End of Month Resolution

I hereby announce that I will post to this blog every single day in December. I've already bought and given most of my Christmas presents so I should have the time.

It's a week since I posted and I've been busy, busy, busy. Busy doing what? As my reader might ask.

I have been making soup, all from this trusty little book 200 Super Soups by Sara Lewis. So far I've made four of them so only another 196 to go. Tonight we had mulligatawny and it was delicious. It allowed me to use up some rather elderly lentils and sultanas and they were perfectly fine. At least I hope so. So, if I don't post tomorrow it will because I have died from ancient lentil poisoning.

I also made more chilli jam from the very last of the crop.

And then there were the autumn leaves. That lot came down in one big dump and I've been collecting wheelbarrow loads and making a huge leaf pile under the trees. In two years time it will have turned into wonderful leaf mould. There are still lots to gather and if it is pleasant tomorrow I'll get the girls to help me. Looking forward to it already.

And what of my inner life? Well... I'm still trying to come to terms with what appears to be the new world order and the rise of the right. At least I'm not dreaming about killing that man any more. Negative energy Nelly, negative energy.

Peak Fatness

As almost everyone agrees breast feeding is very advantageous to mother and child. I'm in favour for I was breast fed myself and nursed all my children beyond a year old. My own daughters did not break the tradition. In all likelihood we're from a long line of breast feeding mums that stretch back to Cro-Magnons and beyond. It was touch and go with me and my ma though. I weighed a mere 5 and a half pounds at birth and afterwards was failing to thrive. The District Nurse was on the yard every single day, had me stripped and on the scales and my poor mother demented with worry. So worried that she wasn't eating so no wonder I was losing those precious ounces. It wasn't until my Aunt Sadie called and advised Matty to make me a bottle of formula, thickened with Farex and sweetened with sugar that I stopped crying with hunger.

Of course I don't remember any of this but in my subconscious there was fear laid down from that early starving. It would explain my childhood greed, a greed that has continued throughout my entire life and that has resulted in my carrying extra weight for most of that life. Or 'being fat' as a plain-speaking person might say. Being fat.

I like to think that I reached peak fatness at 9pm last Sunday night. I'd been in contemplation and starting the next day resolved to eat in a more sensible manner. After all, I'm not that starving infant any more - I'm a grown-up woman who knows exactly when and where her next meal is coming from.  So here's hoping to get from peak fatness to peak fitness. I'm on my way.

In Praise of Aunts

A short time ago Miss Martha was asked if she owned many Aunts. She replied that she had just the two but that she was in possession of many Great-Aunts. She actually has four Great-Aunts of her blood and three Great-Uncles. One Great-Uncle she has yet to meet. I believe he lives in the South of France. Martha is very impressed with her Aunts (and Uncles) and, after our recent trip to Sligo for Great-Aunt Leitrim Sister's graduation she said that she would like it if we all, her sister, parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles all lived together in the Great Southern Hotel, Sligo forever and ever. Well - it did have a swimming pool and an amazing breakfast bar. I don't know what we'd do with our dogs, cats, chickens and pigs though. Martha hadn't thought that one through. There are at least eleven dogs in our family alone. And I'd miss the poly tunnels.

My own three daughters lives were greatly enhanced by Aunts. For a time all four of them lived in London and they welcomed their nieces every year just as soon as they were old enough to travel alone.  Summer jobs were provided too and their experience widened in a safe and loving environment. Then one of the London Sisters became a Kerry Sister and there was some place else to be.

I wasn't short of Aunts myself. Five on my mother's side and two on my father's and a veritable Heap of Aunts by marriage. We made no difference - an Aunt was an Aunt. Vancouver Brother stayed with me last week and we visited a few of them, one my mother's sister - the last of the Blood Aunts and two By Marriage Aunts. It was very satisfactory. The funny thing about Aunts is, as we all get older, the age difference gets smaller. At Martha's age I thought they were elderly. They were merely in their late twenties and early thirties. Now I'm not a kick in the arse behind these amazing women in their eighties who are still getting on with their lives. They are maybe a little frailer but wiser and just as kind as ever they were.

I possess two nephews, three nieces and three great-nieces though I'm not much good at the Aunt thing. My children, my grandchildren and even myself have received great benefits from the Aunts in our lives and there's me - mediocre Ol' Aunt Nelly. Something to ponder on.

