A Post From Fifteen Years Ago

 

Oh How I Wish That Skippy Was Here

The hole what I fell in

I’ve never got into the habit of carrying a phone with me. After yesterday I think perhaps I should. After leaving Hannah in to work I took Paddy and Bonnie for walks in Currell’s Avenue. I was wearing my Hunters so decided to go off piste. We were in this boggy field between the river and the Ballygarvey Road and I went to cross an old wooden bridge over a sheugh. Next thing I’m sitting on my ass on a whole heap of mud and my left leg is stuck in a hole in the bridge, damn and blast it to hell. Of course my first thought was,

Am I going to lose my welly here?

No thought a-tall for my leg, just my welly for a damned expensive welly it was too. Then I thought,

Am I going to get my leg out or am I going to be stuck here for hours?

Then I thought,

Will I have to chew my leg off?

Then I thought,

If I had a big rock I could smash the wood around my leg and get it out.

Then I thought,

If these dogs were any good a-tall like Lassie or Black Bob, or if they were even as smart as Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, then they could go and fetch help but they’re not, they’re crap dogs and they’re not even looking at me, they’re running ahead regardless as if Nelly with her leg stuck in a bridge is a really normal thing to be happening.

Then I thought,

If I imagine my leg is really skinny like Kate Moss’s leg then I could wiggle it out or die trying.

So I did. I imagined my leg was totally skinny and wiggled it out and it hurt like hell and it came out with Hunter still attached.

And I jumped up and walked about and everything still worked so I thought I’d better take myself and my two useless dogs homewards but before I went I took a photo of the hole in the bridge and I wished that I could have had a picture of me with my leg stuck in the bridge and if Skippy the Bush Kangaroo had been there (s)he would definitely have gotten that picture.

What's that Skip? An old lady's got her leg trapped in the old wooden bridge?

Places in Books: 19 Eldon Road, Kensington

 

Number 19, Eldon Road, where the art critic Brian Sewell and his dog Susie lived in 1972. Susie was the first to sense that they were not alone, trembling and howling on many occasions. Sewell himself became aware of a presence.

"...something disagreeable - a chill and a stench through which I could pass in a single stride, of much the same height and volume as a human being" (Sleeping With Dogs, Brian Sewell, p30)

It is to be hoped that the current residents are untroubled by hauntings and, if this is so, they can thank Sewell for it, because it was he on meeting the ghost on the stairs, sat down, talked to it and somehow persuaded it to leave, much to Susie's relief.

I am reading this book for the second time. Zoe loaned it to Hannah after Ziggy died and when she had finished I decided to read it again. By all accounts the author was a complicated man who held controversial views but I read him as a fellow lover of dogs and that will do.  

 

Diana and Dodi Are Dead

I don't exactly remember what I was doing the night Diana died but I think there might have been some sort of a party for the next day had a bit of a hangover vibe. And it had been  a Saturday night. What I do remember was Katy coming in after an all-nighter. She'd been clubbing in Belfast. And she said,

Hey Ma, did ya hear? Diana and Dodi are dead!

I thought it was crazy talk. Some kind of post-party-drug fantasy. She said, turn on the TV. It's all over the news.

So I did, and it was. Was the newscaster wearing a black tie? I don't remember. But he had that black tie kind of voice going on and it was true. Diana and Dodi were dead and nobody hardly mentioned the driver who was also dead.

Yep! I've just watched the first episode of The Crown on Netflix and it is all coming back to me. 

Union Street

 

This morning I finished reading Union Street by Pat Barker. It doesn't happen often but as I read the last paragraph I immediately wanted to re-read the entire book.

The book is unflinching in describing the reality of working-class women's lives. And no bodily excretion or fluid goes unmentioned. At first, I found that off-putting but not as much as the long-ago Guardian reviewer who wrote that it was all "far too gynaecological".

It was Bert who was the first to read Pat Barker. He began with the Regeneration Trilogy then moved to the Women of Troy novels and finally Union Street. I always gave him first dibs at the Barkers. Not any longer for I ordered three more today and I'll be reading them first. Bert will just have to wait.

*The last book I re-read straight away was Claire Keegan's Small Things Like These. 

