Keeping Up With The News

Never let it be said that Bert is not an avid follower of current events. You would only have had to overhear us this evening to know it.

Nelly: So what did Gerry say?

Bert: He said 'Don't be smart with me Sharon.'

Nelly: And what did Sharon say to him?

Bert: She said, 'Be fucked, Gerry.'

Of course what Gerry actually did say was 'Sharon, I wasn't. And don't be smart with me.' And it was Jane Canary in Deadwood who said 'Be fucked!' which is currently Nellybert's most favourite cuss. We think the use of the verb 'be' gives the eff word a real touch of class. But then we're strange like that.

Free Food At The Braid

This evening we went to the International Food and Music Fair at the Braid. I was alerted to this event by the peeps in the Romanian Grocery Vending Emporium in Springwell Street and thought it might make for an interesting evening. I'd got the wrong end of the stick because I thought they'd be selling us food and not, as it turned out, giving it away for free but still - I was game.
Our only problem was deciding whether we should go to the Merchant Fish Bar before or after the event. Miss Erin's tastes in food would run to the traditional. It was she decided we should go to the Fair first. Get it out of the way so to speak before we got down to the serious business of cod in crispy batter. Ach sure - we were hardly in the door before we found that every starvo in Ballymena was in for the free scoff and we had a long queue in front of us. I wasn't that hungry when we started queuing but by the time we were nearing the front of it I was starting to feel pretty peckish. It was at this point that an attractive woman wearing a tweed necktie appeared and assured us that she was very sorry for our long wait, but we weren't to worry as there was lots of food and they were not going to run out, definitely not going to run out. As it turned out this was close to a lie and she was trying to prevent a riot.
Eventually we got to the front of that queue and were allowed into a room where we got to join the end of another line. This room was kitted out with an invigorating wind machine set to hurricane and, with eyes closed, it would have been easy to imagine ourselves standing atop Slemish. At last we got to the room with the food and joined our third and last queue. And got food. I decided not to be greedy and only had Spanish paella, Romanian cheese and salad and something red and beany and some delicious Indian rice and a wonderful, fragrant vegetarian curry. Miss Erin put food on her plate because I said she had to but she only nibbled on some paella rice and a bit of delicious Indian chicken but at least she passed herself. I knew she was thinking about the Merchant Fish Bar.
We met Zoe, Dave and Martha coming as we were leaving with our heaped plates and we relieved them of Miss Martha who was sleeping soundly. Erin said everyone would be so jealous to see us coming out as they only got food and we got food and a baby. Bert arrived late and missed out on the mussels and the Polish sausage and the Chinese food but I don't know what he was complaining about as he'd already eaten half a takeaway Chinese with his Aunt Lizzie.

My best bit was when Martha woke up, caught sight of her loving Granny and rewarded loving Granny with a huge grin. The music, particularly a wonderful female vocalist and drummer from (I think) Uganda, was good but could have been far better if the acoustics had been properly thought out. Not the musicians' fault as it seems they were shunted from a room to a roofless gallery.


Home by half-eight to toast & jam for Miss Erin and wine and Deadwood for Nellybert. Bert really does need to get his hair cut for he is starting to look like EB Farnum. After Deadwood we watched a bit of The Secret Garden. Bert said,

What's it about? Suppose it's something girly?

Not atall. It's a 19th century psychosexual drama featuring Sigmund Freud. Based on a book by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Oh. Is it OK for Erin to watch?

She'll cope. It's more psycho than sexual. Ben Kingsley plays Freud.

I let Erin into the secret and we all settled down to watch.

He watched avidly for five minutes then caught sight of the DVD cover and disgustedly showed his disapproval by dealing himself a hand of patience.

The creation of cake is postponed until tomorrow.

We Are Honoured

A young friend has just invited herself down for the weekend. This is very pleasing. Not only is Miss Erin a delightful person to keep company with, we are also pleased that someone so young and vibrant should wish to spend part of her precious weekend with Nellybert. There will be wine and cake. I shall drink the wine and Erin shall construct cake.

This has not been the only honour bestowed upon me in recent days. I had this published at The Bilerico Project thanks to the encouragement of that rascally confessor Father Tony.

For I do occasionally stop thinking about cake and wine. And now a bath and after that an episode of Deadwood.

Salty Talk

You know you've been watching too much 'Deadwood' when your husband returns from the village and says,

That nest of celestial cocksuckahs are on their fucking holidays.

His meaning?

The Chinese takeaway was closed.

The Year of the Wedding

I finally booked our plane tickets for Katy and Mark's wedding in June. Now all I've got to do is find my Mother of the Bride outfit.


But not this one. It's far too shiny and rather too Grandmother of the Bride for my liking. And the hat is perfectly hideous.

And Katy says I'm not allowed to wear a hat. But how can I be mother of the bride without a hat? Maybe a fascinator would be the thing? Maybe not. I'm fascinating enough without wearing one of those silly articles on my head. Anyway I've a head like a turnip. Best not to draw attention to it.

This is far too pale and not a bit interesting. The head dress is vile beyond belief.


Now this is a hat I could live with. Totally my dream outfit. And it won't show the dirt. Wedding here I come.

