Heatwave!

Whenever County Antrim folk (and other North Irish people) are blessed with a prolonged spell of hot weather we may well experience the following:

The Common Herd

Disbelief. This can't be happening to us! Why it's hotter than Spain.

Elation. I'll bet all those folk flying off to Spain will wish they'd stayed at home.

Pessimism. It can't last. This will probably be all the summer we'll get.

Despair. It's far too hot! It's too warm to work. I'm not worth tuppence in this heat.

Cattle Farmers

Hope. Good to see a blink of sun and the cattle are out in the fields again. Maybe we'll get a bit of grass this year.

Making Hay. Every farmer in the country. Last year was so wet that hay was worth its weight in gold.

Pessimism. This year hay will probably fetch about three quid a bale.

Despair. We need rain! The grass has stopped growing.

Nellybert

Delight. Boys-a-dear. Isn't this great? I thought we were never going to see a decent summer again. Fantastic gardening weather.

Irritation. Every other bugger in the country is lying sunning themselves in their back garden and we're watering from morning to night.

Pessimism. The state of those roses. They're wilting in this weather. And the irises hardly lasted a week in the heat. And those bloody weeds! Nothing stops them!

Looking On The Bright Side. At least the slugs and snails are giving it a rest.

Dogs

Fetch ball! Sleep! Drink water! Go to the river! Fetch stick! Swim! Eat! Sleep!

The New Lawn

At long last Bert has got interested in the garden and, I have to say, I am very pleased about it. There have been false starts before but this time it feels like it might be a permanent interest.

There was the time he decided to make a vegetable garden in the very same spot where our new lawn is now. Although, to tell the truth, it might be more accurately described as a patch of grass. I remember how discouraging Pearlie was about that as he dug and toiled.

He's only lossing his time at that oul carry-on.

But she was wrong.

The vegetable garden twelve years ago. These days, most of the veggie growing takes place in the polytunnel with Zoe as the keenest gardener of us all. The stone wall was very new then but it still stands. There are flower beds and the new lawn in that patch now. We're even building a patio although I promise there will be no bodies buried under it!

This used to be our vegetable garden.

And this used to be a lawn!

Vampire Teeth

This afternoon, on picking up my grandchildren from the school bus, I informed them that I had some bad news.

Martha asked,

What is it Granny?

I'm afraid we have to go to Sainsbury's.

Evie said,

That's good news for us.

Why?

We like Sainsbury's. There's something there that we want.

I'm sure!

As we drove there I said,

It's Bert. He wants me to get naan bread. Sure it would be no trouble for me. Aren't I in the town already. Not that he'd ever do food shopping if he was in town!

Martha says,

I know Granny! I've asked him to take us to Sainsbury's about five million times and he never ever does.

We arrive. I ask,

So what is it you want?

Vampire teeth. There's a machine. You put a pound coin in and there are lots of things you can choose.

I gave them a pound each and sent them off and began shopping.

I bought naan bread.
Onion bhajis.
A sports bra.
A blouse.
Buns.
Jam tarts.
Some pears.

The girls found me. They did not have vampire teeth as the machine had run out of them. Martha had bought a squishy orange thing that looked very flimsy and Evie had some metallic slime.

On the way out I realised I'd forgotten to buy wine but decided that was probably a good thing.

The journey home was very quiet as the girls played with their squishy, slimy objects. As soon as we got home they raced out to play on the trampoline and that was pretty much the last I saw of them.

I said to Bert,

Martha told me she asked you to take her to Sainsbury's five million times and you never would.

That's right, I never did take them to Sainsbury's.

Did you know that there is a vending machine there where a child can insert a pound coin and receive a piece of complete crap?

Yeah. What did they get? Vampire teeth?

Hopeless at going to Sainsbury's but makes a good climbing frame.

Father's Day

So, Father's Day again...

But they do get easier as time goes on. This is the fourteenth one since he died. The first one was very hard as he died in early June and right from the start the shops were full of Father's Day reminders. I remember feeling ridiculously annoyed and cross about it.

It passed. Father's Day is just another day now. To do with other people, not for us. I had a lot of company this weekend, the Banjos, Dr Leitrim Sister and her husband. Six people, not one of us with a living Dad. Memories were shared.

And here are some more.

A handmade card that Daddy received from his granddaughter in 1989.

