Working Clothes

Now Ben isn't the only one who does a bit of work about this place. Miss Martha gets home from a hard morning at nursery school, eats a bit of lunch, shucks off the school uniform, changes into her work gear and strides out to pick up litter, burn rubbish and feed pigs.

Work Experience Report

Ben shovelling manure

Our Godson has been doing work experience with us this past week and has carried out a wide range of tasks willingly and enthusiastically.

This is my report.

TIMEKEEPING: Student has risen promptly each morning before 10:30am.

DEMEANOUR: Pleasant and respectful at all times. To me. Rather less respectful to Bert but this is down to the natural 'banter' and 'horseplay' among men in the workplace. The student has been advised that owing to advancements in political correctness and Health & Safety that this behaviour might not be as acceptable in the 'real' world. Bert has been advised to 'catch himself on.'

TASKS ACCOMPLISHED:

TREE SURGERY: The student assisted Bert in the task of removing a large branch from a tree. He demonstrated an awareness of basic Health & Safety guidelines, advising Bert that Crocs and a straw hat were not the best choice of clothing when up a 20 foot ladder brandishing a chainsaw.

CARING: The student had the opportunity of helping look after both pre-school children and the elderly. He showed patience and kindness to each group. The elderly pronounced his tea-making and pillow arranging skills exemplary and the preschoolers high-fived him.

ANIMAL HUSBANDRY: Helping out with feeding dogs, cats, pigs and hens. Throwing balls for dogs, stroking cats and assisting in the castration of calves.

FARMING: Bringing in the hay. We had a lot of visitors that day and Bert made them all go to the hayfield with them. The baler couldn't keep up with them.

GENERAL MAINTENANCE: Cleaned, sanded and varnished my shoe shelf. Removed the stairs and landing carpet using his bare hands. These were the same hands that Bert had said were 'all soft and girly.' Folded carpet and removed it for disposal then hoovered stairs and landing without being asked.

HORTICULTURE: Wheeled barrow loads of well rotted manure 'til the cows came home. Literally.

COFFEE: All the time. Whenever we wanted it.

CONCLUSION: An excellent student and  a wonderful Godson who blesses our life.  

Gardening With Cardboard

I planted an area of the polytunnel with spring onions and the weeds, mainly chickweed, took over so I decided to transplant the spring onions, what remained of them, to a raised bed. Rather than dig over the chickweedy bed I covered it with a couple of sheets of cardboard and left it for a couple of weeks. Today I removed the cardboard and underneath all traces of chickweed and spring onions were gone. all the area needed was a light hoeing to loosen the soil and a good watering. Not a weed in sight! It should be ready for planting tomorrow.

I cleared another area which was dry and full of small stones. I gave it a very thorough watering and added a thick layer of well rotted compost. Then I covered it with a good layer of cardboard and plonked four grow bags on it. I expect that in four weeks or so it will be in perfect condition for planting.

So - winning the war on weeds one battle at a time. In the polytunnel anyway. The War Against Convolvulous in the perennial beds may prove a much tougher match.

Bad Books

It's been a bad week for books at Nellybert's. The first casualty was White Teeth by Zadie Smith. This book has been languishing in my Must Read pile for ten years or more until I decided it might be a good idea to keep a few books in the polytunnel and the tree house (my outdoor rooms) just in case I happened to be in either place and fancied a relaxing read. I've yet to bring books to the tree house but I did gather up White Teeth and took it to the tunnel. It wasn't the slightest bit what I expected and although it is a slow process I'm rather enjoying it. But the tunnel isn't the best place for books. It gets hot in there and pages curl up. No matter. I've decided to compost it when I've finished it. It has been a week now and I'm only half way through it. The book has been thoroughly watered several times and it looks a state but still readable. Note to self. Don't bring books I want to keep to that dirty, hot and humid place.

Keep Well Watered

The kitchen table isn't a safe place for books either. Especially if Bert is around. The other day I found him using one of Martha and Evie's favourite books as a plate to spread plum jam on toast. I snatched it from him before any harm was done.

