Accident

 

Workers were installing fibre-optic cable on the other side of the orchard hedge today and Bert went over for a chat with them. Judy, Jess and Ziggy did not get to meet these fellows as they were working beside the road and that is a dangerous place for dogs. In fact, Bert was just saying this to the cable-layers,

It’s a bloody awful road to be working on, is it not?

Then. Crash. Bang.

The fellow looked over at the two vehicles which had just collided. He replied,

Aye. It is.

Both cars were badly damaged but no one seemed to be hurt. The drivers were a young mum on the school run and a care worker out on her rounds.

A few people had stopped to help and there was a lot of phoning going on. Then someone’s dad arrived and it turned out that Bert knew him. They decided that it would be better if the damaged cars were off the road.

And that is how they all ended up in our yard. The two wrecked vehicles, the younger woman’s father, husband, the children’s grandmother and a chap who managed to get the care worker’s car out of the ditch and into the yard. Then there was the care worker’s boss, two of her co-workers and the police.

It was very exciting for the dogs who didn’t know who to make friends with first. The biggest group of folk that they'd seen in over a year. Their new friends were a mixed bunch, from little girls, one with a wobbly tooth, and even a couple of police officers.

So here we are with two bashed up vehicles sitting outside. Luckily it’s a big yard. We’re only glad that it was cars that got wrecked and not people. That wouldn’t make for much of a light-hearted blog post.

Drive safe, folks. You never know the minute...

A Return to Refined Tastes

 

Bert has yet to let the notion of his ‘refined tastes’ lie.

This is a man who refuses to take cold milk on his Weetabix and doesn’t like peppers unless they come from the Polish shop and are marinaded in oil and spices. He’ll only take tiny helpings of pasta and adores pickled fish in jars.

He’ll have mango chutney with all Indian dishes, even when it is not an appropriate accompaniment and adds quantities of soy sauce to any stir fry. When making an Ulster Fry he will often fry a pickled gherkin. He over salts everything.

I’ve said to him (often) that it’s not ‘refined taste’, it’s impaired taste from years of smoking. Of course, he disagrees.

An example of his refinement.

The other day we had a proper lunch so decided on tuna and onion sandwiches for supper. I made the filling, tuna, finely chopped onion, tomato and mayo. I split a soda farl, halved it, buttered it, plonked the filling in my half and went off to eat it. The Refined One was left to assemble his own. It was a work of art. An open sandwich, garnished with spring onion, and served with black olives and a sliced pickle.

He mocked my sandwich. Said it was like something you’d take to the bog for a day castling turf. I said his food looked like something served up to Oberon, King of the Fairies, the only thing lacking a scattering of borage flowers.

What’s really going on.

Bert’s mother was a terrible cook so from about the time he was twelve he prepared most of his own meals. Because his mother was useless in the kitchen he had no idea of how to make nice food and relied heavily on shop-bought sauces and seasonings. He got a taste for them.

Of course, since then, he became quite a capable cook, despite his propensity for adding unusual ingredients to food. He is completely banned from interfering with my cooking. I don’t care what he adds when it is on his own plate but not while it’s still in the pan.

The Thirtieth Day

 My thirty alcohol-free days are up today. There are two bottles of wine in the cupboard and I may open one on Friday evening. After all, there is little point in completing the experiment and then starting to drink on a weeknight. 

I'm feeling so dull these days. Lockdowns are tough-going. I miss charity shops and friends coming round and taking the train to Belfast. Most of all I miss my grandchildren in Norfolk. It has been 19 long months since I've seen them and they are getting so grown-up. My Katy sent these pictures and I just gazed and gazed at them.

One good thing about all this extra time at home is the opportunity to read. I managed to complete three books from my reading basket these past few days.

I've been a long time labouring at Sybille Bedford and often lost track of who was who and where. A family tree would have been useful. A Legacy was replaced by the Authenticity Project, a mother's day gift from Hannah.

Next book completed was The Ghost Road, the third in the Regeneration trilogy. All were excellent. As shown, I replaced it with another Pat Barker which I'm looking forward to starting.

