One From 17 Years Ago

One of our regular guests. Chico is day care only, no overnight stays yet.

This blog will be twenty years old in August so, with all my archives to draw on I am recycling a post in which Bert, Young Rooney and myself, discussed Nellybert's fast-approaching old age. What has changed since then?

We have arrived at our old age and seem to be managing OK even though we didn't go down the paintballing or stables route. .

Like ourselves, Young Rooney is seventeen years older, he's married now with children. He's given up on horsey girls. So has Bert. I still run around in filthy jeans and body warmers. We sort of do boarding kennels but only for family and friends and their dogs get to sleep on our beds. And it's free.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Farm Diversification

Young Rooney called in this afternoon and we got to bouncing a few ideas around. These mostly centred around what Nellybert's going to do to bring the dosh in for the old age. Neither of us has much in the way of pension plans. In fact I just cashed mine in and it's just about enough to pay off my credit card and buy some decent teeth. Young Rooney says,

You could rent out the ground.

Doing that. Money's crap.

You could plant trees.

Done that. Fifteen acres in trees already.

What about a garden centre? Bert could run it and you could do a tea shop. Sell your cheesecake.

We hate garden centres.

Lots of money to be made.

Huh!

Boarding kennels then?

Someone tried for boarding kennels before and the road put in against it.

Cattery?

Mmmm. Maybe.

Riding stables? Paintballing?

Nelly goes,

Paintballing? Lots of fit blokes running about? Mmm. Maybe.

Bert goes,

Riding stables? Lots of gorgeous lassies in jodphurs? Sounds OK. Far better than all those oul biddies that hang about garden centres.

Young Rooney goes,

Aye. Riding stables. Me and Loveheart'll be round here all the time. Loveheart says all those horsey girls are mad for it. He says it's all the bouncing about in saddles that gets them going.

Nelly says,

Yeah. And I can become one of those old eccentric horsey women running about in filthy jeans and bodywarmers with no time to go to the hairdresser.

Bert says,

Sure that's you now...

The News From Cully

 

Never mind the Windsors and their recent over-reported, who cares* hospital stays - our Judy, the old girl, has had dental surgery, the price of a week's holiday in Spain, but with complementary toenail trimming thrown in. She came through it courageously and is already showing signs of improved mood and zest for what remains of her life. Who needs a holiday in Benidorm anyway? I'm holding out for Seville.

*Who cares? If the reporting around King Charlie's prostrate treatment results in more men seeking help and more lives prolonged then I say - that's good.

I'm always ordering books of the internet but this week I thought I'd try a new seller. I was immediately drawn to this volume of short stories by H.E. Bates in an Etsy shop**. When I was in my late teens I was a big fan of short stories by the likes of Bates and Hardy. I remember staying up late reading in front of the old Rayburn , fire door open, and being overcome by carbon monoxide fumes. When I finally closed the book, but not the fire door, I climbed the rickety wooden stairs, entered the bedroom where my two youngest sisters were sleeping and there fainted to the floor, overcome not by the fumes of cheap coal but the sharp, fresh, cold air of that freezing room. There is a lot to be said for living in a draughty old farmhouse. I bought that book for the sheer nostalgia of it and I look forward to reading it again.

I'd recommend the seller. My book arrived promptly, beautifully wrapped and with a complimentary postcard. How did she know that I use literary postcards as bookmarks?

**Full disclosure. This Etsy shop belongs to my sister. But I'd still be recommending her even if I didn't know her personally. And because I know her I also know how much time and effort she puts into providing this service. 

Other news from Cully - Ben and Sara are camping in the woods tonight. It's February. I'm so proud of them. A well-reared pair.

Red Coat

 

Yet again I find that I am turning into my mother for Matty had a thing about coats. Every time we went into a charity shop (which was often) she’d be perusing the coat rails looking for the perfect, lightweight, showerproof beige coat. My thing about coats does not include beige. My thing is the perfect funeral coat.

I have yet to find it. At a pinch I have a couple of coats that would do. One black and one navy, both M&S. For a long time I resisted navy as I have never gotten over the trauma of St. Louis Grammar School, those three hellish years that I was tortured by fascist nuns - a special mention for that vicious bitch, Sister Mary Benedicta. I still shiver at the sight of navy skirts.*

My funeral coat needs to be smart and sombre. I know that now. For there was another traumatic time in my life, thankfully brief, only about an hour long, that I got the funeral outfit very wrong indeed. And it could have been avoided, if only I’d known. You see, I was not used to the mores surrounding a Presbyterian funeral. Bert’s Aunt Sally’s husband Jack had died very suddenly. He was carrying buckets of meal to his calves when he suffered a heart attack and fell to the ground face first, stone dead. How the minister preached! At any moment, we might be struck down! Are you ready? Are you saved? And so on…

I heard all this because in my stupidity, not wanting to be left alone in the house with the female members of the family I went with Bert and his father to the burial ground. Bert promised me I would not be the only woman there but I was and not only was I the only woman I was the only person there in a bright red coat. Everyone else was wearing the darkest of hues. It is also highly likely that I was the only Catholic in the crowd. Oh, I would have given anything then to be back in the farmhouse, coatless and braving the Presbyterian womenfolk.

A humiliation never to be forgotten. Although it didn’t put me off red coats. I’ve three hanging in my wardrobe right now.

I know that's just two but the corduroy one I have in two sizes, one that fits and one that doesn't.