Happy Paddy Dog's Day

Paddy Plays Tugger, originally uploaded by ZMB.

Six years today since Paddy was rescued from the shelter.

Happy anniversary old fellow!

It's also six years and three days since I quit smoking. How time does fly.

And for those of you to whom such things matter -

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

And I'm at work. Boo to that!

Where should I bury it?

195. Where should I bury it?, originally uploaded by tom gauld.

A little gardening advice is always useful at this time of year.

Lop-Sided

Matty: Are you wearing those green boots for St Patrick's Day?

Nelly: No, just wearing them because I am... but I'm not sure if I actually like them.

Matty: They're nice wee boots. I'd rather have you in flat boots. You can't walk right in high boots. You're all staggery.

Nelly: Thanks Mum.

Matty: And I'd rather have that style than laced boots. Are they hard to get on?

Nelly: The left one is really easy to get on but the right one's a bugger. Look.

Demonstrates.

Matty: You know plenty of people have one foot bigger than the other. That must be what it is with you. What size are they?

Nelly: They're size 6. Let me check. (turns sole of right boot over) Aye. 39. That's size 6. (pulls off left boot and turns over) Size 40. That's 6 and a half. Oh! That explains it then.

Matty: You should take them back.

Nelly: Nah. I'd look like a complete eedjit. I've worn them quite a few times now. Sure as long as I don't keep my feet side by side no-one will notice. 

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So, if the person who bought a pair of green pull-on ankle boots in Ballymena's TK Maxx, right boot size 40 and left boot size 39, would like to get in touch, maybe we can work something out.

Nurse Nelly

Nelly is on Martha-sitting duties. Not baby Martha but Martha senior. The reason being she had to get injections in both her thumbs to help with her arthritis but the injections have left her unable to use her hands atall for the next couple of days. Nelly shall return tomorrow to regale us with some little anecdotes.

hootchinhannah

Sadie & Hannah

The girls, originally uploaded by triciamorimori.

Photograph taken by Tricia on a sunny afternoon.

Location is Woodgreen in Kells. The photograph would have been taken sometime in the late 1980s.

Our Viewing Pleasure

Bert and I are inundated with DVDs at the moment. I made a small complaint to Lovefilm about the sequencing of Our Mutual Friend and they responded with profuse apologies and extras. I said to Bert,

So tonight we'll watch two episodes of Little Dorrit, then tomorrow we'll watch Chinatown, then back to Deadwood on Monday night. Oh no, wait a bit, we've got another Little Dorrit haven't we?

Sure we've got 18 million fucking Little Dorrits to watch.

He actually likes BBC Dickens serialisations although he will say things like,

Who wrote the novel anyway? Was it Shakespeare or Thomas Hardy?

Is it any wonder that he avoids the brown questions in Trivial Pursuit?

Undone!

That was a mixed bag of a weekend that was...

I drank red wine and I drank white wine. I drank good wine and I drank horrid wine. I mixed with the landed gentry on Friday night and the salt of the earth on Saturday night.

I successfully hypnotised Jazzer (salt category) but just like Cinderella all the good effects wore off at midnight and on Sunday my own efforts at self-hypnosis were undone by a giant tube of pink smarties.

I told myself when I bought them that I was for keeping them in my baking cupboard for decorating fairy cakes. Damn you, pink smarties!

P.S.

Do you know you're getting old when only one of your Facebook friends is called Aaron?

Wassup?

The self-hypnosis thing is going terribly well. I don't eat biscuits, I physically cannot overeat, Bert's clarinet playing does not faze me in the least and I can fearlessly call people and talk about their overdue accounts.

On the downside maybe it's not such a good thing that I have recently drenched a keyboard and a printer in Pinot Grigio. Didn't do them a lot of good I have to say. Shall I give up drinking? Not yet. I shall stop drinking out of champagne flutes. They are so unsteady.

The grandmotherly thing is good and getting better. I had a promising first experience of baby-sitting. Martha slept and I watched trash TV. All good. I hardly ever watch TV so it mesmerises me when I do.

I do watch stuff from Lovefilm. Bert and I finished watching Tess of the D'Urbervilles last night. It was the BBC version with Gemma Arterton and we enjoyed it immensely. Bert hadn't read Tess (nor any Hardy) and he reckoned it was going to have a happy ending. I didn't disabuse him of the notion. I think I spotted a sad little tear in his eye at the end. I asked him if he thought he could watch the Polanski version and he said he thought he could. I love listening to my books then getting the film or TV series. Listening to Oliver Twist at the moment but I'm not for watching that damn musical. Recently listened to Andrew Marr's History of Modern Britain. It was OK. How could anyone actually read it though? There were so many opposition party leaders that I'd completely forgotten about. I'm stuffed if the Geriatrician ever asks me who led the Labour party before Tony Blair. And for some crazy reason I cannot remember what Jim Callaghan looks like - I just cannot bring a mental picture of him to mind. Must remedy that.

Callaghan Schmallaghan

Five Months Later...

When am I getting my dinner?, originally uploaded by ZMB.

Martha's parents decided to chance a trip to the cinema. I had the honour (richly deserved) of being their daughter's first babysitter.