Just think! So many books being published right now and I'll be eighty-something before I get around to reading them if Barker and Ishiguro are anything to go by. Never Let Me Go was an odd read but I liked it enough to make plans to read his most recent publication before I'm even seventy. I replaced the Ishiguro with the Hilary Mantel. Bert read that recently and recommended it. Hopefully, it will warm me up for the Cromwell trilogy.

An Early Start

 Judy the Rude insisted that I get up at five this morning so she could go pee. She's old and her bladder doesn't function as well as it did. I get that. I'm old too. After we'd both done the needful I returned to bed but couldn't sleep. It was light just before six so I got up, had coffee and watched the birds at breakfast. There were newcomers today. A pair of siskins. 

The goldfinches brought a few more of their kind to the table, not quite a charm near enough and there were more chaffinches than usual. A good start to my day.

The new seeds I bought yesterday at Pets at Home are going down well with the finches. I'll get a really big bag next time.

All that before collecting Martha and Evie for Home Schooling Thursday. The last two sessions were really good but today they were a bit fractious. There was an incident with a fireside poker and I had to explain lethal weapons and then get a bit shouty. Proper school from next Monday.

Martha had a Teams music lesson at three and her teacher noticed the picture of the guitar player on the wall behind her. 

He wondered who it was, suggested Robert Johnson. But it's not. Too old, for Johnson died at 27,  and too round-faced as Johnson had a long face. Long as a Lurgan spade. So not Robert Johnson. 

The only clue I have because I bought it in a charity shop was that it was one of three in the same style and the other two were of Louis Armstrong. Any suggestions? Anyone?

End Of An Era

 

Prisoners of Geography was a bit of a plod. I bought it for Bert (he likes that kind of thing) back in the days when visiting bookshops was a thing. Jared Diamond covered some of the same ground in Guns, Germs and Steel and I think he made a better fist of it. The Marshall was replaced in the reading basket by Julie Buntin, who I only heard of this week, thanks to Mikey who recommended it to all his followers on Twitter. I wonder if I was the only one who had a copy bought and paid for from eBay just moments after reading his tweet?

Today marked the end of an era in our wee village when the only remaining garage closed its doors for the last time. It was a popular family business and the two brothers who owned it will be much missed, as will their friendly staff.  It was the closest shop to our house and so easy to nip down to if we needed something at short notice. I don't know where I'm going to get my Saturday Guardian now or where Bert will fill the van.

And closer still to home there has been another change. I said to Bert,

Y'know those lads that pick up the recycling?

What about them?

They'll be saying the wee woman who lives up that lane must have died.

Why so?

No empty wine bottles in the recycling bin.

Of course! They'll think you died of the drink.

There is just one empty coffee jar and two spice jars in the glass bin. Normally there would be a bunch of empty wine bottles. I'm doing 30 days alcohol-free and this is Day 20. Bert is still enjoying his cider and the occasional dram of single malt. He does miss his glass of wine but I'm not opening any. Not until the weekend after the 30 days are up.

March Reading

My practice of reading several books at a time is working well. Now if I begin a book I almost always finish it and my night table is no longer piled with unfinished tomes. If I buy or find something new it has to wait until a space opens. The idea originally came from Will Self who claims to read 50 or more books at a time. That would be daunting - a dozen works better for me.

I finished The Salt Path by Raynor Winn this morning and added Shuggie Bain to the reading basket. I've had Shuggie for a few months now. Bert read it first and really liked it. He is a slower reader than me but he raced through it. Zoe told me that she read it quickly as well. It's at the back of the pile so I'll probably not get to it until Friday at the earliest. Something to look forward to.

I didn't expect to enjoy The Salt Path as much as I did for Raynor Winn writes honestly and her descriptive powers are mighty. It was as if I was there with them. She had me longing to walk the Undercliff when John Fowles did not. Guess I'll have to make do with Portglenone Forest.

