On Single Beds, Curtains And Being Stroked

I had not been down to our old house that many times since Clint took up residence and I had not been over its door since he moved his furniture in. But that changed the other day. To tell the truth I was reluctant to look back in case I was filled with sadness and regrets. Clint has made the house look very different. To my surprise he has made it really attractive. Less cluttered, more masculine, light and airy and fresh looking.

Although the house looks different now one thing remains the same, one thing I miss a lot, and that is the view of Slemish and the Antrim Hills from the bedroom window. Clint has chosen this room for his bedroom and I was surprised to see that he sleeps in a single bed. A single bed? For such a big man? Clint is about 6’3” tall and while he’s not fat he has the build to suit his height. I teased him about this saying a single bed would be no good if he were to entice a woman home. He said there was little chance of that. Clint is a bachelor although not ‘confirmed’ but his courtship techniques have become rusty through lack of practice.

He had asked me round to look at some really old curtains left over from his old house and I was keen to see them after seeing those plant pot ones go for £77 on Ebay. There was nothing of that calibre among Clint’s pile but I did get a rather pretty patchwork quilt. Just what I needed too – another patchwork quilt.

And speaking of Ebay – I’ve been stroked twice. The last time I was Ebay-spreeing I got everything I paid for and now this time two vendors have not sent the goods. You might put it down to the post or whatever but these sellers didn’t even answer my numerous messages. Perhaps they died? I suppose that could happen. But it would be odd if the two of them died so close together just as I’d made a paypal transaction for them. Then a friend of Swisser’s works in a sorting office in Belfast and he has hinted that thievery is rife there. That’s a very depressing thought.

I’m still sick. The Big Girl’s Blouse Flu progressed from aching throat, to thick green snottery, to chest pain, to dry hacking cough, back to snottery and on to weepy depression and the loss of the will to live. Then I caught myself on and phoned in sick. I’m that over being Another Martyr For Oul Ireland.

  

Into Their Company

When I was 14 the nuns gave out a pamphlet called ‘My Dear Daughter’. This work was penned by a Catholic Lady Doctor (and Mother) and was intended to guide us innocent Catholic girls through puberty, adolescence and the rest. I wish I’d kept my copy. It was full of interesting biological facts and diagrams but was also heavy on the sort of advice that would help a young Catholic girl stay pure. I remember it advised us never to sit on a boy’s knee. I couldn’t understand that as I was so excessively shy and modest then that I wouldn’t have considered sitting on a masculine knee and indeed I’m sure I was 18 before I did. Then I realised what the pamphlet was on about. ‘My Dear Daughter’ was also dead set against girls wearing patent or shiny shoes whilst at ‘hops’, in case the boys would be able to see the reflection of their reinforced double gussets in their shiny shoes. My best memory of ‘My Dear Daughter’ was being instructed to say prayers for purity whilst we were washing our private parts. This was an aid to guard against ‘excitement’ brought about by ‘friction’. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined all this and have been looking for a copy of ‘My Dear Daughter’ ever since to check it out. So I was quite chuffed to find a similar booklet, ‘Into Their Company’ written anonymously by A Medical Woman, A Girl and A Wife with an introduction by The Rev C.C. Martindale, S.J. ‘Into Their Company’ is an earlier work than ‘My Dear Daughter’ and was first published in 1931. Here are some extracts.

On The Desire To Marry The first point to remember about the sex-instinct is that it is just as normal and natural as is the instinct to get food. But whereas human beings have always acknowledged their hunger, because that was the way to get something to satisfy it, they realised very early that, for a woman at least, to say: ‘I do want a home and a husband!’ was not the best way to get one. (Into Their Company pp2-3) And women especially have tended to hide away the fact that they want to get married, and have tried never to show or admit it. The finer the woman, the more self-respect she has, the greater care she will take not to be the one to make the first advances. If she has her own dreams of an ideal marriage she never makes them cheap by talking about them. (Into Their Company p3) On Controlling ‘Bad Thoughts’ or ‘Thinking About Sex’ The Church….wants her daughters to be beautiful in mind as well as body. . (Into Their Company p16) Thoughts against purity?….You hate them. Don’t let them trouble you. Simply say to God: ‘These aren’t me, I hate them. It’s just the devil.’ ….in your private dreams of having a husband and children, you don’t realise that it isn’t lawful to dwell on and take pleasure in the thought of such things as will, if you are married, be quite right and lawful between your husband and yourself. Taking pleasure in that kind of imagining is tearing something out of its setting- stealing, in fact. (Into Their Company pp17-18) Do not think about your ‘bad thoughts.’ Say quickly ‘Jesus save me – Mary help me,’ and then think of something else. If you are a domestic sort of girl, picture to yourself the little house that you and your future husband are going to live in, and decide upon the colour schemes for the various rooms. By the time you have solved the knotty problem as to which pattern of chintz or cretonne will look best with your drawing-room walls the bad thoughts will have flown leagues away! (Into Their Company pp19-20)

‘Into Their Company’ also offers some useful advice on dealing with those troublesome lesbian tendencies. I don't recall 'My Dear Daughter' covering this issue. I may have to return to that subject in another post.

