Amsterdam - A Bat and a Box of Wool

 

A few years back I went to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam and took photographs of some of the exhibits. There is one of a stuffed bat that I've yet to investigate and then there is this one, a Chinese lacquered box containing a paltry collection of woollen yarn - not even enough to knit an infant's bonnet.

Apparently, Van Gogh used coloured yarn to experiment with colour matching which he then brought to his painting. Recently, whilst at the Van Gogh exhibit in Belfast I learned that some art historians have a theory that the artist suffered from a form of colour vision deficiency*  where there is a predominance of yellow in vision. Before I had my cataracts removed I had become accustomed to yellow tones in my vision but not quite as yellow as looking through the Lucozade cellophane wrapping**. After my procedure blues were clearer. It was like seeing through the eyes of a child, the colours were wonderful.

Now I've realised that what I have always loved best about knitting stripey jumpers is using different colours and what will do first when beginning a new project is decide what colours I will not be using. The last one (I finished it yesterday and still have a little bit of sewing to do) was to have no green, yellow, white or orange. The one I started today will definitely exclude pinks and bright reds. 

Which gives me a problem. Sometime before Leitrim Sister's special birthday, I promised I would make her a jumper or cardigan with sixty colours. I must have been on the wine. If you are reading this LS, could you please let me know which colours to leave out?

Research completed, too easy with Google. Stuffed bat, maybe this one, was painted by the  artist.

*Xanthopsia

**Only Boomers will know about the yellow cellophane

Knitting For Anarchists

 

198 stitches were cast on 4mm circular needles at the beginning of this month.. I prefer to knit in the round as I dislike and am not good at sewing my work together. The Rules dictate that pieces should be blocked and pinned; I've never obeyed. Knitting in the round means that the amount of sewing is drastically reduced. 

Knitting for Anarchists. I'd been intrigued by this book for a while now and eventually found it selling for the right price on eBay. Anarchy, derived from Greek, means 'having no ruler' and I've often been irritated by the Knitting Rules. 

They are being broken here. I'm using odds and ends of yarn sourced from everywhere. That grey was found in a charity shop and cost pence.

Having recently knit several baby sweaters I find I get stuck at the neck. The usual ribbed style leaves me wondering if it will fit over the baby's head and I cannot be bothered with the faff of buttonholes.  And as my babies are all very far away, living in Dublin and Dingle and Walsall, I cannot measure their not-so-little heads. So I experimented with rolly necks. Just kept knitting stocking stitch, so easy in the round and after a loose casting off the neckline just curls into a sweet little collar. I still don't know if it keeps its shape after washing. 

I really hate knitting rib so I thought I'd go for the rolly option there too. The only snag is that there has to be a few rows in garter stitch or rib or else the hem might roll up to the armpits!

The body of the sweater and one sleeve are completed. I always find knitting the second sleeve relaxing as I don't have to worry about shaping or colourways - just copy the first one. Knitting without patterns is satisfying but sometimes it's stressful. I always tell myself that my projects are purely experimental so that if they don't totally please me, I will at least have learned something.

The work starts to get heavy when the sleeves and body are all on the needle. I decrease every second row to produce a raglan. The beads keep me in mind about where I begin and what decrease I'm on. 

Coming close to the finish. That picture was taken this morning and I hope to complete it tomorrow. Picture of the rolly neck to follow.

The Knitting For Anarchists book. It's OK. Full of rules. I prefer this one.

Sixteen Years Ago

 

I came across this post from February 2007, back in the day when Z & D had just the one child, wee Gracie. Sadly Gracie is no more, although I do still have that scarf. 

Dos And Don'ts

Nellybert has been entrusted with the task of looking after (for one week only) the most precious dog in Ballymena.

Gracie’s owners are off to Mexico for a fortnight. I picked the whole lot of them up this afternoon and took them to Belfast to catch the bus to Dublin Airport.

D says,

I expect Zoë went over the dos and don’ts for Gracie’s stay?