Bert Got A Pfizer

We had an early phone call yesterday. It had just turned 9am. Early? Of course, it's early for Nellybert do not keep office hours. Now, I could well be up an hour or more at 9am, but that is my time. Not a time to be taking calls intended for Bert who will be lying in his pit for at least another hour. I brought the phone to him.

An hour or so later he came to me saying,

When will I be getting my Covid jab?

How should I know?

It's just that Liam there was telling me that he's got his and he's a couple of years younger than me.

Is he? You wouldn't think it to look at him. Wait 'til I check the NHS website.

Which I do and see that Bert's age group is being invited to book a test. Did I ever mention that he's six years younger than me? Although you wouldn't think it to look at him.

But the PC wouldn't allow me to book his test. I tried again, and again. Then I tried doing it on my phone and was able to start the booking. But the screen was too small and I kept pressing the wrong button which sent me back to the beginning.

I shared my experience on Twitter and Facebook. Twitter ignored me but Facebook was lovely and helpful. I got a phone number to call to make a telephone booking. It took ages to answer and when I was offered the options I foolishly chose the one where I had to listen to the privacy policy. At about eight minutes in I couldn't bear it any longer and discontinued the call. Tried again. This time it took even longer to answer and when it did I was immediately cut off.

Then I went to the Spar for a few bits for supper and spent £30. How did that happen? Oh yes. I was also replenishing the baking cupboard.

When I got back I tried booking on the PC again. Same result. I wondered if it was something to do with cookie files as I had used the PC to book my appointment and maybe they thought I was trying to jump the queue for the second jab. I opened settings and was about to remove the cookies when I remembered that the last time I did that I lost all my passwords and it took ages to restore them.

BTW, if someone smarter than me knows any little workarounds about passwords I'd appreciate hearing about it.

Then I had my bright idea. Book the test using another browser. So I did and Bert was booked in for his first vaccination the following afternoon. It took about two minutes.

While he was at the vaccination centre I went to the Range and bought two cushion pads and a small saucepan. He was out of there just as I was leaving the store. Then we went to a nursery in Dervock and got over 100 native trees for planting in the wood. 

And that's what counts for an eventful couple of days during Lockdown-21.

The Hamely Tongue

 

 The 2021 Census wants to know if I understand Ulster-Scots. Of course I do! Do I speak it? Sometimes. Read it? Definitely. Write it? The odd word here and there.

So, me being fluent and all in the Hamely Tongue I was rather put out to read that the crime writer Denise Mina said that no one outside Scotland would understand the phrase “as small as a midgie’s oxter” Really? And shouldn’t it be “as wee as a midgie’s oxter”? Maybe North Antrim is actually a part of Scotland? If that is so, I would just like to say that we are very proud of Nicola Sturgeon today.

Or in Ulster-Scots

Wur aw vary prood o’ oor wee bantie the day.  

A Good Day For Planting

 Lizzie's funeral was an early one, 10am in Ballyclare. Due to the pandemic restrictions, only a handful of people were able to attend. Lizzie was a well-liked woman, and even though many of her friends and relatives had died before her if these were normal times the church would have been full. In normal times the service would have been in church. In normal times there would have been a queue of people waiting to give the coffin a lift, but today that job was left to four men, three in their seventies and one (Bert) a mere lad in his early sixties. That is what happens when a person gets to be ninety, a person without issue and all that is left is a solitary nephew and a handful of cousins.

Last Monday, Zoe offered to come out today to help Bert plant the bundle of native trees bought to replace the larches that had succumbed to ramorum disease. It was a great day for it, mild and dry and the ground still soft enough to make planting easy. We planted around 150 bare root saplings and a few in pots. While we were planting them Zoe suggested we call the stand of new trees Lizzie's Wood. So we will. Lizzie would have been tickled pink to hear that. In years to come, we might walk through the new planting and listen to the birds singing in the branches and remember Lizzie and how much she loved the 'wee birds'. I will remember too how much she disliked the bigger birds, the jackdaws, crows and jays and most villainous of all, in her book, the sparrowhawk.