A Tale of Two Badgers

I believe in the existence of badgers. I've seen the entrances to their setts, I've heard them snarl at Ziggy when he went down their tunnels, I know they live in the woods, I suspect that in the past they were scratching at the doors of the hen house and I've even seen dead ones on the road. But I've never seen a live one and I still haven't.

Last night Hannah came rushing into the house, Chico in her arms.

Where are the dogs? Are the cats here?

What panicked her? Just outside our house, halfway between the back door and the entrance to the hen run two badgers were fighting. Hannah was scared that one of the animals might have been one of our pets. But no, two badgers fighting. Bert saw them both run across the yard then scoot off in different directions. All our pets were fine. Cleo was outside, as was Judy. Judy, being stone deaf, heard nothing but Cleo was excited and set off in pursuit of the badgers. 

I was so jealous. I've never seen a living badger and now Chico has and he is only eleven weeks old.

Chico is Hannah's puppy. This is his sixth day living here and he is well settled. Nothing fazes him, not even fighting badgers. But wait until he meets the pigs!

A Tale of Two Bullfinches

 

Possibly the same female taken a couple of years ago

First thing this morning I was out looking for survivors from the fox attack but there were none to be seen, just another area filled with feathers from a kill. That is at least two hen’s worth of feathers so far.*

We had another avian incident today. Bert and I were in the sun room when we heard a thud on the window and I saw a small bird falling to the ground. When I looked out, the bird, a female bullfinch, was standing on the ground, looking stunned. I wondered if I should just leave it there but, spotting Hannah coming back from her walk in the woods, with three dogs and two cats in tow, I thought it would be better to take the little bird out of harm’s way. I set it in the middle of the rhododendron hedge and went to make sure that the cats were kept indoors. When I got back, there was Cleo, trotting along with the bullfinch in her mouth. She gave it up willingly and her soft mouth had done the bird no harm. For its own safety I placed it in a cardboard box with a cooling rack on top.

Then after fifteen minutes or so Bert took it outside where it flew up into a hawthorn tree. A male bullfinch was perched further up the tree as if keeping guard. The female stayed for around 20 minutes and then was gone. I checked the bottom of the tree for signs of its fall but no bullfinch.

What a day for that wee bird.

Flies into a window and brains itself.

Is gathered up by a human and placed in a hedge that it doesn’t normally frequent.

Is carried off in a dog’s mouth.

Is imprisoned.

All being well she will survive this experience and go on to raise a brood or two. Maybe even three.

*The third killing site was discovered just outside the hen run. My lovely Jacqueline.

This may well be the same male bullfinch who waited for her today. Apparently bullfinches pair for life.

And Then There Were... None?

 

We were already down to four chickens. Then our new rooster (not pictured) was nabbed by Foxy at the beginning of the week. I kept the remaining three hens inside for a couple of days then, feeling sorry for them, I decided to open the hen run and let them run around the yard and garden. My logic was that Foxy would be unlikely to get them if they were running wild and free. At dusk they would return to the hen house and I'd close them in for the night. 

This evening it was past dusk when I went out to do that. It was dark and I took a lamp. The first thing I saw was a scattering of feathers, far too many to be normal. I shone the light into their house. No hens.  I went in, feathers everywhere, especially at the trap door. I looked around the run. Not all around it as it is overgrown, but there was no sign of hens either living or dead.

I went into the house feeling awfully sad. The hens had such a lovely time today. Every time I looked out the window or went outside there they were, scrabbling and pecking, enjoying the mild dry day. If only I'd gone out earlier maybe I could have got them shut in safely before Foxy got there.

I said to Bert,

I think our chicken-keeping days may be over.

And told him what I'd found.

He said,

You never know. One or two of them might turn up in the morning.

They were all old girls and we'd been planning to let them live out their lives then stop keeping chickens, get the run cleared and maybe, maybe start again at a later date. Part of me hopes that they are all gone because then I can stop worrying about them. Another part...

We shall see what tomorrow brings. 

Jacqueline. She was my favourite. The feathers that I found did not belong to her.

Cabin Fever

 Since Saturday I’ve hardly been out of the house. There was a quick and early run to the Spar for our weekly print journalism treat, the Weekend Guardian for people like us, people with log-burning stoves need something to help light our fires. Sorry, re our carbon footprint - I’m not going to be embarrassed about that as I rarely use aeroplanes and Bert never flies anywhere.

On Sunday I was completely confined to quarters. Never put my nose outside the door. Did a lot of housework. Took my daily exercise in the polytunnel as it was really wet and windy.

Monday had me taking a quick run to the Spar for milk and to Boots for my medicine. It’s something I take for arthritis, been taking it for years, even before I fell out of the tree-house, maybe started around the time I was cowped by the pig. I don’t know if it helps but I’d rather not stop just in case it does.

The sore stomach started around lunch-time and got worse and worse. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t throw up and I couldn’t poo. The pain went into my back. If someone had offered me heroin I would have accepted it gladly – even though I was pretty sure it was just trapped wind. I slept a lot when I could. No-one offered me heroin so I took two dissoluble paracetamol at around 10pm and slept all night. The smart watch recorded a total sleep of 11 hours and 45 minutes for that period.  Crazy dreams.

The bad pain was gone next morning and I did the natural thing. Tummy still felt tender and I had little appetite and I was so tired. Spent the day reading – mainly Jan Carson.

