Bit Fed Up

The Wood

Hannah has informed Nellybert that we no longer have to do food shopping. She will do it for us. It's a relief. We were in Lidls last week and it was an unnerving experience, too many people in the shop, and no social distancing possible. We were glad to get out of there.

London Sister phoned yesterday to talk plants among other things. She is working hard in her garden and is keen to start sowing but only has rocket and sunflower seeds and the local garden centres are all closed. I sent her some of my spare seed and stuck three first-class stamps on the envelope which is probably an overpayment but I didn't want to go to the post office. I'm not even sure she'll get them as I'm not sure about the postal service anymore. Maybe I'm just in a pessimistic mood these few days.

I really miss having a good supply of potting compost and those silly impulse plant buys I'm always making. And I miss not being able to buy bakers yeast. Who cares about toilet paper? I want yeast. I haven't been able to get any for over three weeks now.

Still. All small stuff. I could make my own potting compost if I wanted to and I've got the sourdough and soda bread options for baking.

Since this began I've been taking two walks a day. One government-sanctioned exercise period on our road where the traffic has eased quite a bit. There is a marked decrease in the number of fast-food wrappers that usually adorn our verges but around the same amount of empty energy drink cans and cigarette packets and now, far too many discarded disposable gloves. They are disgusting pigs, the people who throw their filthy crap out of car windows.

My other walk is at home so nobody's business but mine. We're lucky to have the wood and we all walk in it at some point during the day.

Bert just got me to watch a little short on iPlayer. It's called The Farm and the episode is entitled Dog. It really cheered me up, especially as we'd previously watched an episode of The Last Kingdom which was the opposite of cheerful with eye-gouging, torture and death in childbed. I might have to put Uhtred Ragnarson on hold for a while.

A Life

For two consecutive nights, my dreams have featured feral children.

Narcissus

In these dreams, I have tried and failed to contain the children. Which is a rather obvious analogy for Covid-19.

Earlier today, Bert and I were having a conversation about stupidity. We came to the (obvious) conclusion that the most dangerous people in the world are the stupid, those so stupid that they think they are clever. Can you think of anyone?

Someone called to our house this evening. He didn't get to come in and when I came to investigate I found him standing less than a metre away from Bert. I said (not joking)

You're too close.

(I know, it is so weird. We'll laugh about it afterwards.)

He said,

Ach. That's a lot of nonsense.

I said,

You might think so. But we don't. So respect our opinion.

He was stung. Not used to outspoken women. (I don't care.)

These are strange, strange days.

Wallflower

Quiet Saturday

 Crocus in the garden, with monkey puzzle in the background

I was awakened by the dogs at ten past six, then waited until seven before going to get my Saturday Guardian. I buy it once a week at my local garage, and the rest of the week I read it online. There were more people around than usual, one man doing a fairly big shop. I filled a basket too, milk, 4-pack of toilet roll, bleach, cheese, chocolate. Life's neccessities. I sidestepped the other customers as much as I could and kept a very decent distance from Hans.

The tightening of restrictions in the sensible part of Ireland was mentioned and it was said that it might be time for a proper lockdown here too. There are a lot of people who are flouting the advice/rules, whatever it is.

Bert has been ever so slightly getting on my nerves these past few days and I'm sure I've been getting on his. But I had a thought, this...

If I have to be closed up at home with one other human being, Bert is a good one. He is patient, kind, funny and so what if he doesn't put the milk back in the fridge or the lid on the tea caddy? To show my gratitude I baked him a cake and didn't use a recipe. I put apricot jam in it and plain yogurt and it was lovely.

 A patch of wood anemone in Bert's wood

The first few days of staying at home were unsettling. I spent far too much time online, scrolling through news sites, coronavirus updating and Twitter. I exhausted myself so much that I could barely read for pleasure. These past few days I've been spending less time online and more time gardening, walking and reading. And weird tasks like degunking the shower outlet.

And I've pulled a chair over to the window in my bedroom and sometimes I sit there, reading, or just watching the chickens. It's very peaceful especially as there are far fewer vehicles on our road.