Not really. I know not to feed her from the table. What’s the rule on beds?

No more than two consecutive nights.

Z chips in from the back seat,

She gets fed at 7.30pm. No treats unless she does a trick. Get her to play dead or something like that. Oh and she’s been doing this choking thing recently. She usually sorts it herself but if she can’t dislodge it just put your finger down her throat. If that doesn’t work grab her by the back legs and turn her upside down whilst patting her firmly on the back.

Righty oh. Any issues with comfy chairs?

Oh no. Comfy chairs are fine.

D interjects,

Unless you’re already eating there yourself. She’s not allowed to be on the sofa if you’re eating a sandwich. She knows that.

Z says,

If she should, God forbid, make a run towards the road you mustn’t run after her. I know it would be your first instinct but she’ll think it’s a game and run harder. What you must do is run in the opposite direction and shout “Ball!” She should run after you then.

Okey dokey.

And one other thing. She hates joggers. If you’re out for a walk be careful with joggers for she’ll go after them. And watch out for Willie Drennan. She hates him.

In Which We End Up in Asia Supermarket

 

We said goodbye to dearest Lulu on Tuesday morning. Her people, Leitrim Sister and Dmitri returned from Lisbon on Monday evening and we spent a pleasant evening watching Happy Valley, eating Pastel de Nata and drinking wine. Whilst in Cullybackey, Dmitri was as mild-mannered as one could wish but apparently spent the following evening fighting Fascism on the streets of Sligo and got his big Glaswegian dish all over Twitter the morning after. We were all very proud of him.

Wednesday was Evie's Year 7 Revue in which she played a stroppy pre-teen. Obviously, she excelled in the role. I was lucky enough to be given a precious ticket and enjoyed it very much.

On Thursday Bert was invited to go to the Sunflower in Belfast by Les, who was playing there. He declined.  I'm afraid that Bert is becoming reclusive and have decided I must encourage him to venture further afield. I know it won't be easy. Whilst not at the Sunflower, we had a visit from Young Rooney whose current take on the political situation in the North was agreeable to me - not so much his firmly-held belief in the flatness of the earth. 

So today, in a spirit of adventure, we went to Belfast via Doagh (scenic route) and ended up in Asia Supermarket on the Ormeau Embankment. I knew Bert would like it there. What I didn't realise was just how much. I don't believe there was a single item that he didn't study intently. I thought I'd never get him out. We bought roti and kimchi, mangoes and salted sunflower seeds, pickles and tapioca, prawns and mackerel, halva and six kinds of tea. And a lot more besides. We did not buy butter even though it was 25 pence cheaper than Tesco's best price. 

And tonight Bert was invited by Rodders to go to the Brian Jonestown Massacre gig in the Limelight, with a lift from door to door. He declined. Said it would be 'too much' and that he'd already been to Belfast today. There is much work still to be done if I am to get that man out from under my feet.

Bert Gets Cooking

 

The kitchen is full of wonderful smells. Spicy smells. Bert is making curry. And I am knitting.

There is other news about Bert - a good thing that came from a not-so-good thing. About a month ago we both had the coronavirus, Bert was much sicker than me, possibly because he neglected to take a booster jab in the Autumn. He threw up for days and was unable to eat, losing ten pounds.  During this time he didn't smoke. When he started to feel a little better I tentatively suggested that as he had been without nicotine for more than a week it might be a good thing if he took the opportunity to break the habit. He said, 

We'll see.

And I thought, let it be his decision. I won't push it.

A month later and he has still not smoked. He is starting to think of himself as someone who has given up. which is very positive. 

Of course, by now, that ten pounds has rolled back on - a good thing as he's on the slim side already. His appetite has improved and he is taking a great interest in baking and cooking. He is very self-critical of the results - the other night his fairy cakes didn't rise but his shortbread was delicious. He is devoted to Mary Berry and wonders why I use butter when Mary is all about margarine and I tell him to wise up, that was then and this is now and that's a really old book and I bet she never shouted for marge on the Great British Bake Off.