One of a series of photographs that my sister Patricia Moriarty shot. They are some of the best pictures ever taken of our father.

One of my own photographs. I think he might have been calling me an eedjit as I was trying to get him to smile.

The pair of them.

Fudge And Other Lovely Things

I'm feeling anxious tonight. One of our roosters (Fudge, the best-looking one) has escaped the coop and is running loose. Ben and I have tried to catch him but in doing so we have thoroughly spooked him. It happened while we were moving his lot to another house. I had him gathered up twice but he was too strong for me and got away. I hope his might stands him in good stead if he meets Foxy tonight.

It's been a while since the blog has been updated but there has been a lot going on. On Saturday I took the girls to a sixth birthday party and it was a hot day. Baking hot.

I love that Cooper the Labrador thinks that it is his birthday. Martha and Evie are in there somewhere.

Later that evening Bert and I went to Toome to hear A Talk. The subject of The Talk was the same as the recent film Maze (currently on Netflix) which told the story of the 1983 mass prison breakout from the Maze prison. The film was rather sombre. The Talk given by three of the people involved less so. It was an interesting night.

On Sunday Zoe and I and Leitrim Sister took part in Procession2018 in Belfast which was a wonderful experience. We marched with at least a thousand other women (and a smattering of men) from the Titanic Slipway to City Hall.

We were walking with the Leitrim group that campaigned hard for the recent Irish referendum on abortion rights. There were a few frosty faces from onlookers but far more reactions that were positive, particularly from older women.

On Monday I made cheese and onion pie and a rice pudding for our family dinner and Martha asked,

Granny, why is your rice pudding so tough and ricey?

Although Bert thought it was yummy. Tough and ricey is his favourite pud.

Yesterday I went to Ikea with Zoe and bought a very pretty cushion. There were thousands of them so I expect almost everyone else in the world possesses this lovely thing.

And another lovely thing...

This claret-coloured poppy just turned up among the ordinary self-seeded papaver somniferum that grows in the polytunnel. I must mark it and save the seed.

Fudge turned up! No chicken dinner for Foxy tonight.

Fudge is the big boy in the middle of the picture. 

Selling Sweeties

So, there was Granny about to tell one of her interminable tales that begin,

When I was a young girl...

And Evie chips in,

And now you're an old woman.

I laughed and said,

It's not so bad being an old woman.

And she says,

Yeah! You don't have to go to work!

I couldn't help but think - that child isn't even in Year 3 of primary schooling yet and already she's looking forward to her retirement. She must have realised that running that sweetie shop is going to be a pretty tough ride.

Don't Mow. Let It Grow

This was, for a few years, a shorn lawn. Then the ride-on mower started playing up and we decided not to replace it as we found we actually prefer the long grass. As do the insects, the insect-eating birds, the wildflowers and the children.

In springtime we have cuckoo flowers and wild orchids growing through it. Dog violets and primroses grow profusely under the beech trees. There are not so many summer meadow flowers apart from plantains but this bugle appears to be colonising parts of the garden.

I've always liked long grass as this collection of photographs shows.

Bert has reseeded a small area at the side of the house that we will keep short as will be a lovely backdrop for my flowerbeds and hopefully it will keep the bindweed in the old hedge from encroaching any further into my flower beds.

The beginnings of the grass that will be mown. That bit at the back where Bert is digging a grave for one of my favourite hens will be kept wild. Too much effort to tame in and dead chickens need to go somewhere.

So what happened to the hen? Every day she escaped the run and wandered about wild and free pecking and scraping and living a very happy life. Only yesterday I was out and about doing stuff in the garden and I thought what a sweet picture she'd make against the emerald green of the new grass. I never did get round to fetch my camera and within an hour she was gone. Young Lockhart and His husky dog Phoenix had called to visit us and it had been a while, so long we'd all forgotten that Phoenix and hens don't get on.

Ah well. Was a quick end and she died happy.

In Which I Become My Own Cleaner

We had a young man visit us a week ago who was very enthusiastic about his new cleaner.



You should get one. It has entirely changed my life. She comes once a week, spends an hour and a half cleaning and it only costs me #18. My house is spotless and I have nothing to do other than wash dishes for the entire week.


