The Wrong Jelly and Other Stories

The girls are here for a sleepover and earlier today Bert took them grocery shopping. We needed some special ingredients for a sweet making session and for pizzas. He came back in a rage,

That Fullans is the worst shop in the world! They had nothing we wanted, No pepperoni, no anchovies, no mozzarella, no dislocated (sic) coconut! I'm never going in there again and all the staff do is stand about the aisles gossiping to each other!

But he proved himself a hero. Went to another shop, the trusty old O'Neill's, and got everything on the list except he bought packet jelly instead of ready made in a plastic tub. Jelly wasn't on the list but Martha convinced him that it was an essential. That's all very well but if the grandfather then fails to make the jelly and if at bedtime all a child wants is some jelly then Houston We Have A Problem.

So Martha and I jumped in the van and drove to Cully and bought the right kind of jelly. She was wearing a striped onesie and I forgot my partial denture but, who cares, we were on a mission. On the way back we went the long way and listened to Keltic Storm's version of  Mairi's Wedding three times. I love that me and the girls are so uncool we are actually cool and I'm sad that sometime in the near future they'll be letting me know that saying cool is no longer cool or even a thing.
 

This is the recipe book we are using for the sweets. It belonged to their mother when she was only a little bit older than they are now although this wasn't the cover of Zoe's book. If it had been I believe it would have been thrown out long ago. Both Margaret Powell and her pupil look terrifying. The early seventies can still send shivers.

Sleepovers mean bedtime stories. Tonight we had Madeline, a great favourite of the girls and of mine. The books are a pleasure to read, short and bitter-sweet. Tonight's story was about the time Madeline had her appendix out and how all the other girls were so envious of  the attention she received.

After that it was stories from real life.

Who do you want the story to be about?

You!

What age do you want me to be? Forty?

No! A wee child.

OK. I'll tell you about my first day at school.

So I did. And I told them about Malachy's first day at school and how kind Mrs Magee was and how mean Miss O'Neill was and about the time George didn't do his homework and stood up and read an essay he was supposed to have written at home and stood there looking at two blank pages and told the story out of his head and how I admired his nerve and then Martin told Cassie on him and George got the ruler and how I lost respect for Martin for ever and ever. I explained how Mrs Magee was always Mrs because we respected her but how Cassie was called Cassie behind her back because we did not respect her because she was mean and cruel.

After that I tried to think up some stories about their Mum when she was a naughty little girl but I couldn't think of any because she was a rather good child. There is only one and as Martha said,

Don't tell us about the time that she cut out pictures from a book and glued them on the wall and said the dog did it. We've heard that one a million times!

They were freshly painted walls, though.

The Last Picture I Posted On Flickr #1

First of all, I don't know for sure who the photographer was. The subjects are my mother, my brother and my brother's daughter and the occasion was London Sister's summer wedding in North London, twelve years ago. You wouldn't think it to look at the photographs but Matty was feeling poorly that day. It turned out she had shingles which was affecting her face. She was very stoic about it and did not succumb to complaint until she was back home.

That was Matty all over, a bit of a hypochondriac at times, she whinged about the little things, a hack on her thumb, a touch of cramp, but she could be remarkably brave about the big things. I'll never forget the day she received her terminal cancer diagnosis. The house was full, lots of us around, everyone shocked and filled with faint dread and yet, there was Matty apparently enjoying all the attention.

I sat down beside her on the sofa and squeezed her arm,

How are you doing Mammy?

She turned to me with a very open expression on her face and said,

Och, sure I always wondered how I would die!

Not the answer I was expecting at all.

People often say after someone dies from cancer that they 'lost a battle, bravely fought'. Well, Matty didn't fight at all, she just got on with it. She was brave, though.

Easy Peasy Wine-Making

I had an email today from someone near Portglenone who wanted to know if I could recommend (or give) classes on wine-making. Naturally, I was suspicious. Did this person really need advice or did he have some nefarious reason for seeking my counsel? I was  tempted to recommend the ancient tome First Steps In Winemaking by C.J.J. Berry which I threw out years ago (it was in tatters) but instead said soothing things. I couldn't remember the name of the Berry book so Googled 'ancient wine-making book' and it came up straight away.