Martha and Evie hanging out with all the Great-Aunts and two Great-Uncles. And me.

I was so taken with my recent Aunt Contact that I sought another one out today. A By Marriage one who showed me great kindnesses in my younger days.She lives only a bare ten miles away and yet it is well over a year since I visited. I need to be a better Niece as well as a better Aunt.

This Day Last Week

This day last week we returned from Sligo where we'd spent several days celebrating Leitrim Sister's graduation. Sorry - that should be Dr Leitrim Sister for clever Dede achieved a Ph.D. This day last week was a fine bright day and it was six days since I'd set foot in the poly tunnel. It was to be another seven before I poked my nose in there to find that lovely Bert has been keeping up with a bit of light watering and also, that I have another flush of bright red and fiery chillis.

This day last week the results of the U.S. elections were still in the future and it was a strong talking point in Sligo, Cullybackey and everywhere else. Most people felt that Hillary would prevail but I felt uneasy about it.

This day last week I was happy to be back in my messy house. It would be another seven days before I came close to catching up. Maybe this day next week.

Just some of the family in Sligo last Sunday. Dr Leitrim Sister is the one on the far right. 

Autumnal

You know something? I'm completely scundered right now, which is usually the case when I spend the entire day in the house, cleaning and stuff. Thing is I listen to the radio when I'm in the house and today - that was truly a miserable experience.

Today I hate,

Arlene Foster. Truly, madly deeply.

The USA elections. Donald Trump in particular. People who support Trump.

Sorry about this one for some of you are great folk - people who identify as christian. You are NOT being persecuted, you are just being challenged. Yours is not the only way to be.

This fucking province. Petitions of concern. Politicians.

Tomorrow the house can go fuck itself. I'm going for a walk then sorting the garden. I may collect leaves and I may just stop and appreciate this beautiful autumn.

Sleepy Boy Bert

The Chronicles of Bert: Part 1- Bert Van Winkle

Those who know Bert well also know that he is very fond of sleeping.


This is Bert enjoying 40 winks in County Sligo. We were on holiday with the Banjos and Bert took full advantage of all the extra sleeping opportunities that vacationing affords.


Bert often enjoys a power nap during the working day. He has no difficulty sleeping under a dog. In fact the dog serves a very useful purpose in that it will alert Bert to the arrival of a vehicle in the yard. This saves Bert from the embarrassment of being caught napping.

It is a pity there was no Scruff around that time the two elderly ladies discovered him curled up asleep in his poly tunnel cosily wrapped in a length of horticultural fleece. He says he never heard them come in and the first he knew of their presence was a gentle poke with a sensible shoe and hearing one matron say to the other,

D'ye think he's dead, Aggie?

Bert's notorious love of shut-eye has been celebrated in this painting by Zoe. Most people who see this picture marvel at the likeness. Except Pearlie who thought it was 'damnable', looked nothing like her darling son and said Zoe could 'paint noan'.

The Chronicles of Bert: Part 2 - What Happens When You Stay In Bed Too Long

Then there was the time Bert slept for so long that he woke up with a beard.

Chilli Jam

Matty was not a maker of jam but as children we never wanted for home made preserves as the other mothers were forever producing vast quantities of jams made from blackcurrants, gooseberries, plums and, my favourite - rhubarb and ginger. Jam would be made from the most commonplace fruit, the fruit that grew in almost everyone's garden in great quantities. Rarely did we have raspberry and strawberry jam for these fruits were grown less and were more prized. Actually I cannot think of anything more horrible to do to delicious raspberries or succulent strawberries than to turn them into a dreary jam.

Like my mother I've not been keen on jam making. Like her I prefer to use fruit to make pies, puddings and crumbles. And when I'm not making sweet desserts I will be making wine. But then there are fruits and that do not lend themselves to wine at all. Fruits like chillis. Our friend Les has been giving us little pots of delicious chilli jam for some years now. Then last autumn he gave me a well-grown chilli plant which I planted it in the poly tunnel and hoped it would not die. It survived and, this year, produced a good crop of waxy red fruit so, obviously, I had to make my own chilli jam.