That wouldn’t work for me. Ninety minutes wouldn’t look at this place. Not with the size of it, four dogs, a constant stream of visitors and Bert tramping dirt of the yard the entire, live-long day.


Oh, not-a-tall. You should get one. It will change your life. She is so efficient. It used to take me half the day just to clean my kitchen. I kept getting distracted.


I’d look well getting a cleaner and me retired, fit and able and anyway – it would stress me out – I’d feel I’d need to take the rough off the house before the cleaner came.


Aye, I do that too.


This boy has passions. The last time he was here he’d just bought a sports car. Best thing in the world. We’d happened to mention we were looking for a car for Hannah who’d just passed her test and nothing would do him but she should get a sports car just like his. He couldn’t be chatted out of it.


Anyway, after he’d gone I had a think about the cleaner idea. It’s not that I wanted to hire one but perhaps I could be my own cleaner? I decided to get up earlier the next day and clean for 90 minutes. Well, two sessions of 45 minutes with a refreshing cup of coffee in between.


I got up early the next morning and in ninety minutes I washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen, sun-room, hall, and downstairs bathroom. I brushed and mopped landing and stairs and put laundry on. When the timer pinged I had not managed to get round to my private, secret sitting room, the scullery, upstairs bathroom or any of the bedrooms. Nevertheless, I marched up to Bert, who was still in bed reading the last couple of chapters of Cold Comfort Farm and announced that I’d cleaned for an hour and a half and he owed me nine quid. (His share of the cleaner’s wages.)


And I’ve been my own cleaner ever since. I usually just do it for an hour but if I’m going out early I’ll be efficient for 30 minutes. It does make a difference as getting basic cleaning out of the way means I can spend the rest of my time doing what I please and what I please is mostly working in the garden. I reckon Bert owes me at least 60 quid by now although I don’t expect to receive it any time soon.

Back To School

Bert and I accepted an invitation to attend Grandparent's Day at Evie's school. Evie was slightly concerned that Bert would turn up in his 'muddy farm boots' just as he'd done the other day when he met the pair of them at the bus station.  So I chose his outfit and I have to say he looked rather nice. Slim-fitting navy trousers (he has the figure for those), a linen shirt and his best Converse sneakers. He'd even combed his hair.

It was an enjoyable morning for us all. The children whose grandparents couldn't be there weren't left out. I had two extra ones, good friends of Evie, join us for story reading (Evie chose excellent books) and again in the play park where I was expected to applaud cartwheeling, handstands and Irish dancing. After refreshments, we were invited to visit our grandchild's classroom which was really inspiring. A far cry from the drab and regimented teaching environments that was Nellybert's experience.

I left the school feeling very happy that Martha and Evie go to a really good school with impressive facilities and a dedicated staff team. They are lucky girls.

After that, it was back to the usual. Bert got changed back into his working clothes and worked hard all day, watering, weeding and putting up orders.

By ten o'clock the poor man was exhausted and tottering around like a ninety-year-old. Says I,

It's a far cry from the spritely young granda you were this morning.

He could only agree.

When The Birthday Boy Makes His Own Cake

At last! A birthday cake that turned out well. Bert baked it, Martha, Evie and Granny decorated it. Bert's cake rose nicely. The last one I made, Martha asked,

Granny, why is your cake like a biscuit?

My last pizza she said,

Why does your dough rise so much? It should be thin.

From now on I might get Bert to do the pizza bases as well.

We had great fun decorating the cake. The glace icing was better than last time when Martha's favourite dog ornament kept sliding off.

You'd never guess what age he was now? Martha really wanted those number candles.

Two would only be 1.70 Granny. And we can use the 9 again when it's my birthday. 

I allowed her to have them as a reward for being good at maths.

And Bert? He said he had a lovely birthday. When everyone had gone home we did a delivery to a garden centre in Magherafelt. It was only then that I noticed he still had glitter on his nose from the birthday cards that the girls made for him.

A Trip To Belfast

I managed a day out in Belfast today, my main objects being a visit to the newly refurbished Tropical Ravine in the Botanic Gardens, some new reading glasses from Flying Tiger and a present for Bert.

I had mixed feelings about the Tropical Ravine. There is no doubt that it needed the refurbishment, if only for the survival of some of the older plants in there but it has lost much of its former dilapidated charm. Now it seems less mossy, too modern. I much preferred it as it was.