Off to the wood, Martha at the wheel.

Bert and Zoe handled the spades.

And, for the day that's in it...

From the days before tractors - a very young Lizzie with her father's farm horse. Used for ploughing and other jobs, he was also a much-loved family friend.

The Last Aunt

 

Lizzie 1930-2021

So that's it. Bert's last Aunt has gone and now he's the only only one still standing from that branch of the family tree. An era ended. No-one comes after him.

Lizzie loved dogs and dogs loved her. It was when she asked Bert a few months ago not to bring our two when he visited that he knew things weren't right with her. She had an underlying condition, and who hasn't at 90? But it was Covid-19 took her in the end.

A Tale of Two Leaks

Today was rather lovely, looking a lot like Spring and the first outside drying day of the year. Apparently, it is to be wet and stormy tomorrow but I care not for there will be more fine days to come. Anyway, I have a clothes horse and a dryer.

For it has been a leaky few days and there have been a lot of wet towels. Our first problem was the downstairs toilet cistern and the second, the dishwasher. The drip from the cistern had been an ongoing problem and on Saturday Bert set to dealing with it. Unfortunately, he made it worse and had to wait until today to get the part he needed to fix it. The next plumbing job on his list was the dishwasher. We had been noticing a faint but horrible smell coming from around the cooker and thought it was gas leaking. Bert called a gas fitter who arrived in the yard twenty minutes later. The gas man tested all the fittings and pronounced them safe. He did notice the whiff but said it definitely wasn't gas. Maybe we had a wee dead mouse behind the kickboards? He charged Bert twenty pounds and was on his way. I was mightily relieved. Wee dead mice are far less of a health hazard than leaking gas pipes and twenty quid is a small price to pay for the reassurance that all the fittings were safe.

So! Off with the kickboards. There were zero rodent corpses to be seen but there was a slick of sludgy, stinky water underneath the dishwasher and the cabinet next to it. The dishwasher had a tiny little hole in one of the outlet pipes. Bert thinks he can fix it.

It's a shame that we're on lockdown because the godson is a qualified plumber and I'm sure he'd have given Bert a hand if he'd been able. Bert hates plumbing because it's so fiddly and he thinks the plastic fittings used nowadays are shoddy. According to the first daughter, everyone hates plumbing, even plumbers and there might be something in that as the godson, between jobs when the first lockdown started has not been back on a site since. He's been painting and decorating and now he's working in a pharmacy selling lipstick and indigestion tablets. That young fellow could turn his hand to anything. Just like his da and his godfather.

Lizzie

We visited Bert's Aunt this afternoon. I'd always thought that, when this was all over, we'd be visiting Lizzie in a lovely care home where she'd live out her twilight years. But no. It seems that Covid and cancer mean that she will not be leaving the Robinson Memorial Hospital.  We spoke to her from outdoors through a window, slightly ajar. She couldn't seem to turn her head but appeared to acknowledge our presence by making hand gestures. Bert told her he wished he could hold her hand, but y'know, this old Covid. She turned her hand as if reaching out towards him. When we left her window he was close to tears. I don't think Lizzie will make it until March.

Before she went into hospital she was very fractious. No doubt, from the fear, anxiety and pain she was suffering. On one of the days Bert was looking after her she told him that he had no more sense than when he was six-years-old and that it was time he grew up. When he told me that I thought it was hilarious. Lizzie used to keep those sort of things to herself but by the time one is ninety years old, why not tell it like one sees it? Lucky for Bert, I like him being in touch with his inner child.

Because it was such a lovely day we went home by a scenic route, past Craig's Wood and the Moss where Bert's father used to cut turf and where we'd go help him bring it home. Lizzie was so often involved in that. Those were such carefree days, days when we were younger, so much younger than today.

Guess that's life.

Photo taken by me in 1988. Bert was 29, Lizzie was 57.

 

Through A Window

 

I'm recording the birds I see from my window and it occurred to me that I'm like a primary school teacher with a roll book. The goldfinches showed up for the first time yesterday even though my nyjer seed feeder has been in place for at least two weeks. It seems they preferred to visit the feeders outside Hannah's windows. 