Today I had the cabin fever. I went to Antrim, took Jazzer shopping. Just a few things she said. We breakfasted in Alfie’s, my only concession to my delicate tum was cappuccino rather than an Americano. Afterwards I checked out the charity shop, nice sweater, two mugs and a book with change from a fiver. Then it was Asda, Lidl and Islandbawn Stores. Jazzer’s idea of a few things is very different from mine. In between Lidl and Islandbawn we stopped at Belmont Cemetery for a bit of a walk and to call with friends. Jazzer said hello to her mum and dad, her sister, her brother, her niece and nephew and many friends and neighbours. I said hello to a great-niece, a cousin, an uncle, an old friend and some neighbours from home. There was a funeral taking place while we were there but we kept a respectful distance.

Being nosy, I checked out the funeral when I got home. I had supposed it was for someone who had lived a long life. But it wasn’t. It was for an infant.

The Unforgettable Geoff Kerr

In which Bert takes up literary criticism

Sunday morning, and Bert stays in bed with his book.

When he comes down I ask him,

What are you reading now?

J.M. Coetzee. Dusklands.

Is it good?

It's shite.

Why read it then?

It's really two novellas and it shouldn't take long.

But why is it shite?

Because of how he writes. Never says what he means, just fliff-flaffing about. It's esoteric. What does esoteric mean anyway?

I don't actually know for sure. Look it up and while you're at it check out what's being said about Dusklands online.

Is that not cheating?

No. It's a really good thing to do. Helps you to understand the book, maybe get more out of it.

A little time passes. 

Bert has just found out about the world of books online. He says,

Ha! I'm not the only one then. It says here that those that find fault with Dusklands concentrate on the obliquity of the book's method.

He goes back online. Doing his research. Some minutes later he waves his phone in front of my face. I am looking at a picture of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior.

Bert says,

Look at that! The state of it! Spine's hanging off it! And they're looking £40 for it.

I say,

It's probably a first edition. But I wouldn't want it in that state.

I look up our paperback copy to see what that is worth. Seventeen pounds.

Bert says,

You should sell it. It's a load of shite anyway.

Snow Time Like The Present

Our two oldest grandchildren, Martha and Evie live in town which is very convenient for them. Handy for the shops, the cafes, friends, school, the station and wider access to city life. But... not much use for snow. For snow they need Granny and Granda Nellybert. We're a bit elevated and a lot less trodden and have the best snow. That mattered more when they were wee childer but still... snow is snow. Still snow, it's special.

Yesterday was the third day of the snow, every night bringing fresh falls, every morning a pristine vista, then yesterday a province-wide strike (which we supported despite being completely unaffected by it) and a day off school for the girls. 

Hannah collected them. Solicitous and caring daughter that she is, she does not like me to walk, never mind drive in wintry conditions. Lord love her she had three days of the snow to brush and scrape off her vehicle before she could set off.

These days the girls do not expect me to entertain them as in days of old. No cries of, we're bored! what can we do now? No dressing up, no let's do the show right here, no can we bake buns, make slime? Nowadays all that is needed is a Netflix subscription and food every three hours. I accept that, they do have busy lives, they need to relax, to chill and Granny's house seems like a good place to do that.

Then snow happens.

Cleo found out about snowballs from Locky. He made her a few and threw them and now she is convinced that there are millions of white balls hiding in the snow if only she could find them.

Martha got snow in her wellies and a wet bum and she was ready for the warm house, and Netflix and the dry but Evie and Cleo needed more so we went to the woods. 

While we were there she gave me a massive compliment. Said she doesn't think of me as 'old', says that as far as she's concerned I'm only about fifty-eight which, funnily enough, is the age I was when she was born. I can live with that. Fifty-eight forever.

I haven't enjoyed the beauty of snow so much in ages which is one of the delights of old age. Enjoy stuff because it's all coming to an end. Later on, while we were all enjoying the warmth of a cosy warm house, I noticed that Martha was missing. She was outside taking close-up pictures of the snow to send to her cousin in Australia. The same cousin who was in Ireland only a week ago, who longed to see snow and missed it by days.

Another time Miss O.

New Jess On The Road

 

There are now at least two collie type dogs living on our road that are called Jess, our Jess and Clint's Jess.  Clint's Jess has a story. During Clint's time as a milk-tanker driver he frequented farms all around the country and on one of these farms he came across some people, good enough people in their own way, who acquired collie pups which they kept confined to a cage. That's how he got Bob. He'd seen him in the cage for far too long and eventually asked for him and got him. It does something to dogs if they don't have a modicum of freedom but Bob has been with Clint a long time now and although he's a bit crazy he is happy and well cared for.

Clint's retired from the milk collection trade now but around Christmas time he had business on the yard where he'd previously got Bob and there was another dog in the cage. Jess. She'd been there a good few years, a dog bought in the hopes she'd work out as a cattle dog and that hadn't happened. She is Clint's dog now, and she'll have a far better life with him for he cares about the animals in his life.

Still don't agree with his politics though. We just don't talk about that.

An seid prátaí

I was making soup and needed a large onion so, outside to find Bert who is clearing the middle bay of the polytunnel. He is going to make an obstacle course for Cleo. It was Hannah's idea, a way to burn off some of the pup's excess energy and take her mind off the Kong.

Where are the onions?