Avoid Plum Jam

And only today I left How To Grow Food In Your Polytunnel All Year Round on the table after checking the correct spacing for planting sweetcorn plugs. When I returned from my planting task I noticed that the book was covered in breadcrumbs and bits of cheese. I dusted it off and went to put it away. It was then I saw the two cuts in the cover. Someone (Bert) had sliced a fresh crusty loaf on it. We do have cutting boards but I expect the book was handy. He (Bert) is in my Bad Books for that volume is my gardening bible and it cost me £10.95! Bert is every bit as bad as Joffrey Baratheon that time Joffrey used his Valyrian steel sword Widow's Wail to slice to shreds the rare and precious volume that his Uncle Tyrion had just presented as a wedding gift. Well maybe not quite as bad as that.

Not A Bread Board

Not A Book Lover

Woodcutters

Whilst Evie napped, Martha and I decided to cut down all the self-seeded saplings that were growing in silly places. When Martha realised that this would involve tree-felling and sharp, dangerous tools she decided we needed protective head gear. This is what she came up with.

And see Ziggy there. He is definitely becoming the sort of dog that is always lurking about the edges of photographs. Just like dear old Bonnie.

What's Going On

Two weekends ago Pearlie got sick. On the Saturday night she was in a lot of pain. I thought it might be the crampy, colicky pains she suffers from occasionally and managed to settle her down. The following night I awoke at around 2am and was unable to get back to sleep. I was listening all the time to hear if she was crying out. Then at 4am I was just about to drop off when I heard her wailing. I raced downstairs. Her bedside lights were off and the overhead light was dim and I wasn't wearing my glasses so at first I did not see what ailed her. As I moved closer to the bed I saw that she had been vomiting blood. A lot of blood. I got Bert up and she continued to vomit. I called an emergency ambulance and they arrived about 30 minutes later.

She was kept in hospital for four days and several tests were carried out but they could not identify the point of the bleed. Gastritis was mentioned, as was a burst ulcer. She received a few blood transfusions. On the fourth day she was discharged. Five days later her tummy started to swell and her navel turned from an innie to an outie. Her skin was tinged a yellowy shade. I called the GP who was concerned enough to refer her back to hospital. They kept her for a few hours, did an X-ray and some blood tests and sent her home again none the wiser. Apparently it is 'normal' for an elderly person to have a tummy so hard and swollen that their navel pops out.

This is what I think. The hospital (Antrim Area) does not give one damn about patients in their late eighties. They are seen as nuisances and bed-blockers. And this is what I want. I want her to be at home but I want to know what is wrong with her so she can receive the appropriate care and support. As it is we live from day to day never knowing when there is going to be another incident. Bert and I are both so stressed.

And Pearlie? At the moment she is OK. Happy to be home. She is still bloated but does not seem to be in pain. So - until the next time.

Our Ould Fellas

My father, Seamus Byrne - gone from us nine years today. 

Bert's father, Johnny Orr - gone from us seventeen years yesterday.

Matty died in late April. Our parents, so far,  have all died late Spring/ early Summer when the evenings are lengthening and the flowers are in bloom. I associate this time of the year with sadness and loss.

Strange Picture

I have no memory of this picture being taken. It features myself, (curly hair, snub nose) my sister, (bonnet) and my older cousins Eilish and Roisin. I haven't a clue who the half-faced boy is. I guess it was taken in 1957/58. Bert wasn't even born! I am four, sister two, cousins 11 and 8.

I like the picture because no-one (except the unknown boy) is looking at the photographer.

A Shooting At The Pub

On Friday 24^th May 1974, Day 10 of the UWC strike we went, as usual, to evening Mass in Tannaghmore chapel. As always we were in good time and there was the regular group of men standing chatting at the chapel door. This had recently become an ordeal for me, passing those men, neighbours and family members, for I was 20 years old, six months pregnant and unmarried. Forty years ago this was no light matter. John Heffron and Uncle Sean smiled and nodded at me but Uncle Brendan was not on speaking terms with me and made no acknowledgement. This was hurtful but understandable. I'm sure, that if given the chance, once my daughter was born, he would have come round. Brendan had a great fondness for children and was a very well-loved uncle.