Camera Shy

Our recently-wed niece Naoise sent us all a link to the official photographs taken at the wedding and I immediately spent 40 minutes or so perusing them. The happy couple were beautiful and handsome. (Apply adjectives in the usual way.) Their parents were joyful and proud and the child attendants looked cute as buttons. And all the guests looked jolly happy to be there. (As they should.)

I'll admit to some slight trepidation as I scrolled through the later pictures. I have form in wedding photographs and never seem to look my best. That's probably why I was careful to avoid cameras. But not careful enough. She got me at the dinner table.

Wreck The House

 

Having young animals in the house is wonderful fun but it also makes for a lot of work and expense as their idea of having a good time is wrecking the place.

This is Cleo's work. And that is the spare room. The GOOD spare room. A new duvet is needed. She chewed through my Ikea cotton duvet cover to get at the foamy stuff but I think I can mend it as it is only a small hole. I will be able to use another Ikea cover to patch it. The hole she made in that one was big enough to fit the round head of a bull elephant so I'll use it for another sewing project. Though it's a pity about my fabric scissors. Someone (Bert?) got hold of those while I was away and used them for some plant-related purpose. It seems that Cleo and Woody aren't the only ones wrecking the place.

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 7

 My last full day in London and it’s another rainy one. Nevertheless, London Sister and I head out for a trip to Green Lanes. Our primary destination was the Dusty Knuckle bakery and coffee shop and it did not disappoint.

Of course, we didn’t traverse the entire length of Green Lanes. For a start the weather was inclement and secondly, it is one of the longest roads in London at slightly over 6 miles. The road’s origins are uncertain. What is known is that it originated as one of the old drover’s roads used to walk cattle and other livestock from the country to London’s markets.

No cattle or geese today. The part we went to was full of Turkish and Greek Cypriot shops and restaurants, bakeries shops displaying colourful cakes and pastries, lashings of honey and pistachios, windows full of bridal dresses and everything that could possibly be needed for the biggest, fattest wedding ever.

Then, it's time to return to Muswell Hill. We were damp but happy, looking forward to an evening of movies, quiz shows and yet another delicious dinner.

London Sister helped me make a meticulous travel plan for the next day then I packed my case for the morning and went off to bed with a Hilary Mantel.

The next day, I said a fond farewell to Mr S and LS and went for breakfast in Muswell Hill. Always going the extra mile and then some, my lovely sister accompanied me to Tottenham Hale for the Stansted Express. And that was London redd up for another while.

Of course, me being me, I spent most of that journey fretting that I might need to be farther up in the train because we airport passengers were supposed to be in the first 5 carriages. How glad I was when we arrived at the airport to find that the train door opened onto the platform and not some weedy waste ground, necessitating a big jump and a long, dangerous trudge to the airport. Yes - I know. Ridiculous.

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 6

 

 

London Sister kindly met me at King's Cross which was a good thing as it is a big and busy station. On the way to our prearranged meeting place, I passed a very long queue which I hoped was not for the toilet. It was, in fact, the queue to Platform 9¾ and consisted of excited Harry Potter fans, most of whom were accompanied by parents or other grown-ups. An expensive day out for the adults I guess.

From King's Cross to Muswell Hill where we passed a pleasant evening then an early night for me. Saturday was going to be a busy day.

We were going from Muswell Hill to have lunch with Ganching. Having set out in good time we found we were a tad early for our train connection so went for a wander in the direction of the Roupell Street Conservation Area consisting of several streets of housing dating from the early 19th century, built by a wealthy gold refiner, John Palmer Roupell. If the streets should look familiar that's because the area is often used on location shoots for films and television.

Ganching gave us a delicious lunch and after coffee, we set off for Greenwich. I think I was there about 50 years ago but I don't remember much about it. This time we visited The Queen's House which was lovely and despite giving myself a crick in my neck I did not manage a decent photograph of the famous Tulip Stairs. Never mind. I can always look at Ganching's.

Back to Muswell Hill to catch the end of my brother-in-law's Americana GMT show on Mad Wasp Radio. Then we were off and out again to a lovely Italian restaurant near Finsbury Park. All of us, Ganching too. I don't know how Londoners keep up the pace.

What I Did On My Holidays, Days 4 and 5

The fourth day brought mixed feelings for it was on that day that my beloved middle daughter had decreed would be for her and me alone. I had been looking forward to it for I rarely have Katy to myself. Yet there was a tiny guilt to be leaving grandchildren behind.