Scratches head. Thinks. Says,

Big ones or wee ones?

Big ones.

They're in the pruta shed.

Pruta shed? Which one is that?

You know! The pruta shed. 

Never once in my life have I ever heard you calling any of the sheds a pruta shed.

It's always been called the pruta shed. Ask Clint.

I'm sure Clint would be too embarrassed to call a shed for something it hasn't had in for forty years. Now which one is it again? Give me a clue. What do you keep in it?

Onions.

What else?

Tools, kindlers, stuff!

Oh - you mean the workshop. Righto.

The naming of places has always been an issue with Bert and I have blogged about it before. And as I'd told him the pruta shed was a new one on me I thought I'd refer back to this post.

It seems that back then he called it the potato shed, and that's another thing, as Bert gets older he uses much more Ulster-Scots dialect. I have been known to accuse him of making words up and he'll say,

Get the book* out!

The book always proves him correct.  

*The Concise Ulster Dictionary was a gift from Ganching 28 years ago. She paid £9.99 for it. Today you'd be lucky to pick up a second-hand copy for under £100. I'll not be selling mine. Far too useful.

Those of you that have Irish will see that most of Ulster's old words for the spud are derived from our native tongue. I wish I had more of it myself so that I could take my turn at confusing Bert.

This Is My Life: Shopping & Animals (and books)

 

First thing in the morning I let Cleo out for morning pees and poos. Delighted to say that it is more than 50 hours since she has performed either of those actions indoors. The Kong obsession has not been entirely helpful as her desire to collect it in the morning has often led to a big piss on the kitchen floor. Every day is a learning day (for both of us) and I have learned to pitch the Kong out the bedroom window so she just cannot wait to get outside to fetch it.

The picture above is post morning evacuations and back to bed with coffee, Kong and Woody the kitten. Woody has breakfasted, no need for outside as he is still a litter tray user. I have my coffee and my books, not easy to manage with a largish kitten sitting on my throat. Cleo has her Kong and all is right with her world. This morning's books are something about Hurricane Katrina and euthanasia which depite being ploughed through for months, the name escapes me at the moment. The other two books are Wally Lamb's This Much I Know (excellent) and Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye (even more excellent).

Woody has removed himself from my throat and is amusing himself playing with Cleo's tail. It will soon be time to get up as I am taking Jazzer to the shops. Asda to be exact. She is post-surgery for a shoulder injury and I am helping her out just as she helped me out when I injured my hip last year.

I have a perfunctory wash for which I am not ashamed as I showered yesterday and I dress myself in Snag tights, raspberry coloured, Nordic socks, shades of raspberry, Blundstone boots, a polka dot denim Toast skirt, a grey M&S long-sleeved vest, a burgundy coloured jumper and a pink hand-knitted (by Ganching) scarf. My outer garment being a black M&S burberry. I am, in my own opinion, looking well for 70 years old.

On the way to Antrim - I'm travelling slow as the roads might be icy, I notice strange clouds in the sky. They are disk shaped, one on top of the other. I make a note to myself to Google them later.

To Jazzer, still in pyjamas, but despite her shoulder difficulties she is soon ready. All I had to do to help her was adjust her surgical support sling. Last week I had to fasten her bra so - progress. We leave the house, breakfast at Alfies's, collect supplies at the pet shop and peruse the charity shops. I buy nothing, Jazzer buys pyjamas. A theme going on? At our house we call pyjamas drinking trousers - someone call AA.

On to Asda. Asda, once Antrim's flagship grocery shopping destination has become hugely disappointing. OK - so I picked up an incredibly cheap and fleecy duvet set that will replace the one that Cleo ate, but that does not make up for one, just one till being open while we, the actual customers were expected to check out our own shopping whilst being overseen by the grumpiest shop assistant in the world. Honestly Asda, I'm not coming back anytime soon. Also, the Kenco coffee was overpriced although to be fair the cheap and cheerful Spanish Rioja I just took my last swallow of, wasn't bad at all.

After having deposited Jazzer and her groceries I headed home whilst listening to an incredibly interesting programme on Radio 4 about bacteria. I felt vindicated having had just the perfunctory wash as apparently bacteria ain't all bad. I am also encouraged to wear my clothes for longer between washes. But, that said, it seems it is still a very good idea to wash one's hands regularly and thoroughly.

Home again, and in a good mood, having had a brisk 20 minute walk through Ballee Cemetery. It is very cheering to pass the graves of one's former neighbours and work colleagues knowing that one is still here. Bert was also in a good mood having chopped down a disease-stricken ash tree that was annoying a horse chestnut and that will keep us warm for at least a month.

Then that bloody internet. Far too easy to go shopping there. That bloody Rioja too. I bought another pair of Blundstone boots. Still haven't figured out those clouds. Lenticular? Where are the mountains? The Mournes are miles away. Belfast hills?

Walking in the Woods

Over Christmas and the New Year I got out of the way of walking in the woods. Too busy. Busy cooking, busy eating, busy entertaining. Hannah was much more diligent. Unless she has an all-day work commitment she takes Cleo walking. Rain, snow or shine. Cleo doesn't mind. Pippin does mind and she'll only go out if it's dry underfoot.