The grounds outside the Ravine have had a makeover too, planted mainly with geraniums. I was pleased to see that I have in my own garden, all the varieties I spotted except 'Rozanne' and I want 'Rozanne'.

The Palm House was in disarray today with many plants pushed to the side for cleaning but the display of pelargoniums on the Museum side was spectacular. Lots of varieties that I don't have but would love to own.

My next stop was the vintage store on Botanic Avenue where I bought Bert two shirts. That was the present ticked off my list.

I lunched in the Linen Hall Library and it was very quiet in there. Then a bit of a wander around the city centre. I got some lace-up shoes I've been thinking about for a year or more and two pairs of readers in Flying Tiger. I was disappointed not to get the apple green ones I bought last time as I've had such a lot of compliments about them. My fashionable niece even advised that I should base my whole look around them.  I still have the apple green ones but Jess, the hallion, jumped on them as I was getting dressed for bed one evening and they don't sit right any more. Three quid glasses just cannot handle being pounced on by sprollies.

There was a bit of time to kill before getting the train so I had a drink in Robinsons. I took it outside and as I sat there I thought of how thirty years ago a person might be taking quite a risk sitting across from Europe's most bombed hotel (33 times in 25 years). Thankfully those days are over.

On the train home, I read the book I picked up in the Linen Hall Library charity shop. Letters between Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh. It was rather 'laugh out loud' in parts but so prejudiced against Jewish people. That was shocking. Or maybe it was just Lucian Freud? Still appalling. It was written by a Mosley, so obviously shameless.

I got Bert to try on his shirts as soon as I got home and was pleased that he liked them. He especially liked the denim, a vintage Ben Sherman, so much that he kept it on and went out to clarinet practice still wearing it. That's never happened before and I've been buying him clothes for more than thirty years.

That Was The Week That Was

It seems that the more there is to write about the less I write because there is NO TIME and I am TOO TIRED.

On Day 1 after my last post, I went (with Bert) to visit an elderly relative and then, because we were in the general area, went to a disused diatomite quarry that has become a haven of delight for newts, butterflies, psilocybin mushrooms and other wonderful things. When we got there we found it had been devastated by earth moving machines. Bert was very sad.

On Day 2 after the last post, I cooked a delicious meal for the family and played adventures with Martha as Evie was sick.

On Day 3 I was visited by the elderly aunt and her (sort of) nephew. She filled nephew's car boot with spare shrubs and perennials from my garden. Afterwards, Bert continued work on our new lawn and I  cooked a sensible manly dinner for Bert and one of his friends. Lots of potatoes.

On Day 4 after my last post we visited Jazzer who has been dealing with some very sad events recently. To cheer her up we brought a chainsaw and cut down a tree that has been threatening the foundations of her house. Then we went out to lunch and had two large glasses of wine each. On my return from the outing I had to take a long nap.

On Day 5 I picked the girls up from school and took them shopping. I needed new shoes for a funeral and I got the children  some summer togs for their holiday. Martha opined that the tops would go very well with a pair of denim shorts. So I bought those as well. Then we went to the wake which was a first for the girls.

On Day 6 I went to the funeral. My cousin's husband, still in his fifties. They were close neighbours of my mother and had always been good friends to both my parents. At the funeral reception, I found myself looking around and wondering where he was.

Day 7 - I gardened, cleared a new bed and planted the geraniums I'd bought at Garden Show Ireland. They'd been potted on and were just beginning to flower. And of course, I glanced at the Royal Wedding for an hour or so. It was quite cheering and distracting. Later on,  we had Jazzer, Marty and Ben round for the evening.

On Day 8 after my last post, we still had Jazzer, Marty and Ben and Jazzer cooked breakfast and mopped floors. Some friends are just keepers and her Ulster Fries go a long way towards making up for her singing performances on the evenings before.

On the evening of Day 8, when everyone had gone, we watched The Handmaid's Tale, me mostly with my hands covering my eyes. Then I wrote this post.

The devastation at the old quarry

Paper Money

When I'm 64 (from March 2011)

That is the age at which I will now receive a state pension.

Oh well. I think I shall have to become a bank robber.

Don't tell anyone I said that.

Joking aside - it was terribly unjust that women were entitled to a pension five years before men. What was that all about? And it's not as if 60 is even old these days. Or so I like to kid myself.