Bert has just called me to watch the final episode of  This Country. Stay safe everyone.

Life Interrupted

In the polytunnel, today. 

Going through my seed boxes today and found that I had no ordinary peas or spring onions. And all the gardening outlets are closed. The Range is open but they are only permitted to sell cleaning products and hardware. Montrose Garden Supplies have shut their doors. I suppose it makes sense. You know what gardeners are like. We'd be defying government advice and queuing up to purchase pansies and compost.

But there's always online. My favourites are Real Seeds and Chiltern but both companies are experiencing unprecedented demand and neither could deal with my order. I don't trust eBay for seeds and I try to avoid using Amazon so that's out. Eventually, after some trickiness with changing passwords, I managed to place an order with Mr Fothergill. And Zoe will be glad to hear that I've reserved a bag of multipurpose compost from the local garage. Only one per customer.

But these are small difficulties compared with what some people are going through in these awful times. We're observing social distancing, as are all our friends and family and we remain tremendously grateful to everyone out there on the front line, the carers, health workers, retail staff, community workers, police. You are all heroes. If I was having to go out there every day I'd be needing a big hoard of toilet paper which I haven't got. And if I had, I'd swap it for compost and seeds.

I was cross when I heard all the hoo-ha about Prince Charles and the Duchess in social isolation. Really? There is no way he'll be on his own. There is bound to be at least six flunkies running around after the pair of them. It's got to be quite an honour to be infected with a double-strength dose of the Royal virus that has already been through Prince Albert of Monaco. This will be a whole new level of six degrees of separation.

So who'd you catch it from? 

Idris Elba. 

Wow! 

Zoom Lens

I got to see my two oldest grandchildren today. I didn't get to hug them or to come any closer than 4 metres, twice the recommended social distancing length, and they didn't come into the house. I took this film of them on their beloved trampoline.

Using the zoom on my camera. I stood well back.

It was odd.

This is our day for eating together as a family, We won't be able to do that for a while.

I made a fish pie and a steamed pudding this morning. They got their share to take home and eat in their own house. Miss Martha said, and I quote her mum, that

...everything (Granny) cooks is amazing. Even the things I don't like.

So I assume she doesn't like fish pie, except for mine* of course.



*Thanks also due to Mary Berry for the recipe.

Who Is It This Time?

Bert thought this might be a fox hole and maybe it once was. He said it's been around for years or since he was a wee lad. That's decades, half a century's worth.

Ziggy decided to investigate. That's the last picture I took as the noises that emanated from that tunnel were worrying. He was barking and something else was chittering. He emerged, arse first and the something else was right behind him making frantic chirping noises. It was a badger. Out Ziggy came and made then moves to go right back in again. We tried to discourage him and eventually had to pick him up and carry him away from the area.

Checked YouTube when I got back home to make sure that the chittering noises we heard were badger. I had no idea how many and varied are the sounds that badgers make.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4lpFjHsGLo

And there was me always used to think that they spoke like this,

"Now, the very next time this happens," said a gruff and suspicious voice, "I shall be exceedingly angry. Who is it this time, disturbing people on such a night? Speak up!"

During these strange times, I'm feeling rather badger-like too. 

Cocooning

It occurred to me this morning that if I should slip this mortal coil long before my time, that there are still quite a few items in my wardrobe that I have yet to try out. So, why not use this time of 'cocooning' or to put it another way, 'social isolation' to experiment with 'looks'. After all, who is even going to see me?

Take this skirt, which belonged at some point to someone from Bodenland - then they flogged it on eBay and yours truly paid good pension money for it. It's never had an airing.

I teamed it with a wee linen matchy cardi from Alex &Co and a Fatface teeshirt I usually wear in bed. Then cowboy boots (what! cowboy boots?), which are years old  and a scarf I bought on Rathlin Island, back in the days when you could go places.

When he saw me, Bert said,

Are you going out?

And I said,

What! Looking like this?

And he said,

I dunno. Looks good to me. Though maybe not the teeshirt.

Postscript

To anyone who reads Nelly's Garden. Like everyone else, I'm stressed by what is going on. A bit scared too. But I'm not going to use this blog to dwell on it. Instead, it will be a bit of distraction for me and for you.