What I would have liked to advise my Bannside friend was this,

Sterilise everything.

Take three pounds of anything flavoursome and fruity (or vegetably).

Steep it and add one bag of sugar. Lidls is good for cheap sugar.

Add one teaspoon of yeast with added nutrients.

Fiddle about racking and so on for a few months. Sterilise everything.

After about six months bottle. Sterilise everything.

After about three months fall to and get pissed.

Easy peasy.

Good News

We had some really good news about Roy today. It's two weeks since he was had the balls lopped off and not only has that healed very well, the growth on his anus has shrunk. Roy's buddy Adam (the vet) was jolly pleased. And so were we. Judy was seeing the vet today as well. She's looking good and can carry on with the pain relief medication.

Adam asked, how has Roy been? We were able to tell him that Roy had shoulder-charged one of Howard's dogs out of his way when the silly sprollie was interfering with his pig-herding duties. Still macho despite the loss of his cojones.

And although Roy is no longer on medication we intend to keep on giving him the cheese.

The patients

Remembering Home on Mother's Day

Although the house in Drumkeeran was the place I thought of as ‘home’ I only lived there for a very short time. In 1978, when I was expecting my middle daughter, I moved to Ballymena and lived in various houses there until Bert and I moved to a new build in Cullybackey. Nevertheless, the house on the Murphystown Road, where my parents lived was the place that I called home.

I was around seven when we moved to the Murphystown. It was a shoddily built farmhouse that belonged to people whose patriarch had never wanted it to fall into Catholic hands. Apparently the old man had died in the house and the moaning noises that I often heard coming from his bedroom might have been an echo of his dying or even a haunting, because his last wish had not been respected. Or, it could even have been the wind blowing through the rotting window frame. My father did not prioritise the maintenance of that house for his main interest was the development of the small farm the house came with.

We lived there for nearly twenty years before moving into a new bungalow that my parents built. That house is the one that my mother lived in until she died, the place that I thought of as ‘home’ for the next thirty odd years.

Our parents had hardly a bean when they moved there, all available funds having been used to build it so it was furnished on the cheap. It wasn’t exactly what our mother wanted but she made do. Making curtains, upholstering and painting and decorating. In what spare time she had left she also created a lovely garden, something she never had the space for before. Daddy was not a gardener but he bought a ride-on lawn mower and began to take great pride in his lawns. Over the years the house became more what Mum wanted. She had a bit more money to spare and she began replacing all the old stuff with better quality furnishings. She didn’t go mad though. She still had an eye for a bargain and many items were bought in charity stores. She became quite house proud.

I remember her saying many years ago,

I do try to keep this place nice but what with your Daddy and the dog it’s not easy….

When she got ill we all spent a lot more time at home. Yet it was only a matter of time that ‘home’ would be no more. That is when I started taking the photographs. The first batch were taken when she was still with us, the second batch soon after she died but before we cleared the house. It has taken until now for me to be able to look at them, sort them out and share them.

A Cure For Sure

Roy had his operation today. Not on the growth as the vet is going to leave that alone for the moment. Instead, the old lad had his testicles removed which will cut off the supply of testosterone to the lump on his bum and prevent it from growing. I hope it works.

So far, the old fellow has recovered well. He has enjoyed supper and taken a sedate dander around the yard.

Other news - I visited the pharmacist yesterday to inquire if she could sell me an over the counter medicine to ease my throat. She said that the most effective thing would be some sort of antihistamine but only a doctor could prescribe that. I said I had some in the house. She said I could give it a go. So home I went and raided the medicine chest. There were two cards of pills and I was sure one of them was antihistamine. This is where Wikipedia comes in handy. One of the pills turned out to be a sleeping tablet, the one that Bert took more of than he oughter when he first had the manflu. The second was antihistamine and Mumsnet opined that it would cure post-nasal drip, the cause of all my woe. A Cullybackey pharmacist and Mumsnet. This was a cure for sure!