It's the kids I feel sorry for. There they'll be trying to get a foot on the career ladder starting with something humble and character-forming like working the aisles in B&Q or Tescos and there will be all the old codgers like me taking their jobs. And I will too - if the bank robbing thing doesn't work out.

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Nelly's Garden has sure turned out to be quite the aide-memoire pour moi. For, thinks I to myself - I should write about how great it is to finally be in receipt of the long-awaited state pension and I knew I'd written about it before and, there you go, seven years ago I was positively longing to be a pensioner. It turned out I didn't do anything quite as drastic as robbing a bank or getting a job. As if! There's rarely a morning that passes that I don't wake up and thank the universe that I don't have to go to work.

So it is that even the grandchildren, at least the ones that live in Ireland and are aware of the existence of money, knew that I was looking forward to my pension. For as we headed into the local Spar yesterday afternoon and I opened my purse to check how much money I had, Evie exclaimed,

Is that paper money Granny?

And Martha asked,

Is it your pension Granny?

I think she's been looking forward to my pension as much as I have.

I knew I'd have a little spending spree when it finally came and as it came with another little windfall there was definitely going to be some addressing of pent-up need on the wardrobe front. So I went shopping yesterday just before I picked up the girls, thrifting and regular, and got a lovely rust-coloured linen cardigan (for a pittance) and some ridiculously cheap biker boots in TK Maxx plus some navy trousers. Got home and discovered I'd got the wrong size trousers and the boots still had a security tag on them. The cardi was still delicious, no issues there.

So, it was back to the shops today. As I entered TK Maxx the security alarm shrilled which really confused the guy on the floor. But no bother, he removed the tag and I swapped the trousers for a very useful structured black jackety, cardigany thing. In the thrift shops, I bought a very nice summer skirt. Fits lovely but you'd know you're wearing it. I reminded myself that Loulou de la Falaise said that when it comes to clothes she didn't like to feel too comfortable and I think I might take that to heart except when I'm gardening. 

And I hope Martha will be pleased with the three quid Mini-Boden dress I found in Ballymena's latest charity shop. It's from several seasons ago but that means vintage and Martha likes a bit of vintage.

The personal motto for the rest of my life is - just because you're fat doesn't mean that you can't have Nice Things. 

Martha's dress and my pre-loved cardigan and a Brand New Book because no shopping spree is complete without one.

Garden Show Ireland 2018

Much to my surprise and delight, we've just had several consecutive days of sunny weather. In fact, on one of those days, I actually had to remove my fleece. For me, warm dry weather means gardening, lots of gardening for I really am a fairweather horticulturist. The first of the pleasant days I spent on an outing to Garden Show Ireland at the beautiful Castle Grounds in Antrim. My pockets were stuffed with my new pension entitlement so I was able to spend freely. There is nothing I like better than access to plants with funds to spare. What I did not take into account was plants in pots are heavy and I had travelled by train. Sure the journey from show to the station was less than 15 minutes but fifteen minutes is a long time to carry two heavy bags of hard to find perennials.

That was on Friday and my arms and shoulders are still aching. Next year I'll take a wheeled trolley.

Two of the stall holders at the show. Our friends, Frank and Linda McCooke from Slemish Market Garden. They were selling vegetable transplants and herbs and were doing a roaring trade. While I was visiting their stand it was announced that they'd taken the silver medal in the Grower's section. And very well-deserved too. The McCookes must be the hardest working family in the Ballymena area. Yet they've always got time for a chat and a laugh with their customers as my photo shows.

This was my favourite part where all the exciting plants were to be found. I acquired some new geraniums for my collection, a polemonium, a creamy saxifrage, nine exotic lily bulbs and long sought after white oriental poppies.

Rainy May

So far, this Spring the weather has been disappointing. There were two beautiful days at the weekend where I got lots of outdoor gardening accomplished but there is still far too much to do. Most of my homegrown perennials are still sitting in pots beside where they are supposed to go but hey! - look on the bright side (even though there isn't one) all this rain means I don't have to water them.

Even so, I'm off to Garden Show Ireland tomorrow. Last year we went with the Banjos and it was a scorching day but this year I'm going alone and BBC weather informs me that it will be overcast but with no torrential downpours or hailstones expected. Here's hoping.