Reader, it was bliss. 

We went to Houghton Hall. Katy volunteered in the gardens for a time so she had a complimentary pass and we felt pretty special. It was a damp and drizzly day but we cared not a jot. 

I never thought I'd be so enthralled to scrutinise the 6th Marquess of Cholmondeley's model soldiers apparently the world's largest private collection. Small quibble, The British Grenadiers played on a loop was wearisome. Katy could not help noticing that the models of 'the enemy' such as the kilted Scots at the Battle of Culloden were far more likely to be corpsed than those plucky Brits. 

Next the house. The Sean Scully exhibition was only slightly jarring. For me, Scully's art was far more elevating than Walpole's ostentatious trappings. Miss Emily's previous take on the house was 'so many beds'.

It was far too rainy to take in Scully's outdoor installations so we headed for the gardens instead. Despite it being the tail-end of October there was still a lot to see. 

Where have dahlias been in my life? I want them - all of them.

Lunch was leisurely and enjoyable. The last time I ate at the Houghton Hall cafe we did it in shifts. One adult lunched while the other tried to prevent James from climbing into the courtyard water feature. Apparently, lunch is always onion tart but I enjoyed it immensely. 

Then home and a run out with the children to Sue Ryder and my co-grandmother, home again and my last evening in Norfolk where I am already looking forward to my next visit.

Day 5 dawns and I am leaving my Norfolk family and going to the London sisters. I leave them all at Kings Lynn station, always a sad feeling knowing I'll not see them again until next year. 

I've finished my Beryl Bainbridge and have a book I bought at Sue Ryder but I don't open it. Instead, I look out the window of the train at the dull English countryside. It does not inspire me. I look anyway. At pheasants, horses, and just once some deer. I look forward to London.

What I Did On My Holidays, Days 2 and 3

 

Norfolk was wetter than I've ever seen it but we didn't let that deter us. On Tuesday we went bowling. It's been decades since I last entered a bowling alley. In fact, I believe the last time I was in one all the folk I was with have since died. Except one.

Bowling started well. James was first on and immediately got a strike. After that things deteriorated somewhat and at the last Katy was playing on her own. She managed three strikes but no one was there to cheer her on. I'd have been delighted for her but was on Granny duty. The next stop was Pensthorpe. It was much too wet to appreciate the garden although the wildfowl were enjoying the weather. We went straight to Hootz House, the indoor play area. We didn't stay long as James wasn't feeling it - mid-term break, far too crowded and noisy.

Wednesday's weather was slightly better but still rather damp. We went to Holkham Beach. There were lots of people there but because it's so big it didn't feel crowded. Perfect for James.

 

He loves the water. Despite his wet weather clothing and Wellington boots, he managed to get completely saturated. Which he barely noticed until he returned to the car where, sensibly, Katy had dry clothes waiting for him.

Emily is more of a sand and beach girl and would have stayed dry if it hadn't been for the fast tide. A channel we were able to wade through ankle-deep was, around an hour later, thigh-high. I got soaked on the return as did Katy who needed to carry Emily over.  James just splashed through it all completely unconcerned.

I read that Holkham Beach was a favoured spot for Queen Elizabeth to walk her corgis. She could do so relatively unnoticed as she had the use of a private entrance to the beach thanks to the local landowner, Lord Leicester. 

So, next time I'm in Norfolk I will return to Holkham Beach and hopefully, in finer weather. I'll go to Pensthorpe too but not Hootz House.

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 1

Miss Emily (as Wednesday Adams) and Katkin

Monday, 23^rd October - It was London Sister’s birthday. I sent her a message on the family WhatsApp and would be seeing her on Friday. Left the house early to catch my Stansted flight. Bert drove me to the airport and foolishly did not bring the necessary coins to get out of it afterwards. There was a big hold and he was helped by a kind woman who gave him the money he needed. She refused his five-pound note and told him he could pay it forward. I will need to remind him about that.

Katy and Emily met me at the airport. It’s a long enough journey from Stansted to Fakenham so we stopped off for lunch which Emily was very pleased about. Unfortunately, James was less pleased about the time we spent getting there. I met the most recent members of my Norfolk family, Otie the spaniel and Houdini the big tabby cat.