Thirty minutes after taking it my nose had dried up and so had my throat. Hot tea wouldn't lubricate it and wine didn't work either. But the good news is I've had three of those pills now and I'm feeling much better and the throat is getting back to normal.

I have decided to begin clearing my attic seven minutes at a time. Today I threw out the box, leads and manuals from three cameras ago. It's a start. To celebrate this achievement I am posting a picture of my youngest grandchild.

Sick Of Being Sick

It is a month now since I was in Norfolk and anxious that I would not carry the dreaded manflu to Katy and family. The very first night that I slept there I was woken up by that tickle at the back of the throat that is usually the first sign of a virus infection. For the first few days I was achey and sore and feeling well below par. Then I got the stomach bug and forgot all about the flu-like symptoms. Ten days later I was still feeling shitty - got home and found Bert wasn't much better. The virus travelled into my chest, a week or more of dry coughing then there were headaches. A couple of days ago I thought it was fading but no! Damned thing has settled in my throat. Still, mustn't grumble too much. It is years since I had such a persistent infection.

There was a rumour in Hannah's work that a tremendous amount of mourners at a recent very well-attended funeral had been struck down with this flu-like illness. Bert was certainly one of them as his symptoms began within days. Yet again, we must not complain as it turns out that the uncle of the fellow whose funeral it was caught the bug and died within a week. But he was well into his eighties, Bert and I have youth on our side. Well, Bert has anyway. I get my state pension this coming week. Fingers crossed I live to enjoy it.

Another sad story - bloody Beast from the East has destroyed my wallflowers and ceanothus.

One of the many wrens who live around here.

Roy Update

Roy had his return visit to the vet's surgery today. The growth on his anus has not altered despite him having been on antibiotics for nearly a week. The young vet (loves border collies, addresses Roy as 'Buddy', and Roy nuzzles into him like he's a long-lost pal) has consulted with the other vets in the practice and they seem to think that surgical removal would cause more problems than it would solve. As testosterone is the likely culprit they think that neutering would be effective almost immediately. He is booked in for the snip in eight days time. If the tumour is malignant and neutering doesn't impede its growth we'll hold on until he's not comfortable any more and then do the needful thing. I'm hopeful though.

Meanwhile, another member of our canine family is having problems. Zoe's older dog has a spinal problem and is in doggy hospital. Fingers and paws crossed that she will recover. She is around the same age as Roy but we've known her since she was conceived. Her mother is Kerry Sister's oldest dog who is, so far, in excellent health.

Get well soon, Miss Gracie.

Herding Pigs

Roy is on a course of antibiotics and does not like them. However, he is prepared to take them if I encase them in a thick layer of soft cheese. His anti-inflammatory meds are administered by syringe and both he and Judy find this more palatable. It seems like such a short time ago that I remarked to Bert,

Isn't it great having young dogs and no vet's bills to pay!

At least they are both in good enough form. Balls to be played with (Judy) and pigs to be herded (Roy and Judy). Our pigs are the best-herded pigs in the country.

It is Day Two of the quiet house. Hannah has landed safely somewhere in the Canaries. She was vague as to exactly where or maybe I wasn't listening. Anyways, as long as she has a wonderful time - that's the main thing.

Wednesday Catch Up

Not much blogging last week reason being that this damn Bert Flu really kicks in at night and that's when I usually sort Nelly's Garden out. And I'm too tired and worn out to do it.

The news is, we had a Musical Evening on Saturday. Well, Hannah did. There were four or five guitarists, a banjo player, a violinist, a harmonica player and a clarinettist. There were several very good vocalists. There was someone playing the kazoo but he got a mild telling off from the gipsy jazz guitarist. It was very enjoyable but oh so tiring and Nellybert weren't worth tuppence on Sunday.