After Mass my parents went to visit Mum's family in Randalstown. The first hint of something wrong was a series of strange phone calls. My younger sister took the first call that alerted us to something badly wrong. A shooting at the pub. A neighbour called to the door and took my brother down to Randalstown to inform my parents. I took a call from a woman who did not identify herself.

“Is that Byrne's?”
“It is.”
“Tell Sean we'll be over for a carry-out.”

There was laughter in the background. It sounded like they were having a party. I took it to be a malicious call.

The younger children were hysterical with fear. They thought that maybe the gunmen were coming to our house too. I tried to reassure them. By the time the tragic news came to us the gang had left the Wayside Halt and were already in police custody.

The thing is, the RUC were well aware of the gangs' activity. They were a ramshackle band of UVF, UDA and other loyalists who had come down to our area to reinforce the strike. Around thirty in number, they were armed with cudgels and sticks and at least one carried a loaded firearm. A neighbour of ours saw them at their work in the Harryville area of Ballymena where they smashed up pubs that were open in defiance of the strike. Their way back to Belfast took them past the Wayside Halt public house and it was there that a gun was used to shoot my uncles. That is when the police went in pursuit. That neighbour reported their activities in Harryville at the time. Had the RUC moved in Ballymena my uncles would not have died that night.

So there it was. Two devastated widows, eight fatherless children, a community torn apart, a loss felt as keenly today as on that terrible evening 40 years ago.

That link above is well worth reading as it is my sister's account of the events of that night and there are details that I have not included here.

Forty Years Ago

In my last post I wrote a little about the Dublin-Monaghan bombings that occurred 40 years ago during the Ulster Worker's Council (UWC) strike. I did not add that I was pregnant with my first child at this time. Perhaps it was being pregnant that made me feel so thin-skinned about everything that had happened. I remember walking at dusk feeling as if a cloud of dread was enveloping me. I felt terribly apprehensive to be bringing new life into the world at such a dangerous and precarious time.

Daddy brought the terrible news to us. A young man, Michael Mallon, from Cargin, near Toome, had been found beaten and shot on the outskirts of Belfast. He was twenty years old, a student at Queen's University in Belfast. I did not know Mickey but my sister did and our family knew his family. My father and my sister went to his funeral. So did my Uncle Sean, who is supposed to have remarked that the funeral was a big one and he hoped not to be at such a one for a very long time. His own funeral would be held less than a week later.

Mickey Mallon was the closest that the Troubles had come to us but it would be closer again within days. I will write about it on the anniversary.

Michael Joseph Mallon was found murdered, at the age of 20, forty years ago today.

Looking Back In Anger

In February 1973, during the first Loyalist Workers Strike, I was working in the Ballymena branch of Crazy Prices. There was a prolonged power cut and all the freezers powered down. Urged by our managers we worked on. Until the cry went up, 'the Tartan Gangs are coming!' And sure enough, gangs of youths, wearing denim, big boots and tartan scarves were rampaging along Broughshane Street, smashing windows as they went. Managers hastily locked the doors and told us to get ourselves off home but not before allowing us to help ourselves from the freezers. So it was I phoned Daddy to come and rescue me and my big cardboard box full of frozen food. Seamus was not afraid of any Tartan Gang.

That is my abiding memory of the 1973 Loyalist strike. Tartan Gangs and a surfeit of frozen food to which we were certainly not accustomed. Of course the power cuts meant that we couldn't refrigerate the food and a good deal of it had to be thrown out anyway.

This month is the 40^th anniversary of the second, and even more sinister, Loyalist strike, the one that brought down the power sharing executive, and the one that Ian Paisley and his ilk supported to the hilt.  