An Interlude

He shouted that dinner is served and it was delish and then we watched Happy Valley which was great and I am looking forward to watching it again tomorrow with Deirdre and Dmitri, fresh back from Lisbon, reunited with Lulu and cannot get iPlayer in lovely Leitrim.

Re the photo. I'm taking a picture of the current project every morning. It is not a giant hat, it is the bottom part of a multi-coloured stripey jumper.

Dogs and Knitting

Life cannot always be about exciting day trips to European cities. Most of the time I just stay home where it can be quiet. But not when the dogs come for, as I have mentioned before, Nellybert provides complimentary dog-sitting services to friends and family and for the past seven days, we have been busy.

The first to arrive was Elvis, a beautiful whippet/collie cross, just under a year old. This was his first-ever sleepover. He met a lot of new dogs and was sweet and good-tempered with them all. I hope his people go on more trips as we would be delighted to have him back again. The only crime he committed was getting hold of a ball of purple wool and tangling it into juggins. And because Bert is a stranger to socials, and had not the wit to take a picture of Elvis all bound up in the purple wool, instead making haste to free the little dog and lessen its distress. Silly Bert. Imagine thinking that helping a pup is more important than getting a cool photo for my blog.

Ozzie

Tuesday evening brought Rex and Ozzie. Rex has stayed here many times but Ozzie was a first-timer. Rex did no bad things except be terribly jealous of all the attention Ozzie was getting. It would have been difficult not to be fond of poor one-eyed Ozzie, a rescue dog from Ukraine who nowadays spends his time between London and Portballintrae. Ozzie’s only bad action was starting a fight with Phoenix, a long-time visitor to this yard.

Lulu from Leitrim was the next dog along. Her people are off to Portugal for a long weekend, which is about a month in dog years. We see quite a bit of Lulu and she is generally a very good girl. However, she blotted her copybook this afternoon. I was sitting right here and was aware that she was playing some scrabbling game under my feet. Maybe a piece of pizza crust? So engrossed was I in my knitting that I did not look down. When I did glance at the floor there was my ball of crimson wool in rallops. Brand new the previous day and the band only off it. At least she didn’t do such a thorough job as Elvis did with the purple. Probably because Bert got involved in that siege. The crimson was untangled in fifteen minutes while the purple took me two and a bit episodes of Fortunes of War to save.

Wasn't me.

On Reading Books Revisited

A post from 8 years ago. I never did get around to explaining my liking for dusty old books. 

One great disadvantage of a rural childhood was not having access to the public library. There was a library of sorts at our primary school but one large cardboard box would have held all that it contained. Our teacher Cassie was horrible and we only got to read occasionally. I don't remember being allowed to choose the books either. She'd just give one to us and that was that. The only book I remember from school was The Wind In The Willows and I recall being really confused at the part where Pan appears to Mole and Ratty and feeling much easier when the story returned to the adventures of Toad.

At home there never seemed to be enough books because we all read them so fast. I usually got first go at fresh books because I was the oldest. Our mother must have noticed this. She returned one day from shopping in Ballymena with a book for my younger sister, also a voracious reader. The book Matty brought for Anne was My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara. She informed us that Anne would get to read it first, then it would be her turn and, after that, the book was up for grabs. I could hardly bear having to wait but wait I did. Matty stood firm. My Friend Flicka was the first book in a trilogy and Matty also bought the next two, Thunderhead and The Green Grass of Wyoming. Anne got first dibs on those as well. They were a terrific read and well worth waiting for.

Christmas time brought great reading opportunities. Everyone got one or two books at Christmas, usually Puffin or Armada paperbacks and these would be hidden away with the other presents. I'd search the house until I found the stash of books, usually hidden on the high shelf in her wardrobe. For several days every chance I got, I'd be up there, standing beside the wardrobe in our parent's bedroom reading hungrily, nervous, praying not to be discovered. And I never was.