My son-in-law made us a delicious chicken and roast veggie dinner and after telly, family time and retiring I finished my Eva Ibbotson and began my Beryl Bainbridge. Somehow I managed to lock myself (and Otie) into the bedroom and had to bang the door to be let out. Most embarrassing.

Travel Anxiety

I'm not much of a traveller and when I do get around to it I am filled with anxiety. For a start, I'm never sure I'll even be allowed on the plane. So what if the plane falls out of the sky. If I get to board I will be as happy as Larry.

So, all being well I will get on a plane tomorrow and I will visit with my Norfolk family for four days. Then I will take a train to London and visit London Sister and Ganching for three days.

Actually this time I'm not that anxious at all. Oh dear! Hope that's not a bad omen. It's OK. I'm anxious again.

Today, my last day at home for a week, I packed, cleaned the hen house, watered the plants and binge-watched Bodies on Netflix.

I cannot wait an entire week to see how it ends.

I wonder if Cleo will miss me? I know Woody will.

 

A Bit Of A Catch-Up

First of all, Woody has responded well to the magic juice provided by the vet. No more coughing and he's eating tremendous amounts of food and... he loves everybody. Especially Hannah, Evie and Martha, and even Nellybert.

Then there was the matter of Bert's book choices. Strumpet City was turned down because it was too big and he fell in love with David Sedaris. Bert never ceases to surprise me.

On the subject of books, First Daughter was laid low with COVID-19 for a week and has since made a full recovery. I asked her if she'd filled her downtime with books or streaming. She told me she'd just sourced a book, a dystopian novel set in Ireland that she'd hoped would fill the hours. But, because of current real-life events, the novel proved to be a tough read. If only I'd known I could have loaned her my small collection of Eva Ibbotson romances.

Speaking of which, it was Ganching who alerted me to Eva Ibbotson's adult fiction which, as Ganching informed us, Ibbotson wrote for 'very intelligent women with the flu'. It just so happened I'd already found three of those novels in a charity shop and hadn't got round to opening them as I thought they'd be a bit saccharine. I'm on the third one now and finding it and the previous two quite delightful. 

Zoe getting the Covid spurred me to book my free jabs, flu and the coronavirus. That happened this morning and straight after I was off to Antrim to breakfast with Jazzer. We had a quick look around the charity shops to see if we could find a particular kind of knee-length boot that Martha needed to complete the Buffy the Vampire Slayer costume she wanted to wear at Halloween. Unfortunately, we did not find them except we did but three sizes too small.

Then we went to Dobbies. I was quite excited about this as the last time I was in a Dobbies (somewhere near Lisburn) I got the most gorgeous crocus bulbs and some  Nasturtium 'Phoenix' seeds . Nothing appealed to me at Antrim Dobbies apart from a new pair of cuttings snips. The prices were sky-high. I discovered that the monster deliciosa I dismantled (because it got too big) and turned into six new plants would have cost me £120. We could not wait to get out of it. I won't be back. At least until the spring of 2024 if the world still exists then. 

Back at Jazzer's, I gathered nasturtium seeds from her plants. Mostly Phoenix. Funnily enough, she has a lot of them in her garden because I grew them from my collected seed and accidentally gave her all the seedlings because I'd neglected to label them. 

So that is my catch-up. I will try to get a few posts in over the weekend as I am going to Norfolk and London next week and Will Not Be Blogging.

And speaking of London, I heard the sad news this week that an old friend from Ballymena had died there at the start of the month. Kevin was one of the people that sent my life spinning in a new direction. And that's a story on its own. 

He was a good bloke. Too good for Ballymena.

A Visit to the Vet

 

Woody had a cough which turned into a gurgle so we took him to the vet. He means too much to Hannah, Sara and Ben for me to neglect his well-being. On the way there I found myself catastrophising. What if he has a tumour? Hundreds of pounds worth of tests needed and then he might have to be euthanised anyway and our last kitten cost us £1300 before she was even six months old. How can I  tell Ben, Sara and Hannah the sad news that we cannot afford to spend thousands of pounds curing Woody's cancer. 

At the vet's the waiting room was full of adorable dogs in their mid-teens that were obviously not long for this world. I was torn between feeling sympathy for their loving owners and a mild resentment that their dogs got four more years than Ziggy did.