I've been putting the dread moment off for over a week now but had to do it tonight before Now I'm sitting here with hot, chilli-burnt fingers waiting for the jam to cool for it was runny when I put it into the jars – so hope it sets, hope it's not too hot.

On Being Informed

Sometimes I really, really love the internet. Almost all solutions to life's little problems are to be found therein. For example, my printer wouldn't print and I knew it had enough ink. So I input Google with the printer's name and model number and the error message and lo and behold - there is a step by step You Tube video that only a cretin could fail to understand and within moments the printer is printing. Did I mention that sometimes I really, really love the internet?

The first time I realised how awesome it was in helping out with technical stuff was when I wanted to check the oil and water in my car. This was many years ago and I wished to prove to Bert that this was something I could handle on my own. But I couldn't figure out how to open the bonnet! Off to the internet I went and Googled something like this,

How to open the boot of a Peugeot Whatever.

I don't remember what sort of Peugeot it was except it was dark green but I knew then and the internet informed me that there was a little lever in a compartment under the steering wheel. How weird was that?

The only thing is, what will happen to the parts of our brains that held practical information when we always turn to the world wide web? The only thing I personally seem to have held on to are the recipes for shortcrust pastry and Victoria sponge and who played in every band that I liked when I was 15-18. Everything else I have to Google.

A band I liked when I was 15-18

Looking Back: This Day Ten Years Ago

The Role of Strong Drink in Alien Abductions

Young Loveheart called round tonight. He told us a very strange tale about a recent lad’s night out when his good friend, Young Rooney, was abducted and taken to Logan’s Fashions near Cloughmills. Young Rooney believes that at least one of the 20 plus measures of Smirnoff & Red Bull that he had consumed was spiked. I asked Young Loveheart why he hadn’t looked after his mate a little better and he explained that he was drunk himself and too busy ‘getting off’ with women. The fact remains that Young Rooney went missing for several hours and was eventually found wandering aimlessly along the Woodtown Road.

Young Rooney has no idea how he got from the Countryman’s Inn to Logan’s and back again to the Woodtown Road. I think he must have been abducted by aliens and that the aliens must have administered a hangover cure because he had no suffering the following day. Despite this stroke of fortune he is badly rattled by his experience and says he will never drink or go out ever again.

I had a similar experience myself many decades ago. Vodka was not involved. In my case it was gin. I have only the haziest recollection but I do remember I was rescued by a lovely couple in a Volkswagen Beetle.

On The Kindness of Strangers

I am not the kind of person who feels the need for the latest phone but, several years ago, a young friend who does feel a need for the most up-to-the-moment gadget, sold me his old iPhone. This phone came complete with something called a Griffin All-Terrain Survivor Case. It wasn't elegant. It looked like it ought to belong to a macho building site worker or maybe a mountaineer. I kept the case despite its ugly appearance because you'd never know when something bad might happen. Since then that phone has survived several falls on to hard surfaces and even a winter's night lying in the yard outside our house. It rained that on night but not heavily.

Not like the downpour that Evie and I were caught out in this afternoon. That was one of those sudden heavy showers that soak you to the skin after a few minutes. We were crossing the road, only yards from the van when it started and by the time we reached it we were both drenched. I could barely pull the car key from my saturated pockets in my haste to get Evie into the dry. We drove home singing 'silly songs' about rain and getting wet and when we arrived on our yard there were Caitlin, Cara and Maria over to play while their Mummy and Hannah went out for coffee.

First Evie and I had to get into dry clothes while Caitlin, Cara and Maria rang brass bells, banged Fisher Price pianos and blew harmonicas. Then the phone rang. British Telecom wanting to speak to Bert. I told them he was on holiday and wouldn't be back for a week. Next week I'll tell them he's in hospital, the week after I'll say he's in prison. I'd only put the phone down when it rang again. I'm still wet and the girls are still ringing bells, bashing pianos and blowing harps. It's a young woman, foreign accent, talking about a phone. I could barely hear her. Then I realised she's talking about my phone and she's on my phone! I'd dropped it. I was able to tell her that my daughter lived around the corner from where she'd found it and I'd be very grateful if she left it there.