Monday was Back to Gardening Monday. No Dave, as he is Game of Throning in Moneyglass. Just Zoe and the girls. I made spaghetti meatballs and a Golden Syrup steamed pudding. Had a kitchen meltdown (too many people in it) and then got over it. Rod came out to see the dogs and brought me a bottle of wine. Most welcome.

Yesterday I pottered.

Today I finally got round to re-sowing chillis, this time in my brand new propagator that I bought on Saturday morning at Montrose Garden Supplies. The first lot I sowed before I went to Norfolk and they did absolutely nothing. Hopefully, the new lot will be more successful. Hannah headed off to Belfast as the first leg of her holiday. She's heading for the Canaries tomorrow.

Now the sombre news. We took Roy to the vet today as he had some sort of spot on his bum. Turns out it might be cancer. He has a course of antibiotics to take, then back to the vet next week to discuss his options. When he came to us we knew he wasn't neutered and decided not to do it because he was over ten. Turns out that if he had been neutered then he'd have been at less risk for this cancer that he might have. Anyway, we'll see. Dogs get old so fast. The poor old fellow also has mild heart disease which was diagnosed at his last checkup.

What I Did On My Holidays

The main thing I did on my holidays was fall madly in love with my fourth grandchild, Emily. She fell asleep on me a lot and there is a part of me, my left side from my shoulder down to my breast where she has left a psychic imprint.

The next big thing was immersing myself in the world of trains with James. I have probably watched at least half of the available episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine by now and together with James I watched hours of YouTube videos of steam engines in America. These films are surprisingly soothing and proved very much so the day that James had the vomiting bug. His psychic imprint is on my right side, where his hard curly little head dug into my shoulder. These were my best times.

Of course, I got sick myself. There was the watered down Bert Flu I brought with me which lasted the entire ten days and which I still have although it paled into insignificance when I got the vomiting bug. I wasn't much use to Katy and family that day.

Another highlight was my three sightings of a Little Owl hunting on Sculthorpe Airfield. There were no photographs as it was dull and rainy on each occasion. I'd never seen a Little Owl in the wild before so it was much more interesting just to watch it rather than fiddle about only to end up with a mediocre shot.

And that is pretty much how I spent my ten days in Norfolk. Owls and babies, babies and owls. What could be better?

One More Sleep

At last, the morning of the big push to Norfolk. Achievements so far,

Bought Guardian and paracetamol for the grievously sick husband.

*****

Early afternoon now. Not one single thing of mine in the suitcase yet. All James and Emily. The polytunnel has been watered and the poorly sick husband is up and about wearing complete rig out of farming clothes, big boots, boiler suit, beanie hat, heavy fleece jacket. He won't take them off as he is "too cold and miserable". I'd be miserable too if I was wearing all that stuff.

*****

Late afternoon - inundated with visitors. Polished my shoes while I chatted with them. I do like a bit of multitasking. Have already walked Jack Byrne in icy rain and had plain lunch. Bert still very sick man. One of the visitors said Man Flu is really a thing and if Bert needed sympathy give him a call as the poor fellow was obviously going to get no kind words at home. Not true! I made him a cup of Earl Grey and reminded him to take his paracetamol.

*****

Evening. Packing completed. Husband still sick. Polished my handbag and watched an episode on Inside No. 9. Feeling very excited. Hope Bert is fit enough to take me to the airport tomorrow. I took a photo of him sleeping on the sofa but it is too sad to show. Instead, here is one of Jack whose people will be collecting him tomorrow.

It might be a day or two before I get back to the Garden. See you!

Two More Sleeps

Today was supposed to be a day of preparing for the Norfolk trip but instead it turned into a day of two breakfasts, a trip to Ballymena with Leitrim Sister and Yer Man and a lot of chillaxing in front of an open fire and a glass or few of Lidls finest (and cheapest) Merlot.

