The Gruesome News

In today's Guardian. A leave voter from Crewe.

The 73-year-old former builder and engineer said he had been lied to by the leave campaign. “They didn’t tell us the true facts. They kept us in the dark like mushrooms and fed us bullshit,” he said. “We voted because of immigration and we didn’t realise how poor we would be. It will be terrible but I still want it, because of immigration.”

Also in today's Guardian, from George Monbiot.

The UK is exporting scrap tyres to India where they are used as a particularly polluting and toxic fuel. This, despite an existing market in this country for used tyres which can be pressed into blocks and used in road-building and other projects. This use, though not ideal, is much better than poisoning the citizens of other countries.  I was disgusted when I read this but not shocked. After all, our governments have long turned a blind eye to the illegal burning of tyres in many parts of Northern Ireland during the Twelfth of July celebrations. 

And all this while we are still part of the European Union. I shudder when I think of what will become of this place when the UK marches to the beat of its own drum. It's looking like a really nasty future.

That old racist from Crewe won't have to suffer it too long though. I wonder if he has grandchildren?

Now I've really depressed myself. Perhaps this picture will cheer me up.

Hurry Pooter

We had our pesky darlings for a sleepover on Friday. As ever, I was bowled over by their self-assurance. Martha just goes and picks up Bert's clarinet which he can be quite precious about. But, no worries. He just says.

Let me change the reed for you first.

And off she goes, playing away, proper tunes. Next night he says to me,

Let's get some new pads for my old clarinet, get it fixed up. Then Martha and I can play together.  

At bedtime, I read a chapter from their current favourite. Before we had a discussion about what Ginny is short for. I said Ginevra, Martha said Ginerva (rhymes with Minerva) and I said I wasn't too sure about that. I'm notorious for not getting the names right. Started with Hermione. I was stressing the 'o.n,e' instead of the 'm,i'. Both girls laughed at me. Then I said Beasley instead of Weasley. Corrected again. I took it in good part, said,

Sure, everyone knows I cannot pronounce anything right in those old Hurry Pooter books.

They got the joke.

By the way, I did get it right about Ginevra.

A Foggy Night

I set the alarm last night for 5:15am as I wanted to see the Super Blood Wolf Moon. The name alone was fantastic. I said to Bert,

No doubt, as per usual, there will be clouds and we'll see nothing. If it's good do you want me to wake you?

He said,

Only if it's amazing.

I went to bed, read from three books,

A Monster Calls, Patrick Ness
Who We are, Dee Roslyn
Human Traces, Sebastian Faulks...

Then turned out the light and tried to sleep which wasn't easy as my feet were FREEZING.

Jess wakened me sometime around three or four, whining, wanting to go downstairs. I looked out the window and saw it was misty outside. It turned out the dog was thirsty and as she lapped from her bowl I went outside. Despite the fog, the moon was visible and was mostly eclipsed.  Perhaps two-thirds. I returned to bed and slept almost immediately. Two hours later the alarm went off. Totality! I hurried downstairs. The fog had thickened and there was no moon to be seen. Back to bed with a cup of coffee and some more A Monster Calls then back to sleep until nine o'clock.

When I eventually got up I wondered if seeing the partially eclipsed moon had just been a lovely dream.

Blue

These days I rarely feel blue but I'm sure feeling blue tonight. Sadness and worries pervade the air around me. I went to a church service this evening, part of a funeral. Usually, I'm pleased to meet cousins that I only meet on such occasions but tonight it was just complete and total sadness.

There are other things going on that are worrying, and not just Brexit and the USA, things closer to home. I wish it was spring, I wish I could be hopeful again.

Not Simpatico

My youngest daughter started a new job last week and somehow this got me thinking back to the days when I worked in a homeless hostel. Remembering how I used to feel about that position got me wondering if I was actually the right person for the job. It's true that a significant number of the client group were not at all simpatico. And they are the ones I remember the best.

And after giving some thought to such matters these past few days it was quite the coincidence that I bumped into one of my colleagues from that workplace. I saw her coming up the street and thought I recognised her. It's been years. She exclaimed,

Margaret!

And I answered,

Joan!

Neither of these names was correct but it had been a quite a while. And, for the purpose of this post, Joan will do.

We fell to reminiscence at once. Then went for coffee. The craic was, as they say, mighty. Joan told of her very first day on the job when I was the other person on duty. One of our more troubled and troublesome girls was threatening to jump off Harryville Bridge. She remembered me saying,

It would be great if she did.

She thought me very hard-hearted and pitied the wee attention-seeking girl very much.