Today is also the 40^th anniversary of the co-ordinated bombings in Dublin and Monaghan. On the third day of the UWC strike thirty-three people died, the greatest number of people killed on any one day. A full-term unborn infant is not included in the list of dead but tiny sisters Jacqueline and Anne Marie O'Brien are. They were 17 and 5 months respectively and their parents died with them.

No-one has ever been charged in relation to the murders in Dublin and Monaghan.

It was thirty-three years later, again in the month of May, that Ian Paisley, who had been so vehemently opposed to the idea of power-sharing, accepted the post of First Minister of Northern Ireland, in an assembly that included Martin McGuinness of Sinn Fein as Deputy First Minister. It is rumoured that the two of them got on so well they were dubbed the Chuckle Brothers.

Boring Post About Being Happy

Apparently accounts of happiness are rather tedious, whereas tales of misery are tremendously interesting. This makes sense. If happiness were interesting there would be no country music, no soap operas, no Game of Thrones, no murder mysteries, no Celeb Culture. Imagine a world where Kerry Katona had a trouble-free birth or Katie Price had a happy marriage. How horrific would it be that a soap opera wedding should pass without incident, or a Game of Thrones wedding pass without mass carnage and regicide? Unhappiness and misery are very newsworthy.

This is why today's post will be boring.

I started my day with an early morning dream.

Other people's dreams are so very tedious, are they not? But this is my blog and I'll be boring if I want to.

My dream was tremendously entertaining and quite surreal - as dreams often are. My younger brother and I were driving slowly down the length of the road we lived on for most of my young life. And where he still lives. It was the gloaming. Things had changed. There were new houses on the road and  many of them had the same interesting flower growing in the gardens. It was tree height, but not a tree. It was a sky-blue campanula, gigantic, with flowers bigger than a human head. And there were birds roosting in plum trees at the side of the road. At first I thought they were magpies but then saw they were jays, hundreds of them. Just as campanulas do not grow higher than houses, neither do jays flock in hundreds. We decided to visit our neighbour. She was just as she always was, always has been for more than fifty years. And this too was surreal for, in real life, our neighbour is not as she was.

I was wakened by someone calling - Mary. For this is my real name, not Nelly. I pretend to Nelly. It was part of the dream and it called me to wakefulness.

An enjoyable dream can just set up the day. There was good weather. I did necessary chores then I spent the rest of the day gardening. Nothing makes me happier. I did not have to go out, visitors were scarce. At six I started dinner, at seven we ate it, at eight I poured us a gin, at nine I had a bath. Happy all day. What an achievement. What a delight.

Dinner Plans

I have had a busy few days. On Friday I went to Garden Show Ireland at the Castle Grounds in Antrim where I heard a very interesting talk by the delightful Alys Fowler. The talk was a tiny bit shambolic as is, apparently, her own garden, but no less charming and interesting for all that. I know it has changed my mind about a few things and I am determined to make great improvements to my soil and adopt the no-dig approach to growing. I will also be more tolerant of slugs. Apparently they are doing us a favour by eating seedlings that we'd never get around to planting anyway. Still feeding any I find to the hens.

Alys Fowler - my heroine

Plants people in search of treasure

On Saturday I went to cheer on the participants in the Giro d'Italia as they raced through Ballymena. Very exciting even though they were out of town again in a matter of moments.

Photograph taken by ZMB on Flickr 

Tonight Nellybert went for drinks with the First Husband and His Beloved. The carers were late in coming to Pearlie and the most curious one commented on me being 'dressed up.' I told her I was going into town to meet the First Husband. She said,

I don't like the sound of that.

I said,

Don't worry. Bert is coming too.

That seems very strange to me.

It's not. Far better that people get along. 

What does Bert think?

Oh Bert gets on well with FH.

Does he?

Oh yes. I only hope he gets on as well with my next husband.

You! You're not near wise!

So, FH and Beloved are taking the girls out for the day tomorrow so that First Daughter can get a wriggle on with her sowing and planting. I'll make dinner. We are having vegetable lasagne and rhubarb crumble as FH doesn't eat meat. Another busy day ahead.