Of course, when Christmas Day arrived I hadn't a thing to read and I used to look jealously at Anne as she sat there enjoying her new books. Much later when I confessed all to Matty she said it explained a lot for she could never understand why I showed so little interest in the Christmas books.

It's often a thankless task being a parent. Imagine my poor mother carefully picking out my books only to see me ignore them. I hadn't even the sense to pretend to read them. I wonder would she have preferred to know then that she had reared a sneak without a notion of how to defer gratification despite the lesson with the Mary O'Hara trilogy.

Sometime soon I shall explain why it is that I particularly love dusty old books. 

Belfast Then and Now

Last week, while in Belfast I took a walk from Yorkgate station to Carlisle Circus then, after the exhibition, from Carlisle Circus to the Linenhall Library. I was most comfortably shod in my new Blundstone boots so the walking was a pleasure despite my achey hip and knee.

The first part of the walk took me past the memorial to the McGurk's Bar bombing in 1971. The pub was blown to pieces and fifteen people died. That was one of the many atrocities that took years and years to get through to me.*

I passed near Gresham Street and thought of all the times I hitched to Belfast when I should have been at school, making my way to Smithfield Market and Harry Hall’s second-hand bookshop. Ages were spent in there choosing Penguins and Pans some of which are still on my bookshelves today. Pocket money gone, I’d begin the trek from Smithfield to the Antrim Road where I’d thumb a lift just in time to catch the school bus from Antrim, back home and the parents never had a notion. Imagine taking rides with strangers in the 21^st Century, now that we are led to believe that every other person is a predator. Although, I do think that most of the people who gave me lifts back then were probably protecting me from the bad actors.

Sixteen-year-old me would have been lugging a satchel stuffed full of Steinbecks from Harry Hall's. Nowadays me bought one solitary book - May the Lord in His Mercy be Kind to Belfast, by Tony Parker. I had a copy years ago and wanted to read it again. 

*During the early years of the conflict there would be times when I would not be fully aware of what was going on. In 1971 the violence escalated and it peaked in 1972. The ‘News’ became unbearable and truth was in short supply.

Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience

 Back in November I booked myself a ticket for the Van Gogh exhibition in Belfast.

Christmas happened, then Covid 19 happened and about a week after that I thought to myself,

Really must find out when this event is taking place. Maybe the 17^th?

So I checked out my booking and guess what? It was happening in two hours' time. I’d got my Van Gogh mixed up with my Emily’s birthday. Obviously, I didn’t go. Instead, I booked another ticket.

My new slot was at 10am today so it was an early start. I took the train to Yorkgate and walked to Carlisle Circus. But I was still too early. There is not a lot going on there. Not even a coffee shop! So I went for a walk. When I got back to the venue there was a small queue where almost everyone waiting was eligible for the bus pass.

The event was described as an immersive experience; I wasn’t sure what that would mean. It wasn’t quite what I imagined but then I’d imagined a dream. Despite having been to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam a few years ago I learned more about the artist today than I ever knew.

The immersive part of the exhibit was wonderful, the only downside being that it was cold, cold, cold. We had fleecy blankets but they weren’t enough to keep us from freezing. It would have been much better if it had been warmer and our experience would have transcended perfection if we’d been offered some hot tea with a pinch or two of magic mushrooms. The only downside about that would have been the decanting onto Carlisle Circus of several dozen tripping elders. It is to be hoped that the few young couples present with infants would have declined the offer of hallucinogenics.

Return to the Redshank Lawn

 

This post was written over 10 years ago and harks back to the late 1970s.

The bambino rolling around in a bed of persicaria maculosa (redshank) is now a professional gardener. Yet the first garden she ever knew consisted mainly of redshank!

redshank, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I moved to Drumtara in 1978. The house was newly built and I was its first tenant. Reader, I had nothing!

Well - I had a child, another on the way, several hundred books, a bed, a toybox full of toys (but that wasn't mine) and a couple of chairs.