Pippin is a walking cat just as Caps, Harry and Holly were before her. Fred didn't care for walks and we wondered whether Woody would be up for it. Today we found out. Hannah got the Dunlop wellies on, Cleo's cue to get very excited. It has been so soggy lately that Pippin has been avoiding the wood but today it was frosty, the mud was hard and she decided to go with them as did Woody, for the first time ever. Pippin showed him the ropes, which paths to take, which trees to climb. He had a great adventure, came back ravenous and ready for a good long nap. 

These past two frosty days I've been back in the woods too. Today I met Bert and the dogs on the lane returning from a walk. Jess went on home with Bert but Cleo came with me for another walk, her third of the day.

When we returned I said to Bert,

Y'know if we'd met a stranger on the lane, maybe some devil, horns, cloven hooves the works, I'm sure she'd have went walking in the woods with him too.

The Sweet Waters of Europe and Some Other Places

 

The Sweet Waters of Europe

Just as Bert finished reading Dutch Interior I'd completed Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge. I handed it over,

I think you'll like this. It's about a surgeon in the Crimean War, and it's written by a woman. 

These days Bert seems to prefer female novelists, his current faves being Hilary Mantel and Pat Barker. Sure enough he came downstairs next day saying,

That's more like it. Says what she means, no shilly-shallying around.

In the novel Master Georgie and his camp followers take a leisurely route to the battlefield. They set sail from Liverpool to Constantinople and on arrival spend some time taking in the sights including a trip to the Sweet Waters of Europe, which was a fashionable resort at that time. The area, now known as Kâğıthane, is urbanised and the wealthy must have found new playgrounds.

Now I know very little of the Crimean War for it never came up in my school history lessons. That was all Plantagenets, Tudors, The Flight of the Earls and the English Civil War. There was Florence Nightingale of course and references to limbless soldiers in Victorian novels. Yet when George and his camp followers get to where the action is I realised that many of the geographical place names were already familiar. Belfast, like hundreds of other towns and cities in these islands, had streets named Crimea, Inkerman, Alma, Sevastapol, Plevna and Varna. Most of these are part of old Belfast and no longer exist. However, Sevastapol Street, off the Falls Road still stands and that is where the famous mural of Bobby Sands is situated. Balaclava Street, also on the Falls Road, has disappeared. Its claim to fame was being named 'Balaclava' at one end and 'Balaklava' on the other. 

Nor was Lord Raglan, of Peninsular and Crimean War fame, been forgotten when it comes to Irish roads and pubs. Belfast had its Raglan Street, Dublin still has its Raglan Road made famous by Patrick Kavanagh and Luke Kelly. And Ballymena? We had the Raglan Bar in Harryville which I entered on one occasion for about five minutes. Strong Straw Dogs vibe. It's a Credit Union now. 

New Years Day

The day did not get off to a good start. Bert came downstairs waving a copy of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior and giving off about it being the worst book he'd ever read.

Why did you read it then?

Because I kept thinking something would happen.

And did it?

No. Nothing happened and there were far too many people in it and they did nothing and what had it all got to do with a Dutch Interior anyway?

I was intrigued. I've only ever read O'Connor's short stories so I'll be adding Dutch Interior to my to-read list. I suggested he might like to read First Confession as I consider it to be an excellent short story. I hoked it out for him and said,

That might be easier for you to understand. Or maybe not.

He said, 

Are you saying that I'm stupid?

No. You're not stupid, you're Protestant.

New Year's Eve

 

Wow! New Year’s Eve already. Where did this last week go?

New tradition. I opened my presents on Christmas Eve as I knew I was going to be either awfully busy or perhaps incapacitated on the actual day.

Christmas Day. Just Nellybert, Howard and the five dogs.

I managed to cook a turkey to perfection and made some excellent gravy. We had chocolate Pavlova with cherries and blackberries for dessert and, of course, too much wine.

After dinner we sat down to watch Nick Cave and Nat King Cole on YouTube. Howard left at dark to see to his chickens and Bert and I settled down to a couple of episodes of Fargo. We are all caught up now and now have to wait for the weekly dole out.

I fed nine on Boxing Day. We three, four Haribos Swisser and son. There was only one extra dog, Rex, who was so chilled you’d hardly know he was there.

It was a busy day as I had desserts to complete and vegetable dishes to prepare. And… new gravy to make. Secret ingredient – remains of old gravy. Gravy was going to be important as the roast chicken dinner I’d made for the Haribos a few weeks earlier had insufficient gravy and this was very disappointing. They were fighting over the last teaspoonful. Not Zoe, of course, as she was reared on disappointing dinners. However, her stoicism must be wearing off for she was quite miffed to find a plain, day-before Brussels sprout on her plate. I did serve sprouts, sliced, braised with carrots and seasoned with soy sauce and they were good. Even Hannah enjoyed them not realising that she was eating the much-maligned and hateful sprout.

For dessert I served a citrussy, almondy Italian cake (Papa Haribo’s favourite), a baked cheesecake, a trifle and the leftover Pavlova. When the food settled we played charades which was a lot of fun.

The day after Boxing Day was a Wednesday. Ben and Sara called and that is all I remember about that. We watched another episode of Fargo. Bert is obsessed with The League of Gentlemen and is working his way through all the series. He finds it unsettling and scary.

Thursday we had Lulu to stay as her people are going to Glasgow for Hogmanay.

Friday evening brought the young Haribos straight off the train from Derry.

Saturday the young ones and Lulu Netflixed and chilled (in bed) for most of the day. After I’d left them home and had a bit of supper we watched Saltburn. There were bits were I had to cover my eyes. Unsettling. A bit scary.