Dear Trusting Friend

Rue 22 Amin Munga Street
Segbeya Ayelewaju
Cotonue Benin Republic
00229--93--157--735.

Dear Trusting Friend,

I am Charles Miller the only Son of late Edmond Miller the Managing Director of APEN petroleum company in Cotonu capital city of Benin I must confess my agitation is real, and my words is my bond, in this proposal.

My late father was a petroleum marchant and because of his sucess in this field also because his wealth, his business associate in the field was very envious and family friend also was against him.

Anyways yerman’s ma died giving birth and his da was poisoned by jealous enemies but,

On his last breath he disclosed to me of an amount,eitheen million five hundred dollars($18.5 million) he deposited with a bank here in Benin.it is on this note that I am contacting you.

All I needed from you is to furnish me with your bank particulars:

So Charlie Boy if you’re reading this hear are my bank particulars

1) Name: Mrs Nelly Moser
2) A/c no. 789456123741852963
3) Bank of Dreen, Dough Head Road, Spide City, Norn Iron


I look forward to receiving my 20% cut of the EIGHTEEN MILLION FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS. Yay!

Just letting you know Charlie that I have had a score of similar emails since Christmas but somehow yours has touched my heart with its poignancy and sincerity.

Harry de Cat Before He Was Horrible

fluffykitten1
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Poor Robin

I witnessed a brutal murder this morning. I was sitting in the den about to enjoy a nice cup of coffee when I saw Harry de Cat leap right through a bush. I knew he was up to no good so raced outside as fast as I could. Harry de Murderous Cat ran off but there, on the other side of the bush, laid a poor robin breathing his last. I carried him into Bert who pronounced him a goner. He died in Bert’s hand and was gently laid to rest underneath a hedge. I think Harry just pounced on him and crushed him to death. A robin being hit by Harry must be like us being hit by a truck.

I know, I know – nature red in tooth & claw and all that but I briefly hated Harry. That robin was one of a pair that had been hanging about this past few months. We enjoyed watching them.

Harry is belled but he is so damn fast. Bert suggests that we feed him up so that he gets fat and ponderous. Would that be cruel? Or should we just get one of his legs amputated? That would slow him down all right.

Not Dead Yet

It seems that it is not Avian Flu. I’ve only got two of the symptoms as described by Adam and Ronni says it’s all a lot of fool nonsense anyway. But I still feel pretty rough so I guess I must have the Big Girl’s Blouse Flu.

My throat is not as sore but my nose is running, I’m sneezing and my chest feels all clogged up. I’ve been self-medicating with chocolate but it doesn’t seem to be easing any of my symptoms. Tastes nice though.

Despite feeling rotten I’ve still been out Helping the Aged. I took Pearlie to her Tuesday club in Broughshane. I took a shortcut cross-country and got a bit lost but Pearlie thought it was a right laugh. Then I took Matty to Antrim to buy Easter eggs for her neighbour’s children.

I bought

• Three books - £1.50

• Wind chime/ cowbell whatever - £1

• Thornton’s Easter Egg for Matty - £9

• Chocolate (medicinal) 45p

• Bushmills (medicinal) £13.99

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Conversation with Hannah (who moved out yesterday)

Hannah: Did Bert and you miss me last night then?

Nelly: No.

Nelly's Goodbye

I heard Bert saying the other morning about Jamie,

“Another clean shirt’ll do that boy.”

Reason – Jamie was coughing and spluttering because he smokes too much. Bert’s remark in translation means,

“Judging by the sound of him that fellow is going to die soon.”

Now of course clean shirts don’t apply to myself as I don’t wear ‘em but I fear that I’ll not be needing many more clean blouses as I’m on my way out too. Won’t be long now before I’m under the mountain ash. And I’ll tell you for why because I was reading something very scary over at Jimmy Porter’s place.

With growing horror I realised that the severe sore throat I woke up with this morning is actually the dreaded Avian Flu! How do I know? Let me list my Reasons To Be Fearful.

• We have taken possession of two new hens, ex-battery slaves, name of Patsy and Attracta.

• Our dog Paddy is obsessed with them.

• Patsy is poorly. Bert says it’s because Paddy mumphed at her but I know it’s Avian Flu.

• Paddy licked Patsy’s arse.

• Later on that evening he licked my face.

It’s been nice knowing you all.  Keep on blogging.

Now What Shall I Write About Today?