Word soon got out that I was in need of household effects and furnishings and friends rallied around to help. I soon had more furniture and bits and pieces than I needed. I never said no and that is a habit I have to this very day.

The house sorted, I began on the garden. I'd never had my own garden before and I was very excited. With help from my father, I began to create a lawn for the children to play on. It was hard work breaking the soil, getting the stones and builder's rubble out and raking and finishing. At last, Daddy pronounced it ready for sowing and gave me a plastic bag of grass seed. I scattered, sowed and waited with mounting anticipation.

It wasn't long before the first green shoots appeared. At first, it was only a light green haze but as the days progressed it became greener and greener. My father came to look at it. There were a lot of areas where the seed hadn't taken. He said, "Don't worry. They'll fill in."

The grass continued to grow. It actually started to look quite lush. Except... except it didn't really look like grass. Daddy said, "Redshank." I was very disappointed. My first attempt at sowing a lawn and I had created a weed patch. A lush and green weed patch but a weed patch all the same. I asked my father what I should do. He said, "Just cut them back, don't let them flower, the grass will come through."

I didn't even have garden shears so I tackled my weed patch with the kitchen scissors. It took a long time and I got blisters. But the grass came through just like Daddy said. Of course, the kitchen scissors proved impractical when that needed cutting and I acquired garden shears from somewhere and used them to keep the grass in check. To tell the truth, it was never much of a lawn but it was good enough for my children to play on.

Nowadays I have a lawn and a ride-on mower and a man to cut the grass for me. It's not the best lawn in the world but it's certainly good enough for my grandchildren to play on.

Semi Flimsy Ivies

 

Summer-born Pippin has taken a while to get used to the cooler weather, but now that the snow is here she cannot be kept indoors. She has fallen in love with her winter wonderland.

It's my youngest granddaughter's fifth birthday today and I've been thinking about her all day, wishing she could be here to build a snowman (or snowcat) and play with Pippin. I did get to speak with Emily on the phone this evening which was lovely.

If all goes according to plan both Emily and her brother James will be here next Easter holidays. Something for me to look forward to. I shall knit her a girly cardigan all pink stripes and embroidered flowers. There is no point in knitting James anything. He doesn't care about clothes. All he wants is a Tesla car. A proper one as Santa Claus did not oblige.

James and Emily

Lunch With Martha

Another day out in which I realise that my brush with coronavirus has thoroughly depleted my energy. Thankfully, my oldest grandchild is very understanding. We lunched at Bob & Bert's (Martha's second choice as Middletown was packed) and it was good.  Then on to the shops. We browsed Cameron's, H&M and TK Maxx and bought nothing. The charity shops offered more interesting and affordable choices. I bought a thermal vest and a Barbara Kingsolver and Martha bought denim dungarees, a bright yellow raincoat and a slinky dress which I didn't really approve of but hey-ho at her age it's all about experimentation, isn't it. She can take it back if it's not right for her.

I wore my new Blundstone boots and felt rather good in them. On the way back Martha (who was walking backwards) said,

Hey Granny! I'm walking backwards and I'm still walking faster than you!

I said, 

Of course, you are. I'm nearly 70. You're lucky I'm walking at all.

That led to a conversation about how long I intended to live. I sensed that optimism was called for. I said I was aiming for 95 or thereabouts and that seemed to please her.

Isn't it odd that a conversation about mortality should warm the cockles of my heart so? For I know that at her age a quarter of a century hence must seem like a fantastical leap into the future. I'll do my best to live until then but if I don't I'm sure she'll be fine.

Tonight she is playing the ukelele at her school's open night.

Small World

So, the Openreach engineer came today instead of tomorrow and was here for around three hours.

During that time I discovered that he had played Gaelic football with my cousin Ann's son

And that he had been taught by another two of my cousins.

That he had dated another cousin's daughter.

His wife worked in a pharmacy that had once been a pub belonging to my uncle.

He was in the same cycling club as my cousin John's son.

And he also restored our broadband connection. 

Just Saying...

