My Living Will

Another funeral today, a friend's mother, in her 93^rd year. I hadn't known her for long and I certainly never knew her in her prime but she was a lovely woman, humourous, generous, always smiling and with a great zest for life.

Afterwards I said to Bert,

That went off very well don't you think?

And he said,

Sure don't funerals always go off well?

I got to thinking about that. Usually they do. But I have come across a few exceptions in my time.

Years ago when I was new to the funeral game I attended a service for one of the grand old dames of our parish. The chapel was packed. Suddenly there was a tremendous clatter and crash at the back and the priest suspended the ritual and rushed down the aisle. Turned out the old lady's nephew had suffered a fatal heart attack and, as everyone present agreed, no better place for it and handy to Father for the last rites.

There was a similar story about the doors when a fellow came back from the building in London to attend the funeral of his older half-brother. He took a turn at the wake and never recovered and to save time and money the family doubled up the funeral and buried them together.

The saddest funeral I ever was at was that of a boy of 17, the son of a work colleague. He was killed in a car crash where the boy at the wheel was consequently charged and convicted of dangerous driving. His family were great people but they were not particularly religious. In this country there are a lot of people who believe that a funeral cannot take place without the assistance of a member of the clergy. Someone, somewhere had gathered up an evangelical pastor to speak at the graveside. This man stood there and preached the 'born again' sermon. There was a great deal about 'sinning' and 'eternal damnation'. There was mention made that the unfortunate boy had not been 'saved' so we could all reach our own conclusions on that. There was not one word of comfort for the family. The poor child's mother was in a fainting condition and his older brother looked like he might choke the pastor. I'm sinner enough to wish he had.

I've never forgotten that. It must be a comfort, for those that believe, to hear priests and ministers talk of eternal life. But not everyone buys into established religion. My parents are both dead now and I do not (although I reserve the right to change my mind) feel that it would be appropriate for me to have a religious funeral. The parents would, if they'd outlived me, been devastated to have me buried outside the faith. But now there is no one who'd really care. Say a prayer for me if you wish but keep priests and ministers away from my graveside.

Walking

little white horse, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

Seven years ago I started the good habit of taking regular walks. That continued right up until Matty got ill. I expected to get back into the way of it after she died but it did not happen. It is only now that I am trying again for walking calms and energises me.

Before Matty died I was working regularly and took a half-hour walk every lunch-time. My base was in Kells and there is not a road within a five mile radius of the village that I have not walked. I always took my camera just in case I saw something interesting.

Of course, in the two years I've been out of the way of walking, I've stacked on the weight. I wouldn't care to admit how heavy I'd got but for some reason. I don't know why, I recently lost about 12 pounds. At first I thought I was dying of something but then, when I had a good think about it. I realised I just wasn't comfort-eating as much. So I decided to get back into walking.

Two minutes more every day and I just walk out the door and go - no more getting into the car for it is still broken. I've not got back to taking the camera for I've enough to do with my pedometer, the mobile for timing and the audio book on the iPod. Around the doors just doesn't seem that interesting. But perhaps I'm being pessimistic for that delightful scene above is around the doors for those who live on the Maine Road near Woodgreen

My Cultural Life

Reading with my eyes - My Life by Bill Clinton. My this is a big, big book. I picked it up in an excellent charity shop in Bellaghy last Saturday. I only bought it because it was well indexed. Also got an Andy McNab for Ben, 13 and a picture book for Martha, 3 and all for £2.

Also reading with my eyes - a lot of historical nonsense by Philippa Gregory.

Reading with my ears - The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. Contains huge spoilers for Anna Karenina. Luckily I've read that.

Watching - film of Birdsong. Is very pretty to look at but absolute dung. The Stephen Wraysford character is played by Eddie Redmayne, who also did a stint as Angel Clare in Gemma Arterton's version of Tess. He was annoying in that and he is annoying in Birdsong although he is tremendously good at looking like a mooncalf, I will give him that. Birdsong is so shite I can only watch it about ten minutes at a time. If I wasn't a Catholic I wouldn't be watching it at all but you know how keen we are on suffering and penance.

Also watching - Homeland. What is it about Eton and the current crop of British actors? Redmayne went there too. Homeland is very exciting but I feel as if I'm being played with. It's no The Wire (more Eton old boys) or Breaking Bad.

To be watched - Treme and Boardwalk Empire. I'm reluctant to begin for these things do rather take over one's life.