Today, Sunday, New Year’s Eve has been quiet. Except for Lulu, upstairs yapping her head off because nobody will keep her company in bed. She was in heaven yesterday with Martha and Evie. Hannah is working and Woody still hasn’t worked out how to use the cat flap.

This is the first day it hasn’t been raining for ages. It is almost worrying.

Just now, out looking to see where Woody has got too. I see a flash of white in the hen run and wait for him. He spends a lot of time in there. I hear voices chattering on the road, in a language I don’t recognise and being nosey I wait to see who it is. Three young men walk past the end of the lane, each of them carrying bags of groceries. There are a lot of people from SE Asia staying around here. They looked like they might be planning a party. I do hope so. Somebody has to.

One of my Christmas presents was a collection of short films from Martha and Evie’s dad. The following pictures are screenshots from the films.

I

The Day Before Christmas Eve

I'll start with the night before the day before Christmas Eve when we had a visit from the smartest man I know. It is always good to see him and I always have considerations to lay before him. His main strengths are the management of domestic appliances, Irish politics and catering. He was here once when our cooker had stopped working and he just went into the kitchen and fixed it. Regarding Irish politics his most recent advice is to disengage from X/Twitter. Last night he gave me some great suggestions for good gravy and red cabbage. Sadly I don't totally remember the details except that both recipes involved the addition of port and I have two bottles of port - which is handy.

I seem to live in Tescos these days. Back again this morning (really early) and had some lovely interactions with staff and fellow shoppers. Lots of smiles and happy chats. I am so into Christmas this year mainly the goodwill to all men/people part. This is how I should spend the rest of my life. There was a really lovely conversation with a fellow oldie in the carpark about the craziness of Christmas food shopping. Her trolly, I couldn't help but notice, was full of bread. Then she told me, it was for the swans in Broughshane. How lovely. I asked her if the black swans were still around. They are. Thanks be. Then she started on a rant about the crows who were also after the swan's bread. I was slightly disappointed in her. But that's me - woke as fuck. The swans are lovely but I also love and admire those much maligned corvids.

  

The Big Shop

The big shop begins with a list, a list carefully curated to the last ounce of caster sugar. But first I have the last Christmas present to buy, a task somewhat hindered by the future recipient of the last Christmas present being in my company. Never daunted, I give her a tenner to browse TK Maxx while I peruse H&M. Sadly, H&M has been cleared out of the best stuff but I buy something anyway. I meet Martha (for it is she) in TK Maxx to find that nothing has caught her fancy. She has other ideas. I am frogmarched to Superdrug where she spends her tenner on lip oil and other essential cosmetics that did not exist in my young day. 

On to Tescos where I discover that my carefully curated list has been left on the kitchen table. I panic slightly and call a crisis meeting with Martha. She reassures me that it will be OK and I bring forward the motion that no matter what happens we will HAVE FUN. 

So, caster sugar. I remembered that. Off to the home baking shelves where we were stopped by a young man carrying a tub of baking powder.

He asked,

Is this the same thing as baking soda?

Both of us,

No. It's not.

Me,

Is it for a recipe?

He,

Yes.

Me,

You'll definitely need baking soda then. It's in a similar tub.

Martha,

Look! There it is!

Talk about grateful. He couldn't thank us enough. Most gratifying.

On to the caster sugar.

Me,

Can you see any Martha?

Woman beside us,

I'm looking for caster sugar too.

Martha,

I can't see any. Would golden caster sugar do?

Me to woman,

Is it for a recipe?

Woman,

Yes. My friend and I are making a pavlova.

Me,

You'll definitely need ordinary caster sugar then. It will keep the meringue pale. Try Lidls. They always have caster sugar.

Me to Martha,

Get us. Baking consultants. Don't forget to tell your mother.

I bought the golden caster sugar and everything that was on the left-behind list except fruit and three kinds of cream. I can get that in the local Spar. The bit more I spend will be offset by fuel costs.

Yet I still need to go into town tomorrow. Pet supplies, dog treats, a new peanut feeder for the birds and another Kong. Bert lost one today. It was Cleo's favourite toy.

How did that happen?

They were annoying me with it so I threw it over the shed roof.

But over the shed roof means it always ends up in the midden*.

I forgot the midden was there.

*Midden - dunghill**

**Dunghill - big pile of cow shite

 

Babies Aren't Fluffy

When does Christmas begin?  Some would say when the deckos and tree go up. In that case, there will be no Christmas at Nellybert's for there is no tree, no deckos. I excused myself because of Woody, the new kitten who is far more fun than Christmas trees and who would demolish a tree just as he is destroying my chilli plant by breaking its branches and batting all its baubles (ripening chillis) to the ground. He has yet to bite into one. 

Ben is very enamoured of Woody which is as it should be as it was him and his beloved who rescued the tiny kitty from the main street in Portglenone and brought him to us. He was cuddling Woody on Sunday, cradling the kitten like an infant, and Woody was loving it. I said,

Just think Ben. In a few years you might just be cuddling a real live baby.

He said,

I don't think so. Babies aren't as good as kittens. They're not fluffy.

Meanwhile, in homes from Dingle to Norfolk, people of all ages, kittenless people are putting up their Christmas trees and wreathes, real trees, vintage trees, arty trees, with hand-crafted ornaments, heirloom baubles, felted mice, stars, fairies, coloured lights, white lights and tinsel strands. I'm slightly envious. Next year, definitely next year - unless Ben and Sara find me another kitten.   

