted to Nelly's Garden.

Sugar Rush

I was telling Bhrian about my serious sugar consumption over the holiday period. He told me about his healthy diet.

Porridge and fruit for breakfast, lunch is a salad, lean meat, a drizzle of ranch dressing.

Sounds good. What about dinner?

Ah. Dinner. Well, I make about three dinners. Y'know, kids wanting different things.

(He has a lot of kids)

Then, I can't be bothered making myself anything, so I eat bits of everything that the kids are having. And - the leftovers, so maybe dinner is not so good.

I said,

Well. I've been eating industrial amounts of trans fats and sugar. I woke up the other night and my pulse was racing. I think I was having a panic attack.

Fats and sugar are the worst combination. So addictive.

I know. I read a short story once about a morbidly obese man who bought margarine and white sugar and mixed it into a paste and ate that. That makes me feel a tiny bit better about eating four mince pies today.

At this, Bert cuts in.

Four mince pies! You ate four!

I said,

I hope you never have to go to an AA meeting. I can just hear you. Some poor addict would be talking about how much they were drinking and you'd be like - you drink gin straight from the bottle at eight in the morning!

I went on,

They'd kick you out for being so judgy.

I'm not sure if the AA people would do that as I've never actually been to a meeting. Yet.

Then Bhrian told us about a short break he and the family took to Letterkenny after Christmas.

Did you all go? 

Not the eighteen-year-old. He stayed home. The morning we were leaving he was practically pushing us out the door.

Bhrian described the holiday and it sounded idyllic. Lots of long walks on windswept beaches. I said,

I hardly know Letterkenny apart from passing through. But Uncle Vincent used to live there. He worked in a confectionery factory and I remember him telling us that if we only knew what went into sweets we'd never let them pass our lips. I was dying to know the details so pressed him on it and it seems that the vats of sugary stuff were very attractive to all sorts of flying insects and that they'd often end up in the finished product. Didn't put me off sweets one iota.

Bhrian agreed.

Probably made them even tastier. 

Yea. Hygiene is bound to be greatly improved since the 1960s, no more wasps and flies in our chocolate caramels and now they're nowhere near as delicious.

Tomorrow I plan to have porridge and fruit for breakfast and I've already researched bean sprouting. I think there might be some mung beans at the back of the cupboard. They've only been there for about eight years but I'm sure they'll be fine.