I said to her,

But you came round to my way of thinking?

I don't know if Joan ever did. She's a far better woman than me.

Changing Rooms

See that doorway? That doorway is closed off now. It will be plastered over as if it had never been and the plan is some new kitchen units, maybe a new cooker will stand where it used to be. Closing off the doorway is the first step of the project. Bert took a picture of Ben, Hannah and myself standing there to commemorate it. 

Lordy, I look like a real wee grandma in that picture. Bert said I'm like a Dorset Horn ewe looking out of a hedge. He really does pay such delightful compliments.

So, how are we going to get out of the room with no door? No problem. He opened up another door. Our kitchen was originally two rooms so there were two doors opening into the hallway. But it was a shame that we had to lose the doorway bookcase.

I thought it would be weird getting used to the new layout but it's not. The dogs are a little puzzled by it all, especially Ziggy. The cats are unperturbed. They act like it's always been this way. I expect Martha and Evie will be a little bit sad that they won't have the roller-skating scope they were accustomed to.

And I'll have to get my thinking cap on and decide what sort of new kitchen I want. I'm almost looking forward to it.

Bill and Ben

Ben and Bert in Sligo 

Bert and I have known Ben all his life, all nineteen and a half years of it. He has been coming to our house since babyhood, sometimes with his family, sometimes just him. We always enjoy having him around. I'd thought a few years back that by now we'd be seeing less of him, that he'd have other places to go and other people to see but it seems that he still likes to hang out with the old codgers now and then. He's here now. The firm he is/was apprenticed to has gone into administration and Ben's at a loose end so he asked if we'd mind if he came over for a few days?

But we never, ever mind.

Tonight is Gypsy Jazz night so Ben and I left the musicians to it and went to my private, secret sitting room to Netflix and chill. We watched Bill Hicks perform his Just A Ride show in London. Ben hadn't come across Bill Hicks before and he was impressed. It struck me that although the cultural references were dated, the ideas that Bill put across were as relevant today, maybe even more so, than they were 25 years ago.

After my big success introducing Ben to Bill, I tried him on a couple of my favourite Woodstock clips. Joe Cocker, he knows Joe's early work, Santana, he thought they all look completely stoned and Country Joe and the Fish - good song. It was that song.

Gypsy Jazz over and done with I hunted him back to Bert because, y'know. The blog.

I Will

It's a friend's daughter's birthday today. She is eight and it doesn't seem that long ago since she was new to the world. It got me thinking about children and their birthdays. Compared to my own childhood, today's youngsters (most of them) have super birthday celebrations. Not for them our egg sandwiches, simple sponge cakes and the chance to run riot with our cousins.

One of Miss Martha's first birthday parties was at a community hall in a nearby village and I was tasked with delivering her and she was so excited, clutching her present and wearing the Elsa dress her mummy made for her.  When we went into the hall she was quickly surrounded by a group of her friends, most of whom were also dressed in Elsa costumes.

Evie was along for the ride and she must have been about three years old. Her little face said it all. She was stoic but I knew she was feeling it. Her big sister was off to a party and she was not.

As we drove back home I said to her,

You know Evie, when you go to big school you are going to meet a lot of new friends. They will be your friends, not Martha's. And there will be birthday parties and you'll go to them. Just you. Not Martha.

And she said, very firmly,

I will.

And that is just what happened.

July 2014, almost 5 and 3

We Go To Belfast

Jazzer and I went to Belfast yesterday for a bit of a day out. First of all, we went to Matchetts to purchase a few clarinet supplies for Bert. But we went into the wrong Matchetts. We entered the shop that sold guitars, keyboards and drumkits and where the assistants had long greasy hair, jeans that were falling off their bums and an air of debauchery. I expect they all play in thrash metal bands. They sent us to the right shop. This one sold all the other instruments. Here the assistants had neat short hair, a slightly patronising air and I'd say they probably played with the Ulster Orchestra. They didn't have the actual thing that Bert wanted most - a new mouthpiece for his clarinet. Nor did they have the pads he needed. All I was able to buy from them were a few packets of reeds and a stick of grease. No wonder Amazon is taking over the world.

There were further disappointments in store. I'd never been to a Frankie and Benny's before and I intend never to darken their door again. I ordered spaghetti and meatballs and it was dire. Couldn't finish it, flavourless and could barely cut the meatballs in half they were so tough. I think the chef must have bound the meat together with a good-sized pinch of Blue Circle cement. I was even more convinced of that this morning at my ablutions. The last time I offloaded one like that I'd drank about a quarter bottle of kaolin and morphine.