Trees and wreathes from the fam whatsapp. At least one of those trees was grown from seed by one of us. It wasn't me.

Fred: How It Began

 

Posted on 16th November, 2015

Holly is not a happy cat...   but Bonnie is pleased with her new kitten.

Sharing the scoff

On Friday I was walking on the Ballymena-Doagh road when I heard a tinkling and a squeaking. I looked around and there was a little ginger kitten following me. The tinkling was coming from a bell on its collar. There were no houses nearby and I could not understand why such a young cat was out on the road. There had been a woman driver behaving oddly about five minutes before I encountered the kitten. She had went to pull in, spotted me and drove on. I looked behind me and she'd pulled to the side again. I thought she might have noticed a flat tire and wondered if I should offer to help but she drove off again. Did she dump that kitten? I think she did. I couldn't leave it - the road was far too busy and dangerous. Maybe it was someone's lost pet but little cats do not tend to stray far from home and this one was at least a quarter of a mile from the nearest house. Nevermind. He lives here now and Holly de Cat is not best pleased. But Bonnie is delighted with her new kitten.

Resting up a spell

Goodbye To Fred

 

Fred died today after a short illness. He was just over fifteen years old.

After we said goodbye to Fred, Bert said,

It's been a tough year for ginger boys.

Get Me To The Church On Time

 Wellington Street back in the day when Bert knew what was what and where things were.

So yesterday we went to see the EAMS Christmas Concert to support Evie who would be playing the cello in the Junior Orchestra.

As always, I wanted to be early so asked Bert how long to drive to Wellington Church. He replied,

About 15 minutes.

Oh good, thought I. No more cutting it fine.

Where shall we park?, says he.

It's a big church, says I. Should be plenty of parking spaces.

We set off. Bert did not take the road I expected him to. He drove right through the village and past the end of the Fenaghy Road, I asked him

What way are you going?

Into town. Obviously.

I thought you’d go by Galgorm.

Why?

Because that’s the way to the church.

Wellington Church? That’s on Wellington Street.

It’s not. It’s on the Sourhill Road.

Since when?

About fourteen years. Haven’t you noticed it? The church on Wellington Street was demolished around seven years ago. Surely you noticed that?

When am I ever on Wellington Street?

Every time you drive through the centre of Ballymena.

We still managed to make the Sourhill Road in good time and the concert was beyond excellent. Evie and all the young musicians put on an accomplished show. Their teachers and mentors should be very proud of themselves. 

Walking and Sleeping

Since I started wearing my I Can't Believe It's Not A Fitbit I've been obsessed with my sleeping patterns. My average sleeping time is 7hr and 40m which is good and if I find, on waking up, that I've slept 6 hours or less I return to bed to catch an extra hour. This will be after going outside with Cleo for at least ten minutes (rain or hail) to supervise her morning pees and poos for, if I don't, she shamelessly does it in the house. 

Back to sleeping. I started reading Paul Lynch's Prophet Song a couple of days ago and even though I've barely got into it I had a vivid dream about living in a police state. There were two factions, Tories and Nazis and we ordinary people were living in fear. My dream featured a long urban street, lots of people around, uniformed Police/soldiers dotted in every other doorway and all the people were white. All the black and brown people had disappeared. It was scary and I was glad to wake up from it.

In better news since I got the ICBINAF I have been walking every day without fail and feel much better for it. Walks usually find me in the woods but if I have errands in town I might walk there. Yesterday it was Belfast and I expected to clock up plenty of steps. We were meeting friends for lunch and left the choice of venue to them. It was five minutes from Great Victoria Street Station. But, despite lack of walking opportunities the place was great, food was good and the company enjoyable. Drink was nice too. We decided to do it again soon. In Barcelona. I need a new passport. An Irish one this time. 

On White Goods

Our washing machine packed up and no-one could remember how long we'd had it. Hannah said it was at least six years but I thought it might be slightly longer than that. I decided to check the old blog to see if there was any mention of it but no. Whilst checking I found an entry from seventeen time ago and I had absolutely no memory of ever having had that conversation.  

We've had two more dishwashers since then. Stuff just doesn't last any more. Hopefully the current one will go for a good few years more seeing as I only use it about once a week. Like the guy said, I usually wash them in the sink now, just like our grandmothers did.

Martha washing dishes in the sink assisted by Auntie Hannah. Those were the days when she thought washing dishes was fun and raincoat and wellies were essential. I call that picture The Girls Who Never Take Their Coats Off.

The Honest Sales Assistant (2006)

Bert and I went to Ballymena yesterday to buy a replacement dishwasher. While Bert trotted off to the bank to pay in some cheques I went to a local shop where they always provide good service. I have to say that I found the price of their dishwashers a bit breath taking at first. There were machines costing in excess of £300 and I’d told Bert we’d be paying less than £200. So when the sales assistant approached me to ask if he could help I asked him if he had any less expensive dishwashers. He led me over to another part of the shop and showed me a much cheaper machine. I’d never heard of the make but it looked all right to me.

So why is this machine so much cheaper than the others?

Because it’s manufactured in the third world using cheap materials from China.

Oh.

This machine was made by people who aren’t getting a proper wage for their work. People who work in unsafe conditions. People who are, in fact, children!