Keep yourself safe and others too.

Playing School

Holly giving her presentation

Bert wasn't at home when the girls arrived today. They were out of school early and had their homework done and despite the heavy rain there was no mention of Netflix. It was straight under the stairs to pull out the dressing up boxes. Favourite outfits are a cross between Jane Eyre and Little House on the Prairie. Today they were playing school and were all over the place looking for folders, pens and vintage books. Martha has always preferred "old books with tiny writing" and Evie's choice would be pocket-sized volumes from The Observer's range.

Then Bert came back. They were at him immediately.

Bert! Bert you're playing with us. We're playing schools. I'm Sunny and Evie is Holly. We're head girls! You're Bud, Bud Sorenson and in this game, you're not stupid, you're clever, You're head boy. We're going to do projects and then we're going to do a presentation!

He was allowed to have a coffee before the game began and from then on it was upstairs, downstairs, in my lady's chamber. While all this was going on I was making food.

Bud and Sunny await their turn

Listening to them was great entertainment. Martha, a born performer, played the kazoo and tap-danced. Bert discussed the book he had 'read', E. Nesbitt's The Wonderful Garden,

I read this book. It had nice pictures. I liked it very much.

It seemed to please them enough. Sadly, I did not hear Evie's presentation which occurred moments after I took the pictures as I'd gone outside.

Playing school might be a popular game in the coming weeks as they are likely to be off and will be missing the real thing. We're living through a rare time. It will soon be time to hunker down and isolate.

No Joke

It is no joke being a reluctant hypochondriac during a global pandemic. I never wanted to be the kind of person overly concerned about health and well-being. My mother was, lots of her sisters were. I thought it was dreary and self-defeating and swore it would never happen to me.

But it did, it crept up on me, especially in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn't come. I try hard to resist it. I fight it all the time.

That pain in my chest. I just slept awkwardly on my tit. Not the beginnings of pneumonia.

That cough. A tickle, just the common cold.

That fever. We had an oil delivery. I notched the heating up. And I'm wearing a particularly cosy cardigan.

That urge to self-isolate. I'm just fucking sick of callers. It's an excuse not to socialise.

I was OK until Wednesday. I wanted to go shopping in town, to visit TK Maxx, Camerons, all (nearly all) the charity shops in search of something new. I was discerning, only bought one coat for me (Barnardos) and one jumper for Bert (Marie Curie) and was heading back to the van. There was a group of young men walking in front of me. One lad pulled a big wad of kitchen roll from his pocket, snottered into it, threw it on the ground and spat. I froze. Slowed my step, made sure I was at least ten feet behind them. We all got to the next set of crossing lights, they stopped, I started walking backwards, the green light comes on, we all move forward, me maintaining ten-foot distance, they turn left, I turn right, big sigh of relief.

I couldn't get over it, told everyone about how spooked I was. Next morning I wake up with the cold and convinced myself I had the virus. For about twenty minutes. All that rummaging through clothes rails, God knows who else had been there before me, God knows where they'd been, what they had wrong with them. That new (to me) Zara coat will be the death of me.

I caught myself on. Went for a walk (in a graveyard, poignant) met the grandchildren, helped with homework, baked biscuits, forgot I was dying and so on...

Then, later, just after Martha and Evie had gone home, Banjo Man calls in, watery-eyed, streaming with the cold and freshly sent off a site in Dublin town for coughing too much. The site foreman had asked him to get checked out and let them know if he was OK but testing is suspended here so all he can do is self-isolate, just in case, while we all build up our herd immunity. Apparently 20 cases of Covid-19 in Northern Ireland but if testing is suspended it is bound to be many, many more.

Then this morning I woke up convinced my cold was something worse and it was more than an hour before I caught myself on.

Bert went shopping in Lidl and there was no toilet roll and no butter. Also, no maple syrup which is a great shame as I had accidentally dropped our practically full bottle on the tiled floor - huge mess to clean up. And me not well.

The Zara coat I risked my life for. I have requested if it should end badly for me, that I am to be buried in it.

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!