Throwback Thursday

There is this thing on Facebook called Throwback Thursday and, as far as I can see, it is an excuse for oldies (like me) to upload pictures of ourselves of when we were young and gorgeous so that our Facebook Friends can comment on how adorable we were.

So - as this is Thursday and in the spirit of Throwing Back, here are a series of snaps of  Bert when he was a young lad just turned 46 after a night camping out in the poly tunnel.

He has quite a history of sleeping under glass and plastic. There was that time when he slept in the greenhouse but that was before I knew him. He was about 17 at the time and had been to a wedding party where he got rip-roaringly drunk. Concerned that his parents would be displeased at the state he'd got himself into he decided to sleep it off for an hour or two in the afore-mentioned greenhouse. It must have been comfortable in there for it was mid-morning when he staggered into the kitchen in his best suit, covered in dead vegetation and compost.

Daytime napping is another thing and on a pleasant day a poly tunnel can be delightfully warm. One day, a few years back, when Bert was producing and selling bedding plants, he glanced at a mound of protective garden fleece and thought it looked so inviting. Before he knew he was trying it out and the day being balmy, and the temperature inside the tunnel so warm and cosy, he was soon asleep. Until, some time afterwards, he was awakened by a nudge from a matronly Clarks shoe and opening one eye, saw he was being gazed upon by two concerned looking elderly ladies one of whom was saying to the other, "Do you think he might be dead?"

Wouldn't that be a picture worth having?

We Go To The Bann

Judy writes...

Moms said to Hans, shall we go to Portglenone Forest, check the bluebells? I'm sure the dogs would enjoy the walk. My ears pricked up. Whenever did a dog not enjoy a walk? And Portglenone is particularly good. Lots of other dogs. Lots of pungent smells. Lots of sticks. And the river.

First of, I found a ball. Hans threw it into the river, stupid Jess got it and lost it. I looked everywhere but it was gone. Gone forever. I was gutted. Meanwhile Hans starts throwing sticks. Jess was in like Flynn but I wanted my ball. No joy. Gone forever. I loved that ball. Only had it for two minutes but it mattered to me.

Winning

Ah well. Sticks it is then. I'm a far stronger swimmer than Jess. Beat her by a mile. Ziggy the wimp wouldn't go in any farther than his knees and, as we all know, that's not very far.

Then disaster struck. That rotten sneaky wee bitch mugged me. Snatched my prize right out of my jaws. I was gutted.

This was turning out to be a rotten day. That thieving, smug wee shit was grinning all over her face.

Thought she was so bloody smart. I've never been so upset in my entire life. This was worse than that time Rusty tossed me up in the air. And it got even worse. Moms made me and Smug Face sit in the back of the van on the way home while Wimp Face Ziggy got to sit in the front. She said it was because we were wet. Moral being if you are a cowardy custard like the Zigster and barely dampen your paws you'll be sitting up front in luxury while good dogs (well, one good dog and one filthy cheating rat bag dog) have to rattle about in the back.

As soon as I got home I told Dawds all about my rotten day and he was very kind to me and let me go to sleep on him. I'm sure I'll feel a lot better when I wake up.

The End.

First Day Of May

When I was a child the month of May was a period of special devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. At home our mother encouraged us to make a May Altar. I loved this. A deep window sill or table would be cleared and various holy statues, pictures and a crucifix would be placed and among this would be arranged wild flowers in vases and jam jars. We picked primroses, celandine, kingcups, daisies, dog violets anemones and bluebells. Most of these flowers soon wilted but they were easily replaced. I remember once bringing in May blossom but this was strongly discouraged as it was considered 'unlucky'.

I wouldn't have picked dandelions myself because they had a bad reputation and were supposed to make you pee the bed and bringing such a noxious weed to Our Lady's Altar would have shown a serious lack of respect. But daisies were a different matter. Those little Shippam's paste jars were just the right size for posies of violets or daisies. I remember being affronted when one of my aunts mocked us for having daisies on our May Altar. She called them weeds! I was shamed not to know this.