It was very wet today and the pied wagtails did not appear. I hope they come tomorrow. A solitary wren footered about the crevices in the stone wall. Wrens have no interest in feeders, they only care for live insects.

Both pictures above were taken through the window so not that good but I like them because they are my birds. The first sunny day I'm cleaning that window.

First Thing

 

How do I start my day? I get up early, switch on the electric blanket, go downstairs, let the dogs out and make a cup of coffee. If there’s nothing much going on in the world, if nobody’s whining about not getting elected, and nobody’s getting impeached I return to my cosy bed with the coffee and read one or three of my books. I am usually accompanied by a dog and a cat who hate each other. They position themselves at opposite ends of the bed. Sometimes they glare at each other, other times they ignore each other.

It's a wonderful start to the day.

In Which Bert Displays His Vast Knowledge Of All Things Windsor

My main interests right now are the Trump impeachment proceedings and the numbers of garden birds coming to the feeding station right outside the room where I sit at my desktop keeping up with the Trump impeachment proceedings.

So it was a welcome diversion when the Te*****ph posted pictures of Princess Anne and her current husband watching the rugby in their ‘sitting room’ at Gatcombe Park. It is obviously a much better thing to debate the poshness, cosiness and relatability of the Princess Royal’s den than to be concentrating on the amount of pressure her dear mother and the eldest brother have been putting on the government regarding legislation which might have a detrimental effect on their privilege.

So much so, that when Bert informed me that Princess Eugenie had delivered a baby, my first remark was,

So what? Another freeloader!

Yet still, I asked,

What was it?

I don’t know. But it weighed 17 pounds.

But back to Anne’s living room. The Te*****ph were trumpeting it as how the posh really live and I’m thinking, if that’s posh then Bert’s Aunt Lizzie must be really posh for all I could see was mismatching furniture, ornaments and pictures cluttered everywhere and rugs (trip hazards) scattered all over the existing carpet. No doubt a closer examination would show canine piss stains in all the corners. Just like Lizzie’s.

I showed the picture to Bert and he had to agree, was just like Lizzie’s house.

Then he said,

So who was that bloke with Anne? Was it Mark Phillips?

No! They’re divorced for more than thirty years. The new hubby is Tim Laurence.

Who did she have the weans with?

Mark Phillips.

And that was Eugenie and Peaches?

No! Peter and Zara.

Did she have any with the new bloke?

No. They were both over forty when they married. He was in the navy. It was a good career move for he’s a vice admiral now. I think he was only a cabin boy when they got together. And where did you get Peaches from?

Well, I knew it was the same name as Marty’s dog.

Marty’s dog is not called Beatrice. By the way, the new royal freeloader is a boy. You remember what it weighed?

Yeah! Eighteen pounds. That’s a good weight for a boy.

The Swear Box

 A couple of weeks ago my oldest granddaughter and I had a falling out. The details are for us alone to know but I must admit, I lost my temper. 

As she reported to her mother, the worst thing was that I swore. I felt bad when I heard this and I suggested to Martha's Mama that maybe we should install a swear box. Because of our proximity to a Covid case (Aunt Lizzie) it was two weeks and a negative test before Nellybert had the girls again. All was forgiven but the swear box was discussed and duly implemented.

All went well. Just one mild expletive passed my lips at lunch and 25 pence was deposited. Until it was time to drive them home. Martha had noted that Granny suffers from 'Road Rage' and that this might be an opportunity to expand the coffers. It had already been agreed that any monies in the swear box would be Martha and Evie's to spend as they wished. There was a delay in setting off due to a forgotten item and a 50 pence expletive was uttered. 

Quick, Evie!

Said Miss Martha,

While you're in there, take 50 pence out of Granny's purse and put it in the swear box.

I robustly refused permission.

All went well on the journey home apart from one small annoyance and another 50 pence was left owing. Martha remarked something along the lines that driving seemed to be a difficulty for me in that I was easily annoyed. She gave the impression that she could cope with this if it meant that the fines might benefit her and her sister.