Woody was a brave soldier. Vet said he had a viral infection, but we'd got him in on time, an antibiotic should sort him out. Relief all round. He got a thermometer up his bum, half a worm tablet, small bottle of the magic juice and a bill for seventy quid. And, as I said to Bert one time,

I wonder what people without animals spend their money on?

I also thought, Woody had litter mates and they probably all had that viral infection (cat flu). Could it be that he, who probably hitched a lift under a car, got dropped off in the middle of Portglenone, avoided being run over, was rescued by Ben and Sara, ended up with Hannah and Nellybert and he turns out to be the lucky one?

 

I really hope so.

  

Mrs Librarian Woman

 A commenter on this blog asserted that I led an 'interesting life'. I beg to differ as my life is mundane, even a bit dull. I hardly go anywhere, rarely do anything, just sort of exist really. I should break out a little, get on a train now and again, wear things from the very back of the wardrobe, spend more money, cook with apricots, book a trip to Manaus.*

Yet I do find life interesting most of the time. It's all out there, even just outside the front door or, if it's wet, the front room. Outside the front door there are snails and owls and moths and in the front room there are dogs, and people, all-the-time people. People with dogs.

And even when there aren't people in the front room, Bert's room, there are dogs and Bert who gets bored much more easily than I do.

He was channel-hopping on his giant TV, said that even though there are hundreds of channels there is nothing worth watching. I was watching a programme about David Beckham in my private secret sitting-room and thought it well worth watching. Amazingly, some of the best bits were scenes from football matches. I don't even like football but the film-maker was good at the job and made it interesting.

So, when I was done with that I went to see Bert who was watching something horribly gory about vampires. He told me he had nothing to read as he had finished his book this morning. Somehow this has become my responsibility. I gave off to him.  

Why do you always tell me you need something to read at quarter to eleven at night?

I told you I finished my book this morning.

And you don't have at least four books in your to-read pile? Don't you be coming into my room at midnight looking for a book.

You have all the good books in your room.

That is balls. I have all the P-S books in my room. There are four other bookcases throughout the house containing books A-O and T-Z. Is it not enough that I source all the books, buy all the books, shelve all the books that I have to choose all your reading matter too? 

I secretly enjoy doing this but not late in the evening. So before climbing into bed I threw him in Strumpet City and a David Sedaris. I don't think he'll like the Sedaris.  

*I'm reading Eva Ibbotson.

Slither Night

This is what I have become...

Sometime between ten and eleven o'clock at night I'll be out with the dogs and the big torch, ostensibly to keep an eye on Cleo, to make sure she actually pees instead of crashing through the back door in search of a high-value treat. She hasn't that many accomplishments but being able to open every bloody door in the house is one of them.

But what I am actually keenest on doing is counting and observing garden snails. They are such fascinating creatures. The snails range in size from tiny translucent babies whose delicate shells might be broken by a breath to the big lads with shells as large as walnuts. I say lads, but snails are hermaphroditic. A couple of times I have spotted a pair of them closely entwined and suppose that they are having snail sex although I'm not sure how they do it. Philip Watson explained it all to me about thirty years ago but I was phobic about slugs and snails then and couldn't bear to listen to him. There was something about knives maybe? 

My slugs and snails phobia originated in that ghastly nursery rhyme, which I took literally. It was horrible thinking of dismembered puppy tails mixed up with slugs. My fear and dislike of slimy things was not helped by having Cousin Patrick pelt me with those huge black slugs found on the shores of Lough Neagh some sixty years ago.

Soft rainy nights are best for snail-watching and I know all their favourite spots. Near stone walls, tiled paths, Bert's hostas, the sunflowers, around the windows. I have to be very careful where I walk. I try not to tread on them. Most nights I count around eighty.  Tonight it was 14 slugs, 84 snails and two accidentally crunched.

This is what I have become. 

Woody

Martha wanted to know today how many pets Bert and I have had and although I couldn't tell her straight away I showed her my Pet Records spreadsheet. She spotted immediately that Cleo had not been added so I suggested she remedy that. Her mother thinks she might become a fan of spreadsheets. I do hope so as she can give me tips.

Not counting the pigs, Bert and I have had seventeen pets since we've been together.

Six of these are cats, and eleven are dogs.