Shippam's Paste Jars

Having the May Altar in our house always made me feel extra holy and I said more prayers in May than I would in any other month. I was always sorry to see it cleared away when May was over but I think that Matty was relieved to be rid of the jars of wilting flowers.

Crataegus, hawthorn, may blossom

When I asked her why May blossom was unlucky and she said it was because it shed its petals so quickly that it made a big mess. I knew she was palming me off. Maybe she did not want to tell me the truth, which was, that hawthorn in the home was associated with death, or worse still, 'unregulated love.' And of course, for a good Catholic, the thought of death might be acceptable but unregulated love? Unthinkable.

Vine Weevil Blues

You may speak of snails and slugs

And other filthy bugs

But no pest is quite so evil

As the ugly, vile vine weevil

The tenth visitor of the day

I like to pretend that I am a kind, considerate person but the truth is I am not! The truth is that I am hateful and harbour murderous thoughts. In fact, I sometimes carry out murderous deeds and not always in my imagination.

This is my Kill List.

In alphabetical order:

Aphids - I set ladybirds on them. If there are no ladybirds available I squirt them with soapy water.

Bores - cannot stand them and, believe it or not, I am not easily bored. 

Carrot Flies - I hate them so much I buy all my carrots in Lidls. Let someone else worry.

Cold Callers - I have no tolerance for these people at all. I have been known to be rude. Or I tell lies. "I'm sorry this is not a good time. There has been a death in the family." And they hang up on me. How rude!

Cruel People - I don't believe in an eye for an eye but often cruelty, especially cruelty to animals, is not properly punished. More jail time needed. And not comfy jail either. Something like the sort of dungeons they have in Game of Thrones. Chained up, bread and water, gruel. That sort of thing.

Other Drivers - shouldn't be allowed. The roads should just be for me and my special friends.

People Who Call To The House Just As We Are Sitting Down To Eat And Comment, “Youse Are Always Eating.” - just fuck off back to your own house then.

People Who Park In My Spot - bloody cheek!

People Who Pee On The Toilet Seat - mainly Bert but he has other good qualities that compensate for an occasional fail in this department.

Preachers - I'm fairly tolerant of religious people and try to be respectful of other people's views but sometimes they are not respectful of mine. My tolerance does not stretch to include the exuberance of those belonging to our local cult. No! I do not want a free hug! I may hit you if you try it.

Slugs - I take great pleasure in feeding them to the chickens and hardly feel guilty at all.

The Tenth Visitor Of The Day - sometimes we get a lot of visitors. It is because we are both at home and because we are both so lovely and hospitable and nice. But when it's been a very busy day I do sometimes fantasise about moats and drawbridges and a hired sniper in the tree house.

Vine Weevils - hateful, hateful critters. I can never find the adults but I do take a delicious pleasure in squishing the life out of the larvae.

Third Anniversary

Family Time

A Nice Memory

I'm recycling old blogposts again. This one is from six years ago, when our darling Matty was still with us. Back then Ronni made this very apt comment,

Sounds like a lovely day, to be cherished later, when you need a nice memory to get you through.

Tomorrow is the third anniversary of Matty's death. 

Saturday, April 05, 2008

Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey

Matty and Hannah and I took a trip to Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey Our Lady of Bethleham Abbeytoday. I wanted to get a Mass Card for a friend of ours whose father died earlier this week. I don't really understand the etiquette of Mass cards so I thought it would be a good idea to take Matty who knows all the ins and outs.

Matty usually goes to Antrim with her favourite sister-in-law on Saturday mornings so I phoned first.

You not out with Maud this morning?

No. I told her I just didn't trust my legs today.

Bert and I discussed this over our porridge.

Says she just doesn't trust her legs to go out shopping with Maud.

Why not?

Maybe she's afraid they'll go shoplifting or slope off to score some weed. Or maybe they'll slip into a betting shop and blow the pension on the Grand National.