Of Pups and Patience

I had all the available family round for a kitchen supper tonight and afterwards Bonnie and I went to bed for a little rest. Three hours later and I'm still there and me with the latest episode of Homeland to watch!

It's been a hectic weekend but an enjoyable one too.

Ben was staying for the weekend. On Saturday morning we went to visit the pups. I tried to take a picture of each one individually but it was tough. I think I may have photographed some more than once and some not at all. They are wriggly and run everywhere. They live in an old shed and it did not make for the most suitable of locations for a photo shoot. Too much stuff in it. The dam is a spaniel and the sire a border collie and I think the collie look will dominate -  although that is no bad thing. I'm looking forward to having our lot back here. I'd been thinking back to other puppy times and remembering how messy they can be. Then I remembered something far worse. They chew things. Judy loved eating my shoes and must have destroyed at least a dozen pairs. We will have to be very vigilant this time as I have hardly a shoe to my foot.

We had Jazzer and Aunt Lizzie on Saturday afternoon and Ben and I baked cakes and biscuits. Jazzer did the ordinary cooking and Bert fed the old girls their wee morsels. It was a fine bright evening on Saturday. The crescent moon hung low in the sky and soon disappeared. The stars were wonderfully bright. Ben and I got sleeping bags and lay on the trampoline watching shooting stars. There were plenty to be seen. Jazzer joined us for a while but, not having a sleeping bag, she did not stay long. Bert, being 'coul rife' did not even chance it.

Despite these joyous, happy things I was a grumpy sod on Sunday. Maybe not enough sleep, maybe a glass of wine (or two) that I shouldn't have finished. Who knows? The weather was damp and horrid and I ate too much. Then I caught Ben tipping some custard into the bin.

Where are you putting that?
The bin.
The bin! (In tones as incredulous as Lady Bracknell's)

There followed a lecture about waste and recycling. Sometimes I don't know how that boy puts up with me. He's a lot like Bert. Patient.

After our visitors left Bert watched Homeland (I'd already watched it) and I polished up a part of the family tree to send to my cousin. I have all this information and have yet to make complete sense of it. I hadn't realised that my great-grandmother gave birth to fourteen children in 23 years of which two died under the age of three and one in infancy. It was nearly half past one before I got to bed.

And that was when Pearlie started to say her prayers. Out loud. I said one too. God give me patience.

We Like Lots Of Wine

I have just bottled the birch sap wine. There was a glassful over after I filled six bottles and I have sipped it while watching a programme about Canadian wolves. I think I am drunk and wonder if this is a good thing?

Since I started making wine in August 2011 I have bottled  the following. Those in italics are ones that have already been polished off.

Blackcurrant (one bottle left to age)

Carrot

Peach

Rhubarb 2

Blackberry & Raspberry

Rhubarb 1

Raspberry

Beetroot

Bramley

Damson

Parsnip 1

Parsnip 2

Orange

Birch Sap

The blackcurrant was far too dry and acidic. I won't be using that recipe again. 

The carrot is a beautiful colour but a bit on the sweet side. I'll make it again but try for a dry finish.

The peach was wonderful. We drank it over the July holidays because it popped the corks. It's OK to drink peach young. William (my mentor) declared it to be the nicest wine he'd ever tasted.

We tackled a bottle of rhubarb at the weekend and it was very pleasant. I've made three batches of rhubarb and they are always different colours. William said he has the same experience. This one was pale pink. 

The bramley is gone. I used a recipe that called for crab apples. At one point I topped it up with cider and that's what it tasted like. Strong Somerset cider. Apparently apple wines should be drunk quickly. No problem.

I've only had sips of the rest. I'm really looking forward to the Blackberry and Raspberry. That came about because there just weren't enough blackberries last year. Another one that promises to be delicious is the damson. There were damn few damsons this year so, sadly, I'll hardly be making that one again for a while.

The birch sap has a very refreshing taste to it. Miss Martha's Dad tapped the birches and helped me make it so he gets half of it. Quite fitting that I bottled it on his birthday. Happy birthday Dave!

And still in the demijohn are the following

Dandelion

Nettle

Japanese Knotweed

Pear

Strawberry

Blackberry 1

Orange & Apple

Blackberry 2

Rhubarb 3

Peach, Nectarine Etc.

Rosehip

The nettle is far too sweet and I don't know what I'm going to do with it. The orange & apple was made from fruit juice, my first attempt and a very easy recipe. It is supposed to be a quick and simple wine that can be drunk while other, more interesting wines are maturing. We shall see. 