Evie's dad brought it round later that evening. He said the finders were a young couple, very pleasant. I wish I could have thanked them myself. The phone looked OK. But it had been dropped in a downpour and there was water inside the casing. For the first time ever I took all the casing off and that six-year-old phone looked like it just came out of the box. It's elegant now but I'd be better to put all that rufty-tufty casing back on. You'd never know when I might be half way up a mountain on a very rainy day.

Getting Stuff Done

One of my plans for September was to write a daily post to Nelly's Garden and it seemed to be going fine until the 17th of the month. On that particular evening I was feeling extra tired and the very idea of dragging myself into my private, secret sitting room to write was wearisome indeed. Instead I posted this to Facebook.

Was going to write a blog post every day in September but then I got this nice bottle of red and the craic was good and I realised the internet is not the boss of me! Well, maybe Facebook is - a little bit.

Of course I thought I'd just miss the one day...

Then I read Oliver Burkeman's column in yesterday's Guardian. This paragraph resonated with me for I am always making complicated lists and plans that never succeed in the way that I'd hoped. They actually make me feel like a failure most days.

When attempts at unbending discipline fail, I turn to a post the Buddhist teacher Susan Piver wrote in 2010, entitled Getting Stuff Done By Not Being Mean To Yourself. It relates her own frustrating attempts at rigid scheduling, and the approach she chose instead: asking what she felt like doing. 

So today I did keep asking myself what I felt like doing and at one point in the mid afternoon I realised that what I really wanted to do was go to bed and nap. Which I did, and then when I got up about an hour later felt really refreshed and did lots of things without once consulting a list. And I even updated my blog.

Earlier today...

Sister and daughter 

We all went to Waterfoot for a walk on the beach.

Dogs and daughter

An Early Start and an Anniversary

Today started rather well. I got up just before 5:30 am and drank the cup of coffee my daughter made for me, then into the van, Ziggy on board for company and for our viewing pleasure a huge, nearly full moon setting in the south-west. Hannah was dropped off at work about a quarter to six and we spotted Daniel the Tesco cat approaching the staff entrance for his breakfast. Then Ziggy and I headed for Antrim to search for the exact pair of pale pink slipper boots that Miss Martha wants for her birthday. Approaching Asda, Ziggy alerted me to the Asda cat (name unknown) heading for the staff entrance for his morning meal. In the door at 6:00 am and slippers and croissants purchased by ten past. By 6:30 am we were outside my daughter's house posting Evie's forgotten homework book through the door. Met the next door neighbour, Hannah's colleague departing his house and wished him good morning. Like my conscientious daughter he too is expected to be on duty at six but apparently this does not trouble him.

Off home for more coffee, croissants and apricot jam. Hens out. The other bantie is sitting on eggs but I'll deal with that tomorrow. Bert is still in bed and will remain there for a further two hours.

It was my father's birthday today, his exactly a week after my own. I found myself thinking about him throughout the day, trying to remember specific things, early memories. I remember the feel of his large hand enclosing my tiny one as he walked me down the kesh beside our first home in Cannionstown. Going out in the green AEC lorry, me and my sister, both of us sitting on a thick rug in the middle where the heat of the engine beneath warmed our legs and bums. No call for seatbelts back in those days. There are other memories that aren't mine, ones my mother told me. She said he carried me down the stairs on the 9th of March  wishing me a happy half-birthday and she said that I'd stand in my wooden cot rattling the sides with excitement when I heard his lorry arrive in the yard.

I don't know if my younger siblings would agree with but sometimes I think that we older ones knew the best of him when he was in his thirties and had less to worry about. For there were four more children in his forties, he bought the farm, worked two jobs and sometimes times were hard for both my mother and father. And as if that wasn't tough enough they found themselves the parents of teenagers. Oh dear. Daddy just didn't get teenagers. But that is quite another story. Today on the 97th anniversary of my father's birth I'll only be thinking about those early years.

Wild Life

This little creature is a Goldcrest. Earlier today it flew into a window and stunned itself. Bert saw it happen and picked the wee bird up before either of our two cats came upon it.

Hold on, 'til I get my camera, although I really hope it's flown off before I get it.

It didn't fly off, still too stunned. I asked Bert,

Is there something wrong with its feet?

No. It's not used to standing on flat surfaces. It needs to be holding on to twigs.