As soon as I got home I transferred a pound coin from my purse to the swear box. Hopefully, it will be the last time I'll ever have to do that. This is the best idea ever, for my delight in thwarting those rascals out of their swear box monies will be far greater than the short-lived release of firing one off.  

A picture from way back when we could have actual days out.

They Fitted Faded Yogi

 Our Dede, Leitrim Sister, Dr Byrne, my youngest sister despite being born during one of the coldest winters on record is one of the warmest-hearted people I know. 

I've not seen her since August and even then we didn't hug. 

Happy birthday, Dede. I hope it was a good one. 

Sea Coots

Today I took my dogs and my sore knees for a walk on the beach at Portballintrae. I know. We're supposed to stay at home, but mine was a mission of mercy as I was bringing half a dozen freshly laid eggs and a pot of homemade raspberry jam to an isolated old lady. Who would be Swisser.

Who frequently reminds me that she never reads my blog. So. Open season.

The walk was challenging. Longest I've been on since August last year when I went on a socially distanced walk with Zoe, Dr Leitrim Sister and Dmitri. I remember that walk well, the first one ever with Lulu the JRT and getting a picture of an interesting day-flying moth. I wish I could remember what it was.

Remembering has become a bit of a thing for me. Some events from half a century ago are vivid while others, more recent, can be cloudy. Like, where did I put the tinfoil and did I close the hens in? What is the name of that moth and what are those black and white birds? I know Bert told me but I cannot recall. My mind is all taken up with the birds I see from my window, the robins, a pair of wrens, blackbirds, chaffinches, blue tits, great tits, pied wagtails, magpies, pigeons, crows, greenfinches and today, a small flock of long-tailed tits that I had been waiting for.

Those unnamed birds were seen today on Portballintrae beach. I asked Swisser if she knew. She answered me an unasked question. I repeated the question.

Do you know what those birds are?

She said something vague about Covid.

You don't know, do you?

(She never admits to not knowing anything.)

Then she said,

They are coots.

I said,

They are not. Coots aren't seabirds. They like rivers and marshy places.

She said,

They're sea coots.

Later in the walk, we spotted a birds bobbing in the water and she pointed them out. She said.

There they are again. Sea coots.

It was a lovely walk. And they weren't sea coots. They were oystercatchers.

In Case You Were Wondering

 

Bert's Aunt is holding her own. The news comes third hand as no-one is allowed to visit. What happens next is out of our hands. 

I panicked and ordered Covid testing kits for Bert and me. We both tested negative.

Booking for the vaccination opened today for people in my age group. I secured an appointment for Sunday. The second jab is to be in April. After which I might be able to visit my darlings in Norfolk. Maybe. Fingers crossed.

The snowdrops are out and I am hopeful for longer days and milder weather.

Lizzie and me at Craig's Moss. I'm probably half the age I am today and Lizzie would be in her early sixties. We're all ready for a day of bagging turf. 

Counting Sheep in 2016

 I found this scrap of a post today on an old external hard drive. Written 22nd November 2016.

On nights when I find myself tired but not quite ready to fall into sleep I have a number of little mind games to help lull me over. These vary from a winning the lottery fantasy (I never play the lottery) and how I would dispose of my fortune. I’d need at least £7,000,000 as I have a very big family. Sometimes, if I don't wish to excite myself too much I just try to remember all the 32 counties of Ireland.

Back when I was a teenager, I’d be deciding in which order I’d date the Monkees and which of them I’d eventually marry and raise children with. It was always either Davy Jones or Mickey Dolenz and I only went out with Peter Tork once and then we just held hands. You know, thinking back, I never once planned my wedding or thought about a wedding dress. It was always about what Davy and I (or Mickey and I) were going to call our huge family of mostly female children. Lord! I was so young.

Last night I found a new method of helping myself nod off. A fantasy of having Donald Trump killed.