In spare moments (and there are lots of them) I'm transferring files to a bigger external hard drive. This is one from May 2012 which delighted me. Annoyingly, I cannot find the original copies. Where do digital photographs go?

Postscript: Lost digital photographs are to be found in unsorted files. Hurrah!

Seven Years

 It's been an ordinary day. I woke up far too early, got up, went back to bed with coffee, then fell asleep again and had a crazy dream about being in a crowded, confusing house with far too many disparate people. This is becoming a recurring dream and it all seems so strange. Actually, that used to be my life and sometimes, even in waking hours, it still is.

I forgot that it was Mammy's anniversary.

Instead of remembering I had one of those pleasant, mooching about days. Bert and I went out for breakfast and when we came back we both pottered. I've been admiring the primroses that are naturalising at the edge of the old laneway that backs our yard. Sometimes it is good to just let nature take its course. Matty would have approved.

Bert was wondering what he should do next. It's good when that happens on a pottering day. A day when you don't have to do anything. The birds had other ideas. They started to scold because their feeders were empty. He knew what to do next. Matty would have approved of that too. She always took notice of the birds.

It was London Sister who reminded me of the day that was in it. And I remembered that last year I met the occasion with a great deal of melancholy. Not this year. She'd have approved of that.

Tomorrow we are going to her house to remove the last bits and pieces of furniture before we put it up for sale. I'm not sure what she'd have thought of that. I'm not sure what I think of that either.

Seven years. Where did it go? I think I might have spent it pottering.

Monday Suppers: Spag Bol

I tried something new today. Spaghetti Bolognese. Spaghetti Bolognese! The dish that even students can make and that everyone else has been serving up for over half a century. I have made it before, probably at least 480 times before but today was the first time ever I used a recipe.

And this is the book I used. It's a great favourite of mine although generally I just make desserts.  

This is the recipe. Usually, when I make spag bol I go overboard with the herbs and throw all kinds of vegetables in. That's what happens when you've been making the same dish since you were twenty. Bad ideas become a lifetime habit. This recipe just uses onion, tomatoes, garlic, carrots and celery. Not a bell pepper in sight. And the solitary herb used was oregano. I cooked everything far longer and slower than I normally would and the only variation from Penny Stephens' book was using damson and blackcurrant wine instead of red plonk.

The verdict? It was very tasty. Dave called it a 'triumph', Zoe had a small second serving and Martha and Evie cleared their plates and asked for seconds despite having already eaten spag bol for school lunch. Bert said it was nice but too many carrots. I'm having the leftovers on sourdough toast for tomorrow's breakfast. Hannah said that Thai people would be horrified by what Irish people eat for breakfast. She was referring to something she called 'slop' and I would call 'porridge'. Apparently, Thai people eat supper's savoury leftovers for brekkie and so shall I. Tomorrow anyway.

And these are the grandchildren with Hannah and Mel. They are drawing nicely with every Sharpie, colouring pencil and oil pastel in the house. Last week they had that table upside down in the middle of the yard with my blue silky cushions padding it and a small dog wearing a pink plastic tiara perched on top. I'm afraid I was cross and I regret that. I should have taken a photograph instead.

Another Visit to The Home Place

My two younger sisters and my niece are up visiting from Kerry and Leitrim respectively and yesterday we went to the Seamus Heaney Home Place in Bellaghy. I've had the pleasure of accompanying seven close family members over five visits and can report that there has been an 85% high approval rate.

Kerry Sister runs an AirB&B on the Dingle Peninsula and she said she will be recommending the centre to any of her guests who are planning to visit Up North.

My take is that even if Seamus Heaney is not one of your favourite poets you will still get a feel for the sort of place that made him. It is one of the best places to visit in Ireland.

And, as well as The Home Place being fascinating, moving and so worth it, the people who staff the centre are a delight and the coffee shop serves delicious food. Just go there and see for yourself. I'll be back soon myself and hope to be bringing two more family members with me. Martha and Evie will definitely love it.

I have not been paid for writing this blog post.

Incey Wincey...Aaargh!