We took it over to the clematis montana and set it on a tendril. It fell for a moment, then found its wings and flew away over the hedge and into the meadow. Relief.

Now this fellow is a vine weevil. I've no idea how it found its way into the kitchen but that day that Bert got injured by the bullock there was one in the cab of the van. I was going to tell him all about it but forgot when I saw how he was hurt. Vine weevils are the enemy of horticulturists for their larvae love to eat the roots of plants such as clematis, primula and strawberries. I let the little brute wander around the kitchen and hope it dies before it finds one of my plants. They make a horrible, crunchy noise when they are killed and I'm just not in the mood.

Isn't it funny how one of God's creatures is a complete darling and another an utter bastard. Makes one think.

Looking Back: This Day Five Years Ago

When Pearlie was still around, before I burned my diaries....

The Diary of Nelly Dismal

My 25^th year found me living alone in Drumtara, pregnant, poor and lonely. I was also very bored so, to pass the time, I kept a journal. It ran to two volumes and I have to admit it was one of the most tedious, self-obsessed and whiney journals ever written. It didn't contain an ounce of humour or interest and every time I've looked at those two notebooks since I have cringed.

So why did it take me more than three decades to rid myself of these woeful books ?

Today, during an epic attic clearance, I decided the time had come to burn the dreary things and the only place in the house with a burning fire is in Pearlie's room.

What's that ye have there?

Just some old diaries.

What! Reach them to me!

They're not yours Pearlie. They're mine. Just some old diaries I kept when I was in my 20s.

Setting them carefully on the fire.

I'd love to read those!

You would not.

Piling the coal around them.

I'd have been very interested in those.

I bet you would.

I felt a tiny bit guilty depriving Pearlie of the pleasure of finding out what a shallow twat I was when I was 24 but very, very happy to be rid of the reminder. Thanks be for the cleansing power of flames.

Getting Comfy

Why Paddy pictures two days running? Two reasons. One - I'm very tired and haven't the mental energy to come up with anything more challenging. And two - I'm sorting out my photo folders and have started on the Ps in the critter folder.

The Dogs In Our Lives, Paddy

Paddy

That is a photograph of Paddy taken in 2004 when he was full of vim and vigour. That would be Hector's cattle he is running at, the bad article - running the beef off them. He might have been around Judy's age, five or six - we never knew for certain how old he was. We'd had him for six months then and eight years later he was dying of old age.

Dogs -  they're not with us for that long at all. Only the memories last.

A Flying Visit

Back from a flying visit to beautiful Eelburn and the people and dogs had a ball. Well - there was a ball for a while but then Dora lost it. There was this one time we'd been playing on the beach and the dogs had had their chow and the people were going out to eat when we looked back and saw this sad sight.

Left Behind. Jess and Dora

Of course we went back and took them with us.

Worst Bit. Jazzer snoring.

Best Bit. Under a quilt, lying on a sofa to escape the sound of Jazzer snoring and looking out on a skyful of stars.

Eelburn

Just a short one. I had a lovely birthday and now Bert, Jazzer and I are off to Eelburn for a day, a night and a morning. Back tomorrow.

Twenty-One X Three

Sometimes, when I blog about a birthday I like to use an anagram as the title, an anagram which contains the person's age. Today is my birthday and the best anagram to be found is 'His Extremity'. I may find a different title as 'His Extremity' might give a casual reader the wrong idea.

So, on my birthday I was taken out for breakfast by two of my husbands - the current one and the one before that. It was very pleasant. We called with The Pet Shop Boy and he greeted me,

Happy Birthday Nelly! Twenty-one?

And I replied,

Twenty-one is exactly one-third of my actual age.

I've a good bit of birthday left and later I may drink wine. We had cake yesterday and there may be more today.

Fame At Last

It is always very heartening to realise that people actually read this blog. I've long been used to folk sidling up to me at country funerals and addressing me as 'Nelly' and only today I was in Tescos when one of the employees greeted me thus,

Good to see you wearing shoes that match!

Although I cannot beat Hannah's experience - for she was walking her little dog on the river path when a complete stranger came up to her and spoke to the dog,

Hello Ziggy!

She then said (rather shyly) to Ziggy's owner,

I read your blog.