All I have to do tomorrow is get up early, buy the Saturday Guardian (still can't get used to new format but at least Stephen Collins is still there), tidy and water polytunnel, fill suitcase with stuff for Emily and James and perhaps find tiny amount of room for a couple of changes of clothing for myself.

It was good to spend an hour or so with Deirdre and Nick and I'm almost certain I told Hannah that they'd be staying overnight. She did get an awful shock when she charged into the spare room at daybreak looking for clean socks. She met Bert on the stairs up for his early morning old-man pee and asked "Who are those people in the spare room?" so perhaps I only imagined I told her.

Still, as I always say on such occasions,

At least nobody died.

Three More Sleeps

The next two days will be spent sorting things out, watering the polytunnel, leaving Bert instructions to keep things alive,

the hens
my sourdough mother
my chili seedlings

And packing. I have so many presents for James and Emily that there will be hardly any room for clothes for me. But not to worry, for Katy has a washing machine.

Then on Sunday, I leave for Norfolk and the start of a new journey when I fall in love with Miss Emily Anne.

This is the little person I will be meeting for the first time.

Hurt

Today was one of those days that reminds one of how sad life can be. We went to the funeral of a man in his early fifties who had died from a brain tumour. I didn't know him well but I knew other members of his family, his older sister in particular. This man had spent his entire working life in a local tobacco factory which, up until recently was one of the most important employers in the local area. Between 2014 and 2017 everyone who worked there was made redundant. Many of those attending the funeral today were ex-workmates of Hugh. No problem getting time off for a weekday funeral - they all had time on their hands.

I went for a quick walk in the early evening. Now that the days are lengthening it is possible to do that and I'm grateful for it. Ziggy and I weren't even five minutes from the yard when I spotted a thrush lying at the side of the road. I thought it was dead but when I looked it was still moving. I picked it up and returned to the house and left it in the greenhouse. I expected it to be dead when I got back. Ziggy and I walked for thirty minutes and when we got back the bird was still alive. I made it as comfortable as I could and left it. Thirty minutes later Bert returned from visiting his aunt. He looked in on the thrush and said it was getting very cold. Fifteen minutes later it was dead, I was racked with guilt. should I have interfered? Should I have hastened its end? And if so, how? I wouldn't have the courage to do anything violent for fear of increasing its suffering. After it died I felt its little body and it seemed to have a chest injury. No doubt a blow from a car, one of those bastard cars that drives far too fast on our B-road.

Peter called round after work and he told me that a friend of his says that the best way to hasten a small suffering animal's end is to wrap it in kitchen roll and place it in a freezer. I don't know. That wee thrush took a long time to die.

Ziggy, my companion on today's walk. His little face reminds me that life is not always hard to bear.

The Scent of Witch Hazel

That Paulo Coelho piece on washing dishes has stayed with me. The thinking can be applied to any minor annoyance - for instance, it's a pet hate of mine that Bert gets toothpaste juice all over the mirror almost every day of his life. But why fret? It only takes moments to clean and I'm much better off pondering on how lovely it is to have the company of a funny, kind man even if he is a bit throughother in the bathroom and everywhere else.

Last autumn he planted a hamamelis (witch hazel) in the garden. It will flower in the winter time, he said. And it's scented. The smell will be glorious.

It flowered just before Christmas. Wait until we get a balmy day, he said. Wait until you smell it then.

So the balmy day came. Can you smell it, he said. Isn't it lovely?

I couldn't smell it. Not even when I got right up beside it and buried my nose in its flowers.

What does it smell like?

Flowery. Like Zoflora.

Like Zoflora?

I couldn't smell a thing. Was he gaslighting me? Yet, I worried. Am I losing my sense of smell? He smokes, I don't. It should be me that has the keener sense of smell.

Later that day I accidentally broke a bottle of Zoflora. I could smell that. Bert is sitting in the next room, smoking.

Can you smell that?

Yea! Zoflora.