Maybe I'll write about the sore throat I've woken up with? Ever the considerate worker I have, yet again, scheduled poorliness into my off-time. I do not return to the coalface until Saturday & Sunday. Easter Monday? Don't know. Can you imagine working in a place where, on the Monday before Easter Monday, you don't know yet if you're working it? The people who make the rotas up know that they'll be off. No bank holidays for them. But we minions don't know.

I could tell you about the hens we may or may not have rescued from battery cages. But I won't in case someone from MAFF reads this.

Then I could tell you that I'm going to be very busy today because I'm helping Hannah move house. So yes, I'll tell you that.

Bunny Bashing

My last post was written under the influence of alcohol but I'm happy to say that this one is totally alcohol free. And this despite having spent the last several hours in the Crosskeys Inn in the company of Hannah, Jamie, Bert and the delightful Mr and Mrs Bolan.

Oh the scandal! The arguments! The disclosures! Let's just say that there are some people who will be seeing Bert in a very different light after tonight. There will be a lot fewer people asking him to mind their pet rabbits for them when they go on holiday.

See. That is what happens when a body spends time with the Toaster. Their blogs go all cryptic.

Music Night

Really good Thursday session tonight. I had to remind myself (again) how privileged I am to be able to listen to so much good and real time music from such a talented bunch of guys and Hannah.

A thing I learned today. Bert is so much better at blowing whistles than I am. Whistle blowing is often encouraged but rarely appreciated.

Another thing I learned today is that life-work balances are the way to go.

Another thing - that quiet guy sitting in the corner listening to the general chat about arson, arsin' about, eatin chicken-shit and bloggin' might be your new boss. Aaargh!

And landlords aren't always arseholes. I met a guy today restored my faith. Jamie relocated to Norn Iron and Hannah & he are moving in next to the cutest neighbour in the world - a very, very handsome Jack Russell Terrier. Time we were out in those amazing Bertram-sheds sorting out the happy couple some furniture.

PS this is one of those red wine posts.

Fire!

I was awakened this morning at around 5am by the noise of explosions and a roaring and cracking. I couldn’t figure it out for a moment. Fireworks display? At this time of the morning? I jumped out of bed to look in the direction of Galgorm Manor hotel, the occasional site of celebratory pyrotechnics. But the noise was much closer. The empty house next door appeared to be ablaze. I heard Hannah up too. She was calling for Bert. She thought it was gunfire.

I raced downstairs and dialled 999. Gave the address, directions, information regarding house being near derelict – then waited for the fire engines to arrive. It took them about 15-20 minutes then the most of two hours to bring the fire under control.

Then later this morning I went to take a look. The fire must have started in the garage; the exploding noises were probably paint tins and a gas tank going off. The fire did not spread to the house but it could have so easily. And how did it start?

THE AFTERMATH

It’s not the first time there has been a fire on that site. Long before I came to this part of the country there was a cottage stood on that site. It belonged to Bert’s family and Clint used to live in it when he was a little boy. That’s the reason why Clint and Bert are friends from childhood. Their two families were neighbours and the two of them used to play together as children.

Clint’s granny died in that house. Bert’s father was passing it one day when he noticed the windows were blackened. He went to investigate. He found the elderly lady perished, mostly burned away. Apparently not much besides her lower legs were left. Bert’s father said the walls were covered with sooty grease. I thought of her last night as I watched that garage burn.

Books

I got a lovely new monitor this evening courtesy of Dave.

The first thing I did was a bit of catching up with the Flickr contacts where I saw that Ganching has been uploading photographs of her bookcase for friends & family only viewing. It’s understandable she’d want to keep this private as you wouldn’t want any oul Paudie, Pearse or Billy gomeying at the dross that gathers up on the oul bookshelves.

As you’d expect Mr Bolan was straight in there taunting her about only having the one bookcase (he’ll be here too arguing in his customary pedantic fashion that he meant something else altogether so come on then Mr Bolan if you think you’re hard enough!) but anyways to get back to Ganching’s bookshelves she soon put him right by telling him that this was only one of her five bookshelves. And judging by the tasteful and eclectic selection on display the other four are where she keeps the dross.

Well in my last house I had huge built in bookshelves and about seven other bookshelves (wee ones) dotted about the house and a ton of books all over the bloody place and mostly I’ve still got all the books and the wee bookshelves but Clint got the big built in ones that held all my fiction from A-M.

So, until Bert builds me more bookshelves, I’ve got a big book storage problem and it may be time for a cull. But even if I get rid of all the dungy ones (Kellerman, Dan Brown, Trollope and the ones with pink covers) I’ve still got far too many and I probably haven’t even got round to reading about 200 of them and I’ve forgotten what the rest of them are about.

I was trying to do a redding out the other day and only managed to put about eight in the charity shop box. Must try harder.