I was reading a book on wine making the other evening and apparently one of the pitfalls is that the wine maker gets too carried away and before you know there are ten or twenty demijohns bubbling away. I mentioned this to Bert and he looked baffled. "Where's the problem in that?" he asked. 

With Friends Like Us

Swisser was here this evening. Like most of our peers and cohorts she is usually full of chat about illness and death. She had recently had her cholesterol checked and apparently it is sky high. Consequently she had cleared out her fridge of forbidden food and the minute she came through the door she was doling out crisps. Bert and I ripped the packets open, searched diligently for the blue packet of salt, ripped, shook and scoffed. That was, of course, before she told us about the cholesterol. We had thought she was just being generous. The next thing she produced from her handbag was a big lump of Stilton. We weren't feeling cheesy so we left that for later. Then she brought out chocolate and we got tore straight into that.

It was only after Swisser left that I remarked to Bert that perhaps we were not as supportive as we might have been. After all, a friend comes round, tells us about some health problems she is having, a diet that she must stick to and here is some food that she loves that she cannot eat ever again or any more. And we go, sucks to be you, snarf, snarf, yum, yum.

But we're not completely horrible. We gave her some pickled onions that were only three and a half years past their sell by date. Sadly she forgot to take them with her.

Beyond Redemption

Like many elderly folk Pearlie does not hear too well. However, in her case, that often depends on what is being said and who is saying it. For instance when Cousin Margaret or Aunt Lizzie are with her, Pearlie cannot understand a word I say. I'll speak to her and she'll look at me quizzically, screw up her face as if I'm speaking Mandarin or Gaelic, then turn to her relative and remark. "What did she say?"

I went into her room at midday today and asked her,

Well. Are you ready for something to eat? 

What? 

Do you want a bite of lunch? 

I cannae hear you. 

What do I usually ask you at this time of day?

She looked at the clock and barked at me,

An egg!

<><><><><>

For a long time now just as I've been settling down to sleep I've been mildly irritated by Pearlie starting to mumble and drone at around the midnight hour. I thought she might have been reading her Bible aloud and even though I found the droning noise annoying I felt I could not take exception to a lady in her eighties communing with her Saviour. I felt it would be denying her human rights.  There was also the matter of not giving her the pleasure of knowing she was getting on my nerves. But there was this one night I wanted to know for sure. Was it the Old Testament or the New? I crept down the stairs and found that she was not reading from the Gospels. She was merely saying her prayers and, like a child will do, she was praying for the people she knew. I listened for a while and my name was never mentioned. She obviously thinks that I am beyond redemption.

Happy First Birthday Miss Evie

Oh! The exuberance of being one. Happy birthday darling Evie.

As Good As It Gets

Martha and Evie's Mama went back to work last week. Martha has been hanging out at Nellybert's for two years now and has pretty much found her feet, or to put it another way, worked out how to rule the roost. But Evie is another matter. She's new. She's finding her feet.

Last week Aunt Tricia (Kerry Sister) was around and we spent the first Evie day in Carnlough where we bought the best toy ever (an interactive  musical telephone) and had a roast beef dinner in the Londonderry Arms. Miss Evie is very partial to roast beef. On the second day we had Hannah and that worked out very well too as both the young Misses are very fond of Auntie Han.

Yesterday there was no Hannah and no Martha so Miss Evie and I borrowed Bert's van and headed off to Drumkeeran to visit two very dear friends of my darling Matty. One of Matty's friends is recovering from a bad fall and is only recently back in her own home. It is always a delight to see her as she loves, without condition, the seed, breed and generation of us all. The only thing is, she always cries when she sees us, thinking of our mother. The next visit was to her sister-in-law next door. We entered to the delicious smell of baking scones. It was just like visiting Matty. There was apple tart and custard as well as scones and Miss Evie enjoyed it immensely. She'll never taste her great-granny's home baking but, thank God, they're still making wonderful scones on the moss road.

Today we had both girls and Auntie Han to help me out. (Words will never describe my gratitude.) We had a relaxed, easy-going day. Martha and I went food shopping, then Evie and I had a walk while Martha and Hannah whipped up some biscuits. There were stories and drawing, dancing and Pingu. Bert did some serious baby-dodging but that meant plenty of outdoor chores got done - roses pruned, pig houses sorted etc. etc.

At lunch I looked around at my grandchildren, my helpful and generous Hannah, my baby-dodging husband and my dogs and I thought to myself, "This is what I always wanted. This is as good as it gets."