I must have been feeling slightly better the following week when I wrote and posted this,

And what of my inner life? Well... I'm still trying to come to terms with what appears to be the new world order and the rise of the right. At least I'm not dreaming about killing that man any more. Negative energy Nelly, negative energy.

It's been a long four years.

Bert Steps Up

 

This week was eventful in a lockdown sort of way.

Monday. Quiet for Nellybert but Chez Liz heavy things went down. Bert’s Aunt was in extremely angry mode and made a lot of people cry. With hindsight, one wonders if rage is a symptom of corona virus.

Tuesday. Still Nellybert’s Day Off. Aunt pressed the panic button that summoned Favourite Cousin because she wanted to get up two hours earlier than usual and her fire needed sparked.

Wednesday. The early morning carer couldn’t access Aunt’s abode and Bert had to rush up there to see what gave. He expected the worst but it turned out the door was simply stuck and the carer, new to the case, couldn’t figure out how to deal with the rustic half-door. He hung out until Favourite Cousin and Favourite Niece arrived to pack Lizzie’s case for her two-week all-expenses-paid respite to a very nice little place in Antrim.

Wednesday Evening. Favourite Niece returned Chez Liz as she was feeling poorly and was scared. FN settled her, made her as comfortable as possible and went home.

Thursday. The news came through that the Covid-19 test that Aunt had been given as a condition of her admission to the very nice place in Antrim had come back positive and respite was cancelled. Favourite Niece and Cousin had to take a big step back as both are vulnerable. Bert steps up. He is now her sole family support and spends most of the day with her in two sessions. She is very unwell and continues to deteriorate.

Friday. Bert spends entire day with his Aunt with short return home for lunch. Community Nursing Team, GP and Social Worker pull out all stops to get Lizzie admitted to hospital care. The Social Worker clears her desk and sits vigil with Bert until paramedics arrive. By this stage Lizzie is so unwell that the paramedics are not sure she will survive the trip to hospital. Administering oxygen revives her a little and the decision to remove her is taken.

Friday Evening. Bert returns home, very shaken by what has taken place and in absolute awe of the dedication of the nurses, GP, paramedics, social worker and the care team. He is also really spooked that he was in such close contact with a live coronavirus case. He’s still worried.

Saturday. Little news about Bert’s Aunt. She is ‘settled’. The truth is, hospital staff have barely time to communicate with relatives. And we cannot visit. These are strange and awful times. Favorite Niece and Cousin and Bert were all contacted by Track and Trace. All advised to self-isolate for ten days. When Bert explained that he was the only person who could help Lizzie he was told he could do so but he was to go nowhere else. I am allowed to go to shops as it was nearly a week since I’d been with Lizzie. That’s what Track and Trace said but daughter Hannah said I’m not allowed to go to shops at all.

An amusing aside. Bert was very particular about PPE, His consisted of disposable gloves, a mask, a heavy cotton boiler suit, woolly hat and fleece. After each return from Aunt’s house the boiler suit, fleece and hat were divested for laundering. I’ve never washed so many boiler suits in my life. And was glad to.

Birthday Girl

My youngest grandchild turned three yesterday. Her party was a small affair, just Mummy and Daddy and her big brother. But going by the video I saw they all seemed to have had a jolly good time.

 I haven't seen Emily and her family since August 2019. I expected to visit them in Norfolk in Spring last year but of course, that wasn't possible. Then they were supposed to come to Ireland in late Summer but that wasn't possible either. I miss seeing them so much. WhatsApp calls are a delight but they don't come with hugs. 

I didn't feel up to writing this last night although I did have a lovely phonecall with Emily and her mum even though Emily should have been in bed. Norfolk will be my first port of call as soon as it is safe and restrictions are lifted but goodness knows when that will be. BBC News reports tonight that half of the patients in our local area hospital have tested positive for coronavirus. 

In other news, I cut my own hair this evening. Gathered it all into a high ponytail, ran my fingers to its end and cut off around an inch of split ends. I missed a few locks so might have to do it again in the morning. 