Talking of charity shops I was in one the other day in Larne where not only were they charging an extortionate price for tatty paperbacks they had also great big saucer sized stickers urging the potential buyer to read them and then bring them back so they could sell them again! For some reason this enraged me. But then I’m easily maddened these days. Hormones.

And of course that Trollope was Joanna. I kept my Anthonys.

The Small Man

Once upon a time there lived a man of normal height. However this man was so small-minded and so morally stunted that whenever people thought of him they thought of a small man, a sort of leprechaun or a pygmy.  

It was always surprising to meet him afresh and to see that he was of normal height.

Natural Graft

Natural Graft
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

The assimilation to Tinkerton is not turning out as I'd hoped.

The graft is not taking.

Phew!

Wooo! Survived El Capitan’s blog cull. I’d have been gutted to be banished. He’s the only Pirate I’ve got.

Palace Viewing

Hannah and I went viewing houses in Ballymena this evening and the process made me feel a little ill. It’s a seller’s market right now and I grant landlords their right to be choosy about who they rent to. But…. there they were showing us around their tawdry apartments acting like they were showing us palaces and asking nosey and intrusive questions of my girl. I felt like butting in and saying that they were bloody lucky such a quiet, steady and good person was prepared to consider renting their shoddy houses. Next time I’m sitting in the car.

Moleskinner Blues

Nelly: D’ye fancy meeting Stray Toaster this weekend for a drink?

Bert: I do not.

Nelly: Why not?

Bert: Because I’d be doing the driving. Again.

Nelly: Not a-tall. I’d be doing the driving. You’d want to be having a drink meeting the Stray Toaster.

Bert: Oh! Why’s that?

Nelly: Because you’ll be feeling that awkward at meeting him and experiencing his utter wonderfulness.

Bert: Elaborate.

Nelly: Well there’s his wit and intelligence, then there is his lovely shiny hair and then there’s his gorgeous moleskin coat.

Bert: Moleskin coat? Where’d he get that?

Nelly: In a Moleskin Coat shop.

Bert: Is it real moleskin?

Nelly: Oh aye. It’s got wee mole snouts and paws hanging off it and all.

Bert: Y’mean wee digger paws.

Nelly: Aye.

Bert: Well maybe I will then. I'd like to get a look at this coat.

Nelly: Did I mention his lovely teeth?

Lost? You Bet I'm Lost!

Just finished watching Lost and I'm a wee bit confused. What happened this week seemed pretty straightforward. Reunions all round, Shannon dead but who cares - she was a total drip. That one in the tight grubby vest loves Sawyer, it's obvious Jack is going to make that trigger-happy she-cop whole again and the bondage-prone Iraqui is back on the market. Wish I was Lost.

But the last two weeks? Haven't a clue what was going on. Last week Clint sat santering through it and the week before it was Mugsy spoiling my viewing pleasure with his incessant, endless chatter.

The girls' dad and his lovely lady were staying at Zoe's this weekend and we had a family get-together on Saturday evening which was a pleasure. This morning I left the pair of them to the airport and afterwards Matty and I went for a run in the car. We went to Larne where I found this nice print in a charity shop.

I'm into bird prints at the moment. I also got a corn crake one and together the pair of them cost me £3 which was a bit awesome. Instead of going straight home we went along the coast road to Glenarm then back towards Ballymena via Feystown and Carnalbanagh. This is the part of the country where the paternal grandmother was reared. Like all hill-reared folk (i.e. Pearlie) the Granny was a bit mad.

The Coast Road (Larne to Glenarm)

Matty's nerves were a bit ragged today. She locked herself out of the house yesterday and although she pretended to be cool about it I think it upset her. She took a 'wake turn' in one of the charity shops, a condition she refers to as 'not being one bit well' and then her crappy pound shop umbrella disintegrated in the fresh breeze. But the run through the country cheered her up as did a few amusing anecdotes she told about drives out with Ganching just after she got the driving licence and would only drive on B roads.

Bert ripping tonight because one of his customers wanted to call after 7pm. Bert just doesn't get the hours that these people keep. Sometimes as he emerges from his pit at tennish or thereabouts I tell him that all the other horticulturists have been out in their polytunnels since 7am. But he pooh-poohs this. This is him raging,

"Bloody man coming at bed-time. I suppose he's been running about all day selling pansies to oul dolls and hadn't a minute 'til now!"

Not Wanted On Voyage

Today, while getting A Unit from the sheds, I discovered four Boxes of Stuff and an electric sewing machine. I have not missed these items in six months which begs the question - are these items really necessary? Except maybe my green tulip vase which I've been looking for in the past couple of days. I may have a poke through these boxes later on.

Happy Birthday Little Bro

Happy Birthday Youngest Bro
Otherwise known as Jolly Joe