We had a bit of a wander around the streets adjacent to Royal Avenue and came upon a live Nativity Scene featuring two shepherds, two donkeys, a goat called Tinsel and a pregnant Suffolk ewe called Holly. All the animals seemed very content in clean, comfortable stalls and were eating their heads off. Oh! Forgot to mention - there was a plastic Baby Jesus but no sign of Joseph and Mary. They'd probably slipped over to Kelly's Cellars for a pint. I'd say that meeting Holly the sheep was one of the highlights of my day. That and the sale at Seasalt Cornwall.

A Look Back At December

The brothers in St Comgall's graveyard, Antrim town. The youngest one (in blue) had been cleaning the parents grave so it would be nice for the New Year. That picture was taken on 29/12/18.

Vancouver Brother and I didn't do any of the work. The job was done by the time we arrived. So we took YB for a coffee at Tannaghmore Filling Station...

Eamon, Eamon and Joe

...on London Sister's orders. We picked up one of the neighbours on the way.

Eamon, Eamon and Joe when they were cubs.

Christmas Eve

It's seven o'clock and I've had four hours sleep. Awakened by Roy barking to be let out. I'm not pleased. I look outside, then I go outside to look at the sky. Sun's not up, the moon is waning gibbous but so bright. There is a passenger jet blinking past and Venus is dazzling in the east. I think it's Venus. I decide to have coffee and keep and blog Christmas Eve even though I've already got plenty to do. Who hasn't?

Who hasn't? Well - Bertram for a start but he'll find something useful to be getting on with as the day progresses. Just like yesterday when he took over my kitchen to melt beeswax, something I think could have been postponed until the festivities are done.

Blog excerpt from ten years ago.

And on the home front, Bert has embarked on his traditional Christmas preparations. This always involves a large, messy and thoroughly non-urgent task that he has been putting off for at least three years. I think it was last year he decided to demolish the turf shed and this year he’s building (from scratch) a sliding door between the scullery and the hall. The house is knee deep in sawdust and I’m terrified the kitten is going to decapitate itself on Bert’s Makita.

Two minutes past eight. The eastern sky is brightening and I'm off back to bed with another coffee. I won't stay long.

Just long enough to read another few pages of Fire and Fury. I've got to the bit where Bannon's still in the West Wing but teetering.

By nine o'clock I had the Heavenly Chocolate Pudding on the hob. It's Evie's favourite. Bert is still in bed but awake. I asked him, ever so nicely, not to embark upon any project that encroaches upon the domestic sphere. He promised he wouldn't. Actually, he said he might stay in bed all day. Surely in jest?

Twenty-five past ten. I'm tired. Hens fed and watered and a Christmas gift from one of the red girls. A big brown egg. They've all been off the lay for weeks except for the white one and she lays out. Her current nest is underneath the palm tree which is very inconvenient as collection entails having to kneel in the earth and stretch in to lift them.

Eleven forty-five. Managed to get Bert (he did get up) and Vancouver Brother out of the house for an hour or two and am eating a favourite breakfast of toast, strong cheese and my own chilli jam. I have produced a giant bowl of breadcrumbs for the turkey stuffing. I still haven't laid eyes on the bird.

A quarter to two and the boys are back after breakfasting at Grafters. I've had a shower, read a bit of my book, took some photographs with my new (to me) camera, cleaned out the fire and peeled a dozen onions. I am at present drinking a cup of peppermint tea and feel very tired.

Much more practice needed with this camera

Three hours later. Nearly 5 o'clock and I have a new lease of life. Trifle started - the fruity, cakey alcoholic bit and with the help of Vancouver Brother vegetables and meat prepped for tonight's supper. Melanie has just arrived bearing gifts. I got two geranium Rozanne. Apparently I said on this very blog that I wanted those. Who needs letters to Father Christmas? I just tell the blog and I get everything I want. Martha, Evie and their parents will be here any moment. Aha! That's them now. It will be a few hours before I return to blogging.

A quarter past seven. Listening to Dixieflyer (our brother-in-law) on Mad Wasp Radio. We've eaten, exchanged presents and said goodnight to two extremely excited young women. Supper was good, sausages, mash, veggies followed by my choc pud, Bert's ganache and vanilla ice cream. Banjo Man has been and gone and I'm not the slightest bit tired.

Great-Uncle Eamon and the noisiest girls in the world.

Nearly half-eight. I've had a glass of wine, courtesy of The Bun, and a little doze so now it's time to load the dishwasher and make the turkey stuffing. Bert has offered to chop onions and grate carrots. The turkey has been weighed. It's a big one and will need the most of five hours in the oven .