As you can see she survived the experience. The first of many babysitting sessions I hope!

You Are Feeling Very Sleepy

I have a skill that until very recently has not been used for near to four decades. I was (obviously) very, very young when I first learned to do it and, to tell you the truth, I only took it up because I had no access to drugs at the time. I didn't know then that a life fairly well-lived is far more satisfying than getting stoned.

The skill I'm speaking of is self-hypnosis and I picked it up at a time when I was interested in meditation, and sniffing salt-water up one nostril and back down the other and taking cold baths and other weird stuff that people do before they get any sex or drugs. Or was that just me?

It all came back to me when I was lying in bed one night worrying about biscuits or, to be more specific, my lack of self-control around biscuits and particularly the office biscuits and it came to me. I know, I says to myself, I'll hypnotise myself not to like biscuits, for after all they're only sawdust and sugar and lard. But then, I thought, what about home-made biscuits? So I decided I'd only forego manufactured biscuits.

I did the self-hynotising deed. It was easy. It's more than a month now and not a Kitkat, not a jaffa cake, not a chocolate digestive, not even a Club has passed my lips. Sometimes I look at the office biscuits but I just say to myself, I don't eat biscuits and I don't even like biscuits. But one weekend I made some home-made biscuits and ate a mound of those.

And that worried me for I was starting to stuff myself again - larger helpings, second helpings, too much bread. So about a week ago I decided to hypnotise myself not to overeat. I would eat anything I wanted but I would not overeat. That seems to be working too.

Of course I wouldn't advise anyone to enter into this lark without thinking very seriously about what to take action on. Too much self-hypnosis might overload the brain. But I couldn't resist another little go and this time it was something that would benefit Bert as well. I decided that I would hynotise myself not to mind Bert's clarinet playing. Not to enjoy it, just to tolerate it. You can imagine how pleased he was to hear that I wouldn't anymore be moaning at him, or asking him to shut all the doors , or trying to distract him or hinting about him building a little shed somewhere outside.

He's actually playing as I sit here. And he's playing 'Food, Glorious Food' and although it sounds pretty damnable I don't mind a bit because he's happy and so am I. And it's not making me the slightest bit hungry.

Shifting The Dandies

The first 'dandy' peeks out of the wee shed.

The brother and one of the neighbours from home called round yesterday to remove my old car from the yard. While they were there they took a look at the calves. The neighbour, name of Paddy, remarked that they were the sort of calves that his grandfather, also called Paddy, and a man I remember with fondness, would have called 'dandies'.

Today Clint and Bert planned to move them to other, roomier quarters. The big bullocks went out to the wood and the dandies were going to the big byre. I always enjoy seeing cattle being moved because they get so excited. Poor things get bored being stuck in their winter quarters. So I went out to 'help' but really to look for photo opportunities.


I didn't get much chance because they soon gave us the slip. This is the pair of them cavorting through the midden. Clint is moving in on them with ominous intent. But this picture deserves a closer look.

There goes Meadow leaping in the air with joy and happiness in her little bovine heart. She soon gave us the slip again and I'm sure we were ten minutes or more rounding her up. There was no more chance of photographs and at the end of it poor Clint had to get his inhaler out. Obviously we're not near as fit as the dandies.

That Thing You Love

Getting It Wrong

Miss Hails had herself an unauthorised lie-in the other morning. She hasn't been the only one getting it a bit wrong at getting-up time. Take me for instance - I am not very good at getting myself to bed at a sensible hour. Most nights I'll say to Bert,

I really must get off to bed before midnight, tonight.

And most nights I bungle it. But last night I got it right. I was up those stairs at quarter to eleven, hot-water bottle under my arm, gardening magazine in my hand and a German Shepherd at my heels. Teeth brushed, alarm set, Bonnie settled with her squeaky toys and after thirty minutes with an old Guardian crossword then a self-hypnosis session (of which more later) I was turning out the light just before the witching hour.

I did feel good this morning. Leapt out of bed like a lilty at seven thirty sharp, quick wash, teeth brushed, layered on the thermals and the office duds, and I was just pulling on my boots when I thought to myself,

Bit dark this morning.

I looked at the clock. Only a quarter to bloody seven! What to do? Only one thing I could do really. Off with the boots and the office skirt and back into bed for another hour's kip. I'm going up early again tonight. It's only twenty to eleven. Night, night!

What Are You Doing?

I'm multi-tasking.

Blogging. Waiting for some home-made biscuits to cool. Listening to R.L. Burnside, drinking red wine and wondering Why T.F. I cannot think of anything to blog about.

In the meantime here is a picture of Mr Pickwick.

The New Arrivals

Junior & the Other One

Junior is a very small calf. He is a quarter Irish moiled. The other one is your typical Friesian type.

Meadow & Clover

Meadow and Clover are one half Hereford. We hope to keep these two. They bring me a lot of happy memories as Daddy kept a Hereford bull for a time and these two would have been typical of the sort of calves we had on the farm. Daddy's bull was called Mulderrick Hero and I was terrified of him although he was actually a very quiet animal. Daddy called him Ferdinand.