My mother was a bit of a hypochondriac, overly concerned with her health and I have always tried not to be but, as a body grows older it gets harder and harder. My hypochondria, such as it is, manifests itself in the middle of the night if, for some reason, I find myself unable to sleep. Or, even worse, I am wakened by some inexplicable discomfort. Like this morning, when I started from sleep because of a sore and itchy left hand. At first I thought I'd slept on my paw, it was stiff and slightly swollen and worst of all itchy beyond belief. I scratched and scratched which only brought a moment's relief. Anxiety kicked in. It must be an allergic reaction. What did I do? What did I eat? I scratched some more then remembered I had some antihistamines left over. Anything to relieve this damnable itching.

Within half an hour the itching had eased but my hand was still stiff and sore. Still, I managed to fall asleep and did not wake again until nearly ten o'clock. My hand was still swollen but the itch was gone. I felt down, firstly because I had slept too late and secondly because my body was a wreck and I was going to end up allergic to everything. What had I ate? There was the blackcurrant wine but I'd had it a few nights ago and no reaction.  Oh yes, pine nuts. I'd added pine nuts to a rather bland salad and as the packet was still sitting out I'd had a few more spoonfuls after supper. I'm trying to ease off on sugar (afraid of diabetes) and when I do that I always turn to nuts. No more pine nuts, no more pesto. God, this was getting depressing. I might even be allergic to dairy or wine and where was it going to end? Living out the rest of my days eating a dreary diet of milkless porridge, green vegetables and whatever first class protein my stupid immune system permitted me.

I plodded on with my day. Sowed some seeds to cheer myself up. Peter called in. I was recounting the story of being woken up, hand on fire, batting of my husband's puerile jokes about the duvet in flames when Bert said,

Probably something just bit you.

And then I remembered, the last time my hand felt like that was about ten years ago when a spider I was rescuing from a sink bit me on the finger. Knowing what it probably was made me feel a lot better because I can still eat pesto and drink blackberry wine. Unfortunately for the spider clan I might be less careful when cleaning and vacuuming for I'm always watching out that I don't hurt my eight-legged friends. But from now on I'm going to look the other way and hoover the fuck out of them. Imagine it, a decent wee woman sleeping away and Incey-Wincey lowering himself on to her pillow and the good wee person accidentally brushes him with the back of her hand and next thing allergic reaction. And if that doesn't deserve a good run of Hettying  I don't know what would.

Actually, I probably will still be nice to spiders. Getting bit once every ten years isn't too awful. And I can still drink blackberry wine.

Argument

I had an argument with Clint this afternoon and I didn't even know it was an argument until he stormed off in a state of high dudgeon. My conclusion was that this meant the argument had been won by me.

The conversation started, as it so often does, on farming.

Bert drew my attention to a compliment that Clint had received from another farmer on his success with calf-rearing. I too, was complimentary.

We then went on to discuss Bert's imminent retirement from the cattle trade. Clint posited that Bert's experience in livestock was 'a disaster'. I took exception to that as he had managed to keep all cattle alive that were meant to be kept alive so it was hardly disastrous. Clint countered with Bert's failure to get cows in calf. I suggested that this was a disappointment rather than a disaster. Anyway, there was a little more in this vein and then the talk turned to the weather.

Everyone was in agreement that the weather was a real disaster. Clint said that the last good day we had was the Twelfth of July and I said that there had been the odd good day here and there but he insisted that Orangeman's Day was the last decent day we'd had. I expect he hoped that this might enrage me as I am a Shinner but I let it go. Instead I mentioned that I'd read a report in the Guardian that studies indicated that the Gulf Stream is now at its weakest since around 400AD. "And how would they know that," says Clint. I said, "Science."

Bert interjected by saying it hardly mattered what the weather was going to be like as Trump and Putin are going to blow the world apart. I think I have mentioned before that Bert leans toward a very simplistic and pessimistic world view. That led to a discussion about Trump which is a subject Clint and I usually avoid, him being an admirer as well as a card-carrying Brexiteer.  I said that if Trump's blustery tweets did turn out to be more effective than old-fashioned diplomacy then I for one would not be unhappy. Clint took this as a capitulation, that I had changed my tune on Trump. I took an opportunity never before open to me to ask him why he had supported Trump even before he'd taken office. He trotted out the usual. Breath of fresh air. Successful businessman. I took him to task on that one. He countered with one of the richest men in America, funded his own campaign... I picked him up on this,  for Trump only self-funded to a point... and the next thing Clint's storming off - which is where we came in.

And I've been feeling edgy ever since.