Happily she felt that her legs were trustworthy enough to go on a jaunt with Hannah and Nelly.

The Abbey is, like all repositories of rosary beads, Mass cards and religious paraphernalia, a weird and wonderful place. You go in. The first thing that you see is a miniature set of priest's Mass vestments. You wonder why? Who'd want that? There are shelves and shelves of religious pictures and statues, there are rosary beads galore, there are stands and stands of pre-signed Mass cards. There is a monk sitting in the corner to bless the holy stuff you buy for it's no use if it's not blessed. There is Status Quo playing 'Whatever You Want' on the sound system. Whether this was the monk's choice or the delightful young shop assistant's choice I do not know. Probably the monk as he was 50+.

I quickly choose my Mass card; a bargain at two quid. Meanwhile Matty gets heavily involved in a conversation with the shop assistant on the possibilities of buying a book on the life of Saint Anne but, said saint being slightly obscure, none was to be found. Matty reports that Anne is the patron saint of grandmothers. With Jesus as her grandchild, she would be, wouldn't she?


I experienced Matty's untrustworthy leg in one of Portglenone's charity shops. She does this genuflection thing with it. She says the strength just leaves her leg for a moment. I tried distraction as a cure and pointed her in the direction of a shelf of brand new shoes. No shoes were purchased - just another beige skirt.

The day ended well. After dropping Matty off in Tannaghmore and Hannah in Ballymena, Rosie and I went for a brisk walk in the Ecos Centre. It was there that I bumped into an old chum who shamelessly told me that he'd always had the hots for me. What's not to like about hearing that?

Of course I told Bert the minute I got home. He laughed.

Aren't you raging? Aren't you going to go in and start a fight with him?

No. I'll just congratulate him on his good taste next time I see him.

What's not to like about hearing that?

In Praise Of The Dutch Hoe

September used to be my favourite month. I was young then. When one is young the beginning of the end of things is poignant and sweet. But when one is older it is just sad, and even a little bit frightening. For, if I live as long as my mother did, I'm in the September of my life.

Now in the September of my life I find that I love April best. For new beginnings, the light and all the summer to look forward to and then, at summer's end, September, my second favourite month.

This is the first year since Matty died that I have enjoyed my garden. Between grieving and cold wet springs it had got completely out of hand. Last autumn Bert and I dug almost everything out of the perennial garden with a view to starting over. Only about half of it survived the winter.

I started working on it after Paris and at first I thought I wouldn't be fit for the task. But a wonderful thing – the more I worked the fitter I became and the fitter I became the happier and and more hopeful I became. I started on my vegetable garden too and I have worked harder in the garden this past few weeks than in all the three years since Matty died.

I have discovered the joy of the Dutch hoe. Bert has been preaching hoeing to me for years but I was unconvinced. I preferred to get down on my knees and battle the weeds at eye level. Now dropping to my knees is something I have to give a bit of thought to. There is the getting up again to consider.

I was worried I was overdoing it with the Dutch hoe. I asked Bert,

What if I blunt it?

I'll buy you a new one.

May was always my best month in the perennial garden. This year the show will be sparse. I have a few wallflowers, saxifrage, primroses on the go. I have pushed in nasturtium plugs here and there. The geraniums and potentillas are far fewer than there were. I don't know if my agapanthus will make it. There are no foxgloves and very few aquilegia. But there is something about that well tilled, almost weed free, brown soil that pleases me. It is a blank canvas. I can do what I want with it. So even and smooth and Dutch hoed to pieces. Until today.

My blank canvas

I had been feeling a bit guilty that I hadn't been keeping up with the planting but I was having so much fun Dutch hoeing and seed sowing in the poly tunnel that there wasn't enough time.

Just before they escaped

And then I noticed that the pigs had escaped from their field. I set off in search. The first one I came across was Rusty. Coming out of our house as if he had every right to be there. He turned the corner to the front of the house and there was Lily, standing in my perennial bed, digging a great hole with her snout. I wonder if she was searching for truffles? I was ever so glad I hadn't completed the planting.