 At nine o'clock tonight Bert and I watched Happy Valley. The truth is I'm all Harried out.

It's just past ten now, I have switched on my electric blanket and very soon I will be going to bed with Elizabeth Jane Howard.

Tomorrow I should  receive a phone call from Noora at British Telecom. She is a good person but I do not expect anything to come from the call. I will not tell Noora that Bert has threatened to take a shotgun to the telecoms box up the road and blast it full of lead because, and I quote him,

Then everybody's internet will be fucked and they'll have to send an engineer.

He definitely won't be doing that. It's just crazy talk.

Cattered

Our recent bout of Covid was a lot harder on Bert, most likely because he had not availed himself of a booster jab. While I got over the worst of it in a couple of days he spent three days in bed with a fever and, when he eventually made it downstairs he was weak as a kitten and a pathetic-looking sight.  

Actually, I don't know why people say 'as weak as a kitten' for if Pippin is anything to go by, kittens are as tough as old boots. Anyway, Bert was most intrigued to hear that he was looking peely-wally* as he enjoys any kind of attention and off he went to check himself out in the mirror.

Aye, he remarked 

I am looking a bit cattered.

I say,

Cattered! What do you mean? I've never heard you say that before.

I say it all the time. 

You do not! That's not even a word. You're making that up.

It is definitely a word.

I don't believe you.

Where's the book?

Where it always is.

He fetches it and lo and behold **cattered really is an Ulster-Scots word.

The book was a present from my sister 26 years ago and it is much used in this house. 

*Peely-wally adjective pale and sickly-looking. [Scots, origin unknown.] Concise Ulster Dictionary, p 249

**Cattered  adjective unhealthy-looking[Cf Scots cuiter "to pamper because of ill-health".] Concise Ulster Dictionary, p 57

Where's My Engineer?

Two weeks and two days now since I first reported our broadband down. Three appointments with BT Openreach engineers since the broadband went down. The first was a charming chap who turned up bang on time on the Thursday before Christmas. He said it was too foggy to go 'on the road' to fix the fault and advised me to upgrade to Fibre2 and then, probably, they'd sort it between Christmas and the New Year. I thought I had already upgraded but it turns out not as my 'box wasn't big enough' and no one informed me of this as they had sent the sad news to an email address that wasn't mine. I do remember saying to Bert that I saw little improvement with the new package. Little wonder, as we hadn't received it.

I lost count of the number of call-centre staff I've spoken to since but it must be in the high teens. The most obnoxious was English Chris and the nicest Scottish Joan. The most entertaining was Mr Cussalot who was working from home (I could hear his children shrieking in the background). If Cussalot said 'Jesus Christ' once he said it half a dozen times. I have a suspicion he wasn't a Christian. I didn't mind for neither am I but he'd be in trouble if it had been Jeffrey or Arlene phoning him.

The second and third engineers? No clue - they didn't turn up. The latest no-show being today.

We have two mini hubs, one for Hannah, and one for us. I had book 4 of the Cazalet Chronicles delivered today, we are both feeling a lot better although still testing positive and I've got to hit publish on this soon as Bert is waiting impatiently for Happy Valley, Series 3, Episode 1. I sat him down in front of Series 1 on Tuesday and we have ripped through 1 and 2 in three days. He's hooked. I've seen them all before but it was quite a while ago.  

Not An Openreach Engineer. If Only... 

New Year's Day

 

It seems churlish not to post on the first day of a New Year even if I have nothing much to write about other than Covid19 and the intermittent internet coverage provided by a BT mini hub. My review? The mini hub is not all it's cracked up to be.

Coronavirus update - three more guests from our Boxing Day soiree have tested positive. One thing I never expected to be doing last year was hosting a superspreader event but *shrugs* hey-ho.

Sense of proportion time. Here in Springhill, our woes are very small compared to some and I intend to begin the New Year feeling gratitude for the love and companionship of friends and family.

Wishing a Happy New Year to all who visit Nelly's Garden.