And I'm in a state of nervous anticipation about Wednesday's inauguration. There will be wine.

Try Hen's Anxieties

 Happy Birthday, Ganching and thanks for all the blogging.

The Man Above

 First of all, I have to report that I didn't get very far with the novel. Just a few changes in the notes about how many illegitimate children the father had before he met the mother and some new thoughts on infant mortality.

For I was too busy paying heed to the Georgia run-offs. Got up early on Wednesday morning and positively whooped at the news that the Democrats had succeeded. That was a good feeling about US politics that didn't last the day. For, as everyone now knows, there was a bit of an insurrection on Capitol Hill. 

The day after Bert had to see the man up the road who is quite the Trump fan, and who believes the orange one to have been sent by God to turn around the evils of this world. No matter, that God's chosen one has a dubious grip on morals and decency, for He works in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform... as isn’t written in scripture.

The man up the road informed Bert that the rioters were most emphatically not supporters of Trump. They were in fact actors and Antifa. He maintains that in a months time the truth will out, Trump will be back in the White House and Biden will be in jail!

My thoughts? I have come to believe that those who take the bible literally are capable of believing anything.

Meanwhile, closer to home, Bert’s Aunt Lizzie was admitted to hospital on Monday. There was a day-long wait for the GP’s visit and then a five hour wait for an ambulance which, when it finally arrived, was staffed by volunteers all the way from County Fermanagh.

Anyway, the hospital did some tests and she has a serious problem. She refused a biopsy and they said she could go home, but not until the social workers had arranged some extra help at home – which is good. Then the hospital phoned to inform her next-of-kin that the hospital bay she’d been nursed in had a coronavirus case so now all those patients are in isolation for ten days. These are crazy times and not a good time to get sick.

But for now, I am looking forward to the Spring, the vaccine and a hair cut. And Bert is looking forward to receiving the £30 bet we put on the results of the American election. I said I wouldn’t pay up until inauguration day. For anything could happen. Anything.

Saturday Morning Conversation

 Y'know Bert, last night just before snuggling down to sleep I realised that I can let my thoughts wander where they will, I can go anywhere, do anything, be whatever I wish...

Oh?

And, y'know, next thing I'd worked out an idea for a book!

Oh. That's good. Will it be a humorous book?

Oh no. I don't think so. The themes I'm considering are family, rural Ireland, betrayal and insanity.

So it's going to be an autobiography then? 

No! Definitely fiction.

Any sex in it?

Hinted at. Although nothing passionate, it will be dutiful congress only. We're talking about Catholics here.

I'm not sure about Jack Russells but Eriophorum angustifolium (bog cotton) will definitely feature.

 

New Year's Day

Martha asked me recently how long I might live. I answered, 

I'm planning to live until I'm 88 years old. I might live longer or I might die before that, but - that's the plan anyway. You'll be in your early thirties by then, you'll be a proper grown-up, on your way.

I think she liked that answer, Being thirty-three must seem like a lifetime away to her. When I was her age I thought my life would be hardly worth living at thirty. I expected to be married to some elderly boring professor who I wouldn't even particularly like and that I'd have about four not very interesting children, likely all boys. Obvious that I believed Jo March's fate to be a big disappointment.

Bert's Aunt Lizzie has gone two years over my ideal lifespan. I spent most of yesterday with her and she is not in good form. She won't eat, hardly drinks, cannot sleep and is in constant pain. She waited three months for a hospital appointment and has finally been given one for this day week. In ordinary times she would already be in the hospital if only to be rehydrated. This pandemic is dreadful for the ordinary sick and elderly whose care needs are not being met. One of Lizzie's carers told me that on a recent house visit she came upon an elderly man who had fallen and could not get up. Normally carers would be expected to call an ambulance and wait until it arrived. Two hours later, no ambulance had arrived so she sought the help of a neighbour who helped her get the old chap on his feet. He then declared that he would not go to hospital and the ambulance was cancelled. Incidentally, this carer waited on her own time and will never be paid for it. And didn't even resent it. A true Hero.

Lizzie in better days