Eight were rescues, six dogs and two cats. The two cats and three of the dogs came directly from the streets, either lost or abandoned.

Six are still with us, and eleven are buried in the garden.

After Martha had finished updating Cleo I had a little updating of my own to complete.

Meet Woody. Found straying on a busy street in a nearby village. Ben and Sara were his rescuers. 

And On That Theme

 Another one from an age ago...

The Stack Garden

Bert generally does not tell me things. So I wasn't a bit surprised yesterday when a large truck containing stones arrived in the yard. As Bert thinks receiving a load of stones an important task accomplished it would therefore be deserving of a cup of tea. When he came into the kitchen I attempted to engage him in conversation.

What are the stones for?
Och!
No. Tell me what they're for.
Tssk!
Just tell me. Other husbands tell their wives things.
The back garden!

And off he stomped clutching his cup of tea in hand.

Did I ever mention that he's not really a morning person?

I pondered this information. The back garden? We have various areas around the house that could be described as a garden but I wasn't sure what he meant. And why would he need stones for it? Gardens are my department too. I deserve to be consulted.

I broached the subject again the next time he came in for refreshments (thirty minutes later).

So, exactly where is this back garden you speak of? Back of where?
I didn't say back garden. I said stack garden.
Stack garden?
Yes. Every farm has a stack garden.
Where's ours?
Round the back. Where the pigs are.
Bert – In nearly thirty years I have never once heard you call any part of this place the stack garden. Have you just made that up?

I have to say here that the naming of places is something we argue about discuss often.

Bert went on to argue that this area, which I call the pig paddock, has always been referred to as the stack garden and that if I had been brought up on a farm, as I claim, then there would have been a stack garden.

And what would this stack garden be used for?
For stacks.
What kind of stacks?
Hay! Corn! Logs!
No. We had sheds for those and the hay was baled and stored in a hay shed.

He continued to insist that all farms had stack gardens and I argued that stack gardens were all in his head or else something only hill-billies know about.

Currently, his names for fields are,

The Field Across The Road

The Meadow

The Corner Field

The Hall Field

The First Hill

The Second Hill

The Third Hill

The Big Hill

He claims not to remember the names of the six fields planted in trees apart from The Whinny Field. These fields are now known as The Trees. I pressed him on this and he managed to recall that two of them had been referred to as,

The Wee Field On The March With Gregg's

The Boag Field

Boag Field. Do you mean bog?
It rhymes with doag*. So what did you ones call a boag then?
We called it The Moss and cut turf in it. We didn't make a field out of it.
Youse were that grand out at Tannaghmore.
We were.

I'm certain sure that when I met Bert he didn't speak of doags, boags or stack gardens. And he used to (I think) tell me things so when the man from the quad bike shop pulled into the yard this morning I thought he wanted to buy a tree, or perhaps he was looking for directions. But no. Bert has bought a quad bike. And never said.

*doag - dog

This post brought a comment from my youngest sister,

Don't tell Bert but we also had bogs. The 3 fields behind the field in front of Heffrons. The wee bog was drained and the one farthest from the house had a beautiful weeping willow.

I remember that weeping willow. I wonder if it's still there?

I couldn't find a photograph of the Stack Garden that wasn't boring so here is a picture that has got a lot going on. The area behind the five-bar gate is the Stack Garden. 

One From Fourteen Years Ago

 

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Come Into My Parlour

The other day I asked the household where some kitchen gadget had got to. Bert says,

The last place I saw it was on the sill in the parlour.

Parlour? Where’s the bloody parlour?

I never said parlour. I said…you know…that room out there.

Do you mean the room with the washing machine in it?

Yeah. That room, the – you know?

The scullery. Or utility room if you like. Where did parlour come from?

I never said parlour.

You bloody did.

It’s a big problem for me this shifting of place names. The outside is a nightmare. The sheds are referred to something like this -

• The Woodshed

• The Milk House

• The Byre

• The Cattle Shed

• The Workshop

• The Hen House

• The Pig House

• The Calf Shed

• The Back Shed

• The Potato Shed

• The Turf Shed

• The Silo

• The Tractor Shed

• The Tool Shed

• Ian’s Shed
  

Of course, we don’t have fifteen sheds. We have about six shed-type buildings, each with at least three names depending on which decade Bert’s mind is settled on that particular day. For instance, if Bert refers to the Turf Shed, will he be speaking of the shed which currently contains turf (unlikely) or does he mean a shed that was used for turf storage twenty, or even forty years ago? This is not much use to me as I don’t know where they kept the turf during the Swinging Sixties.