Howard's Choice

A few weeks ago a friend of ours told us that he was going to get a couple of pups. His landlord's Springer spaniel had dallied with a farm collie and was expectant. The sad thing was, that the landlord planned to have the remaining pups put down. When we heard this we were aghast. "How," said Bert, "Are you going to feel choosing pups knowing that the rest of them are going to be killed? "If needs be," said our friend, "I'll take the lot of them." Bert decided that we should help him out. It's must be twenty years since we found ourselves with an accidental litter of pups and we knew that we could find them good homes if we tried. We know a lot of people who love dogs.

The last time we found all the pups good homes. One bitch went to the foot of Slievegullion and in time she had her own litter. Swisser took one of those,  a bitch her boys named Tracey, and they have her still although she (the dog) is very old now.

We saw the pups today. Coincidentally they were born not far from Slievegullion. I'd planned to photograph them individually but they are still far too young to be long parted from their mother and she is very protective. I think the farmer is relieved that they are all going to find homes although our friend informs us that he thinks we are mad. "But why?" I said. "Because they are not pure bred."

Pffft! Cross bred dogs are, in my opinion, the best dogs ever. And, even though this is a good thing, because people are now much more likely to have their dogs neutered, cross breeds are not as common as they were in the past.

A Birthday for Joe and Jean

Four years ago I used this picture to accompany this post.

It's London Sister's birthday today and it would have been our cousin Joe's as well. They were born on the same day and in the same parish.

Joe died four weeks ago from brain cancer. Tonight was his Month's Mind and the chapel was packed to the doors. The service was beautiful. His daughter, a very talented harpist, arranged and took part in providing the music just as she'd done at her Daddy's funeral. His son read a heartfelt and tremendously moving prayer that he and his sister had written for tonight's service. My brother and other family members did readings. Joe was a well-beloved husband, father, son and brother. He was a good, caring and helpful friend to so very many people. He was funny, open-minded, curious and intelligent. He was the sort of man who should have lived to a ripe old age because he was the sort of man who added value to his community.

He is going to be missed so very much.

Look Back In Fear

Fifty years now since the Cuban missile crisis and I remember it like it was yesterday. My sister and I were nine and six then and she tells me she remembers it too. What made this particular situation so frightening for us children was that the adults were terrified. Our parents were afraid and so were their friends and neighbours. I can remember their hushed, terse conversations. I remember the priest praying with the congregation at Mass. He was anxious too. But the person who was most afraid was our primary school head teacher Miss Cassie. She was almost blubbering with fear as she led the innocents in prayer. No wonder. She knew she was going to Hell.

Spit of the Devil

After a few fine, bright days the rain came back. I had made the most of the fine weather gathering blackberries and rose hips by day and making, progressing and tasting country wine in the evenings. Wednesday was a very productive day for I was out in the fields for hours berrying and listening to Nelson Mandela's 'Long Road to Freedom'. The reading was so engrossing that I probably stayed out longer than I had intended.

Nearly twenty years ago, and after a few failed attempts, I finally passed the driving test and got my driving licence. Within weeks I decided that I'd make the trip to visit my sister in Kerry. It was quite a journey back then, as roads were not as good and there were many little towns and villages that could not be bypassed. I was over ten hours on the road and by the time I got to the sister's house, ten miles west of Dingle, I was completely exhausted. It was good to get to bed that night. The only problem was that every time I nodded off to sleep I woke with a jolt, my hands on a steering wheel and the dusty road ahead of me. I've never had such an experience before or since - until Wednesday night.

That day in the fresh air and the evening sterilising, racking, stirring and tasting had me ready for a good night's sleep. My only problem was that each time I drifted off I was jolted awake, my hand stretched out to pick just one more juicy berry...

Postscript: Bert has just informed me that blackberries picked after the 29th September are 'no good.'

Who says so?
Alan Titchmarsh. He says that after the 29th September they are as bitter as gall.
Why?
Because the devil spits on them.

Let It Be

I hear that home owners are to get new rights to attack burglars. Nellybert are home owners and only as recently as yesterday we observed some thievery from premises near to our home. We decided not to attack.

This is what occurred. We were in the garden discussing horticultural matters when we heard a strange noise. It was a crashing, clanging and harrumphing sort of din. We thought it might have been a bullock or some such large animal somewhere where it ought not to be so we went to investigate. Bert took up a vantage point overlooking the yard of the next door premises and I, more daring and foolhardy, actually went to the premises and peeked round the corner. We both saw the same thing. A young man, in possession of a van, loading scrap metal into its back. So engaged was he in his task that he never noticed either of us.