I walked into the next room and I couldn't smell anything. Worrying. Yet when the cat shit in the wet room I got that whiff. Of course, I looked it up on the internet. It could be a cold. I haven't got a cold. It could be nodules. No thank you! It could be something totally drastic the same as the person had whose funeral I am going to tomorrow. Or Bert could be gaslighting me. But he hasn't the imaginative powers to do that. Nor is he mean enough. And he could smell the Zoflora from the next room.

I wonder what the hamamelis does smell like.

Scrambled Eggs

Bert said something terrible to me this morning. He didn't know it was a terrible thing. In fact, I'm sure he that he was just making me a kind offer. This is what he said,

Do you want scrambled eggs?

I said,

No! I don't.

I did not explain. I did not say 'No thanks. I had sourdough toast and brie for breakfast.' I just thought, why not boiled, why not fried, why not poached? Anything but scrambled. Why scrambled when you, my dear husband, have probably cleaned scrambled eggs from a saucepan less than ten times your entire life.

Every time I get this way I am reminded of an awful Jilly Cooper book that I read centuries ago where the romantic lead dismissed an ex as 'one of those girls like scrambled egg, amazingly easy to make, but impossible to get off the pan afterwards.' Such a cruel remark. I never did like any of the characters in Jilly Cooper novels.

I was still feeling discombobulated about Bert's breakfast choice when Hannah got home and told her about what was annoying me and she said that Paulo Coelho had something to say about that. Well, he usually does. She gave me the gist of it and I immediately felt better about the whole thing. I checked it out and it goes like this,

'When you're washing up, pray. Be thankful that there are plates to be washed; that means there was food, that you fed someone, that you've lavished care on one or more people, that you cooked and laid the table. Imagine the millions of people at this moment who have absolutely nothing to wash up and no one for whom to lay the table.” 
― Paulo Coelho, The Witch Of Portobello

So there you go - if you want a guide to decent living Coelho trumps Cooper every time.

My First Flickr Pickr

When I first started using the Flickr photo sharing group in 2005 I was (I thought) very particular about the sort of picture I would be sharing. Looking back it was clear that I had not a clue. This is the very first picture I posted.

Then I cropped it.

I thought it was the dog's bollocks. Truly worthy of Flickr and worthy of me. Because I was the sort of person who lived in the countryside and knew a nice sky when she saw one, the sort of person who cared about skies. The truth is my sister Patricia could take a far better picture using a pinhole camera and wearing a blindfold. But that was me back in 2005. The sort of person who wanted to impress the world wide web. In my own quiet, tasteful way.

So begins a little series of pictures and why I posted them on Flickr. So far, I've uploaded 4450 images to the site so should keep me busy for a little while.

Getting Things Done

• Booked flights to catch up with Katy and her growing family. Yea! Seeing James again and meeting Emily for the first time. I don't really mind (much) missing the first couple of weeks. It gives everyone a chance to settle down before I come crashing in.
• Cleaned the Hillbilly Hen House. Hosed it down, made it very nice. I'll do the Orchard Hen House on Friday. Two in one day is way too much.
• Got into the polytunnel for the first time this year and started getting sorted. It will be Spring before we know it!
• Sorted out some financial matters, the pension (at last!) and something else as well. I will not be scrimping when I go to Norfolk. Emily needs dresses! James needs trains! Everyone else needs wine!
• Got my tooth fixed - the pretendy one that Jess nibbled. Bad Dog!

Now with all that taken care of I can relax and tomorrow I'll enjoy the company of my two older grandchildren. Can't wait.

An Open Heart

Tonight we are having one of those nights that would be so wonderfully awesome if we were all completely sober and could take credit for the awesomeness of our drunkenness. For a start, there was the amazingness of our delight in the Sicilianess  and the Anarchism of the houseguests who had to retire early because of early starts which left a company who were composed of two passionate advocates of the importance of an Irish Language Act, two who could not care less and one eighteen year old who enjoyed stirring the pot.

Have to say though that I truly appreciate Bert, reared Ulster Protestant, travelled the world, shook that shit off and opened his heart and his home to absolutely everyone.

.