It was the same in our last place where we only had a garage and three polytunnels.

Where are my orange-handled secateurs?

In the tunnels.

Which one?

The one with the clematis.

They all have clematis.

The montanas.

Big ones or liners?

Och, you know. The one with Denise’s potting bench.

She has two bloody potting benches! Here they are! Why couldn’t you just have said the middle tunnel?

I blame his mother.

When this was her house there were three rooms referred to as The Scullery, two known as The Pantry and two called The Good Room and two more called The Front Room. Upstairs was The Room, Bert’s Room, Lizzie’s Room, Uncle Andy’s Room, Our Room, My Room, The Good Room, The Room With The New Window, The Room With The Broken Floor, The Cupboard, The Back Room, The Room With The Good Bed, The Front Room, The Big Room, The Wee Room, The Best Room and the Attic. As far as I know, The Toilet and The Bathroom were never called anything else but I could be wrong.

There was none of that nonsense in our house. Upstairs we had 4 bedrooms which were named according to the persons who slept in them,: downstairs had The Kitchen, The Scullery, The Room, The Bathroom and The Room Before The Bathroom. It never changed downstairs. Outside sheds were named and stayed named. You knew where you were in Tannaghmore.

And don’t get me started on fields.

Missed

This wee man has been on my mind all day. It is two weeks today since he left us and the place just isn't the same without him. 

The world without Ziggy is taking some getting used to.

The Merry Wobblers

To Cleo's thrilled delight, Saturday night brought Banjo Man, Jazzer and the two dogs. Their pup, Arlo, is just a couple of weeks older than Cleo and they spent ages play-fighting. Fun for them and fun to watch too.

After an excellent meal cooked by Jazzer, we settled down to watch music videos on YouTube. Marty was raving about an Irish band he'd been listening to.

You'll love them Nelly. Just your kind of thing. Young band. From Dundalk. Where's the remote?

He starts shouting at our giant television.

Play the Merry Wobblers!

Merry Christmas featuring Elton John and Ed Sheeran came on.

No! Play the Merry Wobblers!

Jah Wobble came on.

I said,

The TV doesn't understand your Belfast accent. Try speaking like Bert.

But Marty was too distraught. He tried again.

Play! The Merry Wobblers. An Irish band. From Dundalk.

An item about Dundalk FC came on.

I left the room and googled Irish Band From Dundalk. Came back, said to Marty,

They're called the Mary Wallopers.

Banjo Man was right. I did love them. Even though some of them had mullets and Dave Hill fringes and Lemmy moustaches. 

Next day I checked their tour dates and they're playing Belfast in December. I'm not going. The last gig I went to was Django Django in Derry and I got mistaken for the singer's aunt. If I was to go to the Merry Wallopers I'm sure to be took for their granny.

A World Without Ziggy

 27th August- 8th September 2023

We had a wedding, a big family get-together, a funeral, two birthdays and then - Ziggy died.

He'd been diagnosed with heart failure one month previously. Tests showed his heart to be massively enlarged. He rallied with his initial treatment but it didn't last. He wasn't in pain but he was stressed and uncomfortable and things weren't going to get any better. Hannah made the decision that it would be unkind to try and prolong his life. 

Ziggy was a smashing wee dog, so full of character. He had many friends. But Hannah was his number one, and he was hers. We will all miss that little fellow, the Zigster, Zigatron, Wiggler, the best boy there ever was. 

Elderberry

 

We are now down to three hens and one rooster. I went to feed the hens this morning and found one lying stiff and cold. It was a surprise as she had seemed fine the previous day. Looking back at my blog to discover how old she was I saw that we'd called her Elderberry when she was a chick. That was seven years ago and I'd totally forgotten she had a name. I always called her the White Hen.

It's like when Bert's mum died and Martha, very young at the time, said,

Shall we get another old woman and call her Pearlie? 

I always thought that was sweet for it showed that Martha thought that Pearlie was a good person to have had around.

I shall have to get myself another white hen and call her Elderberry.