As I've mentioned before the premises next door have been abandoned for teens of years. All the good scrap is gone thanks to the boys that go in for that sort of thing. And, as my experience of informing the police on that occasion did no good at all, we decided to let the matter rest. The wee bits of bent rubbish that he was gathering up would hardly make anybody a fortune.

I did note his vehicle number just in case he'd committed a murder, or some such heinous crime, on his way to our part of the country.

A Foreign Country

The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.

That is the opening line to L. P. Hartley's The Go-Between which was published in the year that I was born. With all that has been in the news recently about that dead celebrity I have found myself thinking back to what life was like for women and girls back in the late 1960s and 1970s for things were certainly done differently then.

There was a change in the air. What was known then as the Women's Liberation Movement was beginning but it was many years before the effects of that filtered down to the ordinary woman. Women's Libbers were mocked and trivialised and in the home and workplace the old attitudes continued for quite a long time.

Before 1970 a working woman could not secure a mortgage without the signature of a male guarantor because women were not expected to be in continuous employment. And before the 1970 Equal Pay Act it was legal to pay women lower rates than men for the same work. In the workplace women were often sexually harassed and had no redress other than leave the job. This was seen as quite acceptable then.

The other night I heard a story of sexual harassment that shocked me. This happened to a friend of mine. She is sixty-one now and was eighteen then.

My friend was working as a dental assistant in a surgery in a small English town. Her employer, the dentist, a man in his forties, was a person with a quirky sense of humour. Often while treating his patient and with my friend assisting him he would open his flies and bring out his penis. The patient, lying in the chair, jaws wide open, would not be aware of this. My friend was terribly embarrassed by this behaviour but, because she thought it was expected of her, she laughed it off. As she said, "I'd far rather he didn't expose himself but what could I do?" In those days an employer could get his jollies in this manner and pretend he was 'just having a laugh.' Nowadays he'd probably be struck off and have to pay compensation to his victim for constructive dismissal and mental distress.

But you know what also shocked me about this sad tale? My friend said that it was also normal practice for both her and the dentist to smoke cigarettes in the surgery while the patient was being treated. That dentist chap's bound to be nearly a hundred now if he's still alive (which is doubtful). And that is just as well. Imagine being treated by a dentist with his dick hanging out of the front of his trousers and a fag hanging out of his mouth.

The past is indeed a foreign country.

In The News

So I nervously checked my blog archive to see if I'd ever mentioned Jimmy Savile and apparently I did on one occasion just over seven years ago. I didn't praise him or anything. Just used one of his dopey catchphrases.

One thing that has resonated with me about this posthumous exposure of Savile is that the girls he is accused of having assaulted are now women of around my age. And he would have been around the same age as some of the creeps who seemed to believe it was acceptable to grope and grab at me and my friends and cousins when we were in our early and mid-teens.

In the sixties and seventies there were far too many adult men taking liberties with young girls for there was not the same revulsion for that kind of behaviour as there is now. We girls warned each other about the 'perverts'. We could understand why they'd fancy us but it was incomprehensible to us why they dreamed that we might find them attractive. It was easy enough to fend off those fellows with the greasy comb-overs and the tweed flat caps but God knows what might have happened if we'd ever met anyone charismatic.

Times have changed a little. I don't think there can be many male teachers left that would get away with 'pinging' a girl's bra strap as happened at my sister's school. Nowadays that guy would be out of a job real quick.

The thing is, Jimmy Savile must be one of thousands if not tens of thousands, of famous people who have used their fame, their power and their influence to take advantage of and assault young men and women below the age of consent. It is common knowledge that musicians such as Jimmy Page and Bill Wyman went out with girls in their early teens. Even the late and greatly admired John Peel had liaisons with girls in their teens. He admitted himself to having married a 15 year old when he worked in the United States. I remember reading this about Peel many years ago and thinking that Julie Burchill was a bitter bitch but maybe she had a point.

So what's my point? I'm really not that shocked about these revelations about Savile. Like many others I always knew there was something. But I didn't think that it would be as ordinary as being attracted to very young women. What is shocking is that he did it in plain view and he got away with it. Seems a shame it's all coming out now that he's dead.