Half-past nine. Eamon and I finished making the stuffing, Bert cleaned up and we completed another stage of the sherry trifle. The men are cooking the ham and no doubt they'll eat a whack of it after I go to bed. But that's OK. They're good fellows, they deserve it.

Wishing everyone who visits the Garden a peaceful Christmas.

And hit publish.

Christmas Calling

It is nearly seven days since I updated the blog. Blame Christmas.

Monstera Deliciosa (Tales From A Room)

I look back at this picture taken Christmas 1976 ( I was 23) and it brings back so many memories. That dress. Floral, bought from the Go Gay Boutique (yes, really!) in Lower Mill Street, Ballymena. It was floor length, fashionable then and showed a lot of cleavage which I was shy about hence the long fringed shawl. Silly to be shy, for I had a most magnificent bust. But unlike maxi-dresses and fringed shawls,  bosoms were not so fashionable back in the mid-seventies.

Who was the guy in the background? Somebody sleazy, masquerading as respectable. He sired a child back then that he ignores to this day. Shame on him. Nothing to do with me.

I remember that night so well because I was to meet a boy at that party. Someone I'd been seeing for a while, someone I thought I was in love with. Heck, I was in love with him in the way people are before they know what love is. He jilted me that night. Went off with someone else and broke my heart. I knew I'd been stood up when that picture was taken and I was pretending not to care.

The plant was a Swiss Cheese Plant, a Christmas gift from my friend Rosie. I had it for years.

Forty years later and a favourite haunt of mine is the Palm House in the Botanic Gardens in Belfast. There the Monstera Deliciosa plants are enormous. That picture only shows a few of the leaves at the base of the plant. That baby is more than ten foot tall. So I'm yearning to have one for myself. On my most recent visit to Ikea, I said to Zoe,

Should I?

And she says,

You should.

So I did.

Call back in several years when it's ten foot tall.

A Spoilt Walk

I took the dogs for a lunchtime walk by the river path from Cullybackey. Sadly, our walk was curtailed because of the danger from falling trees and branches. It wasn't even windy today.

No doubt, the signs are put up so that the council isn't liable should someone be killed or injured by falling timber. Or maybe (my suspicious mind) it's that damn hotel trying to do another land grab

Back in 2006, the wire fence that the hotel put up was ripped down and when the fence was replaced with those metal barriers that are placed around building sites someone (not me) used bolt cutters to dismantle them and then threw them in the river. Total renegades live around here and they will not have their walks curtailed.

Another annoyance, actually more upsetting than annoying was that our walk coincided with a pig delivery to the local abattoir. Their poor, pathetic squeals carrying over the fields would make any meat eater feel horribly guilty. 

The final blight on my walk was the number of discarded dog poo bags. I can never understand this. Why pick up dog faeces in a plastic bag then hang in on a branch, or fence or throw it on the ground? Most of the bags (I counted at least a dozen) were within five minutes walk of a bin.

Do they pick up the dogshit only if someone can see them? And toss it as soon as no one is looking? No matter why people do it, they are dirty savages festooning the pathway with their little black bags of filth. 

. 

Tenterhooks

I've been on tenterhooks all day. Even though I don't actually know what tenterhooks are although I intend to find out before this blog post is published. One could even say that I have been 'on eggs' which means nervy, slightly anxious, worried about sudden a move or commotion that might damage one's eggs. What has me on tenterhooks, on eggs? Three things, in order of importance from not to a lot.

First thing - will I get the dress I'm intending to bid for on eBay? I love shopping for clothes on eBay. I relish the thrill as the final seven seconds ticks by. My bid goes in at eight seconds to the finish which is far more fun than Auction Sniper. Of course, I don't always succeed but it's all part of the game.  And I got the dress.

Second thing - will Theresa May survive the confidence vote? It's not that I like her or anything but the wannabes waiting in the wings are mostly a crew of despicable blackguards and a leadership race at this time of crisis is the last thing needed. I still hope that Brexit will not happen although that seems unlikely now. If it does happen my next hope is that Ireland will be whole again and that Scotland declares independence. May survived it.

The third and most important thing - a friend got some really good news today after a worrying health scare. Relief reigns. Thank you.

See the dog in the middle? That's Judy. She's a floozy. I'm not sure what exactly a floozy is or even if a mongrel bitch can be one but I intend to find out before this blog post is published.