So is it any good?

There’s not a thing wrong with it.

Even so you’ve put me off a bit. I don’t like the idea of buying a dishwasher that was made by badly treated children. Should you be telling me this?

I’ll not be telling you lies. I have the man above to answer to when I die!

Would you buy this dishwasher?

A dishwasher! I don’t think so. People have no need of dishwashers at all. After all how did our grandmothers manage? What’s wrong with washing dishes in the sink? People have no need of half the stuff they have these days! When Armageddon comes….

Thankfully at this point Bert joined us and I managed to change the subject. We did not buy the very unethical dishwasher. We bought another one instead. Ten pounds more but at least I can sleep at night. ;)

A Pair Of Brown Eyes

Very many years ago I went to see the Pogues some place in Belfast. Whitla Hall? Hard to remember. What I do remember is that I found my 30-something self in the midst of a frenzied crowd of much younger people (mostly male) jumping up and down in such a way that I was in danger of losing my footing and being pogoed to death. My ex-husband pulled me out of the melee and (I suppose) saved my life. Thanks Mick. He and his beloved were supposed to be staying with us for a few days but were forced to cancel due to health concerns. We will see them at Easter.

So we spent an hour or so this evening watching Crock of Gold: A Few Rounds with Shane MacGowan. I liked it. Seemed fitting. I was neither shocked nor sad to hear that Shane had died. Surprised, considering his health issues, that he'd lasted this long.

Way back, probably during some summer in the 80s, living in Ballykeel 2, I'd listen to the first two Pogues albums, windows open, daring my Loyalist neighbours to be offended by the trad Irish-ish. If they'd come to my door, I imagined myself saying, for fucks sake, they've been on The Old Grey Whistle Test. That is part of MacGowan's legacy for, to some extent, he gave us back our music.

Portballintrae and Bushmills

 

Today was a lovely day. I had a trip out with my first-born daughter. She drove, such a treat! First we went for a walk on the beach at Portballintrae which was a delight but weird because we had no dogs. The first time ever I've been to that beach without at least two dogs. Incidentally, my records inform me that the last time I walked that beach was February 2021. Far too long ago.

After the walk we went to Mike's Coffee Shop in Bushmills for Thai food and it was delicious. Had I been at home I would have licked my plate. The food was great, the service was great and I will definitely return. I have been inspired and must go soon to Asia Supermarket to source the necessary ingredients for a Thai Panang Curry.

I left my phone behind so Zoe took the photographs which is why there are none of her. A pity as she was looking really fine.

The First Judy

This picture of Jess was taken the first day she went to live with my parents. She looks a bit unsure of herself.

I were looking through a box of old photographs, mostly of dogs. I turned up a snap of Mum’s dog Jess from when she was a puppy and asked Bert,

Do you remember Jess?

Jess? The Pup that came from Sammy Grey’s. How long was she around?

At least ten years. Mum got up one morning and found her dead. She was their last dog. They never had another.

Your dad wasn’t that keen on dogs, was he?

I don’t know about that.

So I told him about the second Danny and the first Judy.

Both dogs came from the same mother, a wee spaniel that belonged to a friend of a friend. Danny was the first of them. At that time I had little need of a dog but allowed myself to be persuaded. He was such a gorgeous pup and I named him Danny after a dog we’d had at home. He was probably only about six weeks old when I got him, far too young to be separated from his mother but that was common then to take a pup away at that age. I’d been advised by a neighbour to get him his inoculation soon as distemper was rife in our area. But I’d little spare money then and didn’t get round to it.

It’s a horrible thing to watch a tiny puppy die of distemper. Thanks be it is almost a thing of the past now. He became ill and declined fast. After one horrible night of fitting I took him to the vet but it was too late. Allowing little Danny to die is a huge regret.

About a year later Beryl’s friend’s bitch had a second litter. At first I was reluctant to have another pup but went to see them. Always a mistake. I chose a sweet little bitch and named her Judy. This time I made sure she got her inoculations. That done I could pat myself on the back and consider myself a good dog mum. But I wasn’t.

Judy spent a lot of time in the street outside our house. Drumtara was a newly built estate and there were a lot of children and dogs around. When Zoe was outdoors playing with her group of friends Judy was always with them. There was one young boy who tormented the girls and he had been kicking Judy. Understandably, Judy snapped at him and this caused a big problem. His mother came to my door and threatened to call the police. I asked my parents if they would take her off my hands and, slightly reluctantly, they agreed.

Judy adapted well to country life. She decided that my father was her hero and followed him everywhere. If he was at the farmyard she would be with him. If he went to the moss (which he often did) she’d go too, trotting beside his tractor until they arrived at the turf banks.

She was always well-behaved when she was with Daddy until the day when one of the fellow turf cutters brought his dog along and which excited Judy so much that she did not mind herself around Daddy’s tractor and was killed under its wheels. He buried her there and then in the bog that she and my father loved so much then returned home alone. Mammy knew the moment he came in that something was wrong. He went to his customary place at the kitchen table, sat down, folded his arms in front of him, laid down his head and wept.

Not long after these photographs were taken Judy and Katy set off on an adventure. Whether it was Judy's idea or Katy's we'll never know but they both left my mother's house and turned up at the next door neighbour's house which was a good fifteen minute walk for a toddler and a terrier. Both were returned safely and we were advised that one of them might need a nappy change.