Blackberries, A Funeral And An Eely Song

After the blackberries were gathered I went to my cousin's house. He'd died in the early hours of the 26th September after a long illness, patiently and bravely borne. He had enjoyed the support of a very loving family and it seemed to me that he was happy during the last year and a bit of his time on this earth. He said as much too. His funeral was on Friday past and it was a big one for he was greatly loved.

It was at the funeral of another school friend about five years ago that my cousin addressed me as 'Nelly' in the graveyard. I was surprised. Somehow I'd thought that my neighbours and relations from way back when wouldn't know about the Garden. I should have had more wit. Anyway he said he enjoyed it and ever since then I'd always thought of him when I was putting together a new posting. This following post is an old one from around that time and, I think, the sort of post he liked reading.

I'll miss thinking of him when I come to Nelly's Garden although, not as much as he'll be missed by the family who adored him.

Eels! Eels! We Like Lots Of Eels!

FROM NOVEMBER 07, 2007

Yesterday evening while excavating the freezer I found a bag of frozen eels. Bert was ecstatic for he'd forgotten we still had them. He has only recently discovered the joy of eels and he cannot believe he lived until the ripe old age of 48 before tasting them. Those of you who know him personally will hardly be surprised he took to the Lough Neagh delicacy, as eels, like most of Bert's favourite foods, fall into the category known as 'close to minging'.

That's not to say I don't enjoy a bit of eel myself but in moderation only. I couldn't gorge myself on them nor eat them on consecutive days.

Bert fried a huge panful of them, ate two helpings and set aside a large portion for today's lunch. I merely nibbled on two small pieces.

When I returned from work this evening I asked him,

Did you have a nice day darling?

He answered,

No. I had a terrible day.

Why? What happened? 

Well you know the eels I was keeping for lunch? I refried them and they were just perfect. My mouth was watering for them. I was even singing an eely song while I was buttering my sodas and making my tea. 

The one that goes, 'Eels! Eels! we like lots of eels!' sung to the air of the Bavarian Drinking Song? 

Aye. That one. 

What happened? Did you burn them? 

Pearlie rang over wanting me for something.

Oh God! Were you over there for ages and burned your eels useless? 

No! They were out on the plate waiting to be eaten. 

Oh dear. Not...?

Yes! I came back over and there was the plate sitting where I'd left it. Not an eel in sight. The plate was spotless! 

Bonnie...? Aye! She's the only one big enough to have reached it. Not one solitary eel left....

Some Time

I am going out to pick blackberries. I may be some time.

Three Fine Days

Recently I have slipped back to that bad habit of getting up late. It is certainly delightful to snuggle under the duvet in the morning but getting up after 9 feels so wrong. The days are getting shorter now and it is a waste of the light. So I've given myself a jolly good talking-to and will be making every effort to climb out of bed at least an hour earlier.

Another change I have to make is to get outdoors more. I have decided that if the day is dry I will find something to do outside rather than lurk in the house. In the past two days have been working in my vegetable plot and in my flower garden. I have been foraging for blackberries. I have been watching the buzzards and I have been drinking coffee and reading the Sunday papers in the poly tunnel which is far, far, far nicer than drinking coffee and reading papers on the kitchen sofa. I have been wheeling barrows of dung , sowing and harvesting vegetables and collecting seed.

It is going to rain tomorrow. It is going to teem and lash and blow for it is Monday. Now I don't know if anyone else from Cully has noticed this but it always rains on Mondays, usually in the afternoon. I think it might have been fine for a couple of Mondays in May but not since. Even after a pleasant spell, like the past three days, I can be sure it will rain on Monday.

The reason I can be certain about this is because my oldest daughter and her family always come out here on Monday afternoons to work on their vegetable plots. And it is always raining when they are here. Luckily, for them, a good part of their plot is in the poly tunnel, so they don't get too disheartened.

I'm just sorry I cannot go blackberrying tomorrow. It is very fine and pleasant to wander up the hedgerows listening to Sebastian Faulks' 'Birdsong' with Judy at my heels and a bunch of cattle ignoring me.

Bert said,

That wee black bull. He wasn't harrassing you?

The wee black bull? Would he?

Aye. He's getting very belligerent.

I don't think I'd have been in that field with Judy had I known that the wee black bull was getting airs about himself.

So there it is. Two days out in the open air. Working! And I feel a lot happier even though I've got a sore shoulder (right side), a sore elbow (left side) and sore knees (both). At least I didn't get attacked by the wee black bull. That would have been hard to take and it only two weeks since I got tossed and trodden on by that pig.

Happy Birthday Martha

Martha is three today. Happy birthday!