See the fellow that all the dogs are sitting and lying on. That's Peter. He loves Judy and Judy loves him. At least she did until another visitor arrived then off she went to schmooze with Trev. Peter was sad. Trev's beard isn't anything like as long or as red as Peter's beard. And we all thought that dogs are supposed to be loyal. Not Judy.

tenterhook

/ˈtɛntəhʊk/

noun

HISTORICAL

plural noun: tenterhooks

1. a hook used to fasten cloth on a drying frame or tenter (see tenter¹).

floozy

/ˈfluːzi/

noun

INFORMAL

1. a girl or a woman who has many casual sexual partners.

Oh dear. The floozy definition is rather judgmental. And Judy definitely doesn't have casual sex with our friends - unless intense sniffing of beards is some sort of foreplay.

Ink On Her Hands

Some Thursdays Miss Evie alights from the school bus in something of a rage. Yesterday was one of these days. I understand this for the trials of Year 3 must be difficult for a young person. She was crying frustrated tears, I went to take her little paw but she pulled it away. Why? She had ink on her hands. And she had - the sort of thick and sticky ink contained in cheap ballpoint pens.

So we had to go to the bus station toilets. There were quite a few people waiting on the seats for it was a cold and windy day. I looked meaningfully at a young man with a holdall on the seat beside him. He removed it and I sat down because I knew it might be a long time before Evie and Martha would emerge. There was some light conversation with the other people waiting while behind the toilet door I could hear Evie’s frustrated sobs and Martha attempting to soothe her. Then the outside door opened and a tall young man burst in shouting.

You have to help me! You have to help me!

We all looked at him with interest. I don’t know what the other people thought but my guess was a medical emergency and that the bus station staff would take care of it. First aid, ambulances, that sort of thing. Probably happens all the time at bus stations.

He went on,

My girlfriend was on the train but she couldn’t open the door! And now she’s gone and she’s a foreigner and she won’t know what to do!

The person behind the desk explained to the young man that she couldn’t do anything as it was a matter for the railway staff and he’d have to ask them to help. But the next stop was Cullybackey and his friend could always get off there.

The young man was sobbing and distraught. He left the waiting room and another young fellow got up to see if he could help him which I thought very kind of him. But he was back in soon after as there was nothing to be done.

Meanwhile, Martha opens the door and says,

Granny, we need your help.

I went in. Evie still had ink on her hands and it wasn’t shifting. I told her not to worry as I had special stuff at home that would take it off and that mollified her. We left the waiting area.

The young man who had lost his girlfriend was outside, still distraught. It occurred to me that I was going to Cullybackey and that, teens of years ago, I’d have involved myself in his drama and ended up regretting it. But I didn’t because, for all I know, his girlfriend (if she even was his girlfriend) might have looked out to the platform, saw him, and thought to herself,

I’m not too sure about this one. I’m not getting off this train!

And we had our own drama to contend with. The ink on Evie’s hands.

When we got home I mixed sugar and cooking oil into a paste and Evie rubbed it into her hands and most of the ink disappeared. I told her the rest would wear off and that the sugar and oil paste was a special trick I learned from her Great-Grandmother Martha. She was OK after that.

Today's Question

These past few days I've been racking and bottling wines. Much easier in the winter months when there are no fruit flies. Recent batches are an improvement on some that have gone before in that they're dry. And strong. I do dislike sweet wines. Today was bright and sunny and I loved the way the sun caught this blackberry and raspberry and made it glow. Obviously, going by the lovely red colour, a lot more rasp than black.

The bright day tempted me out to the tunnel where I chopped down the remains of the sunflowers (saving seed) and cleared one of the vegetable beds. The bed was covered in cardboard to keep down weeds and on top of that will go a barrow load of well-rotted manure.

I went to inspect the midden for a choice bit of well-rotted dung for the veggies and peach trees. It was easy to spot the good stuff as Zoe had got there before me. Following Zoe is mainly how I grow my fruit and vegetables. Returning indoors I noticed how gorgeous the sky was in its colours of carmine and dove grey. Bert was sitting smoking by his fire and in deep thought. He had been looking at the sky too and had a question for me.

What if the sun was to go down on the other side of the sky? D'ye think anyone would notice?

My answer?

I think the vast majority of people would notice. As long as humans have existed the sun has set in the west. We might not always be paying attention but we'd figure out something wasn't right.

Isn't he lucky to have me to answer his questions?

Mrs Google Woman

Bert must think that I am a veritable Fount of Knowledge because he is always asking me questions and expectant of a full and correct answer. I should try and remember some of the best ones.

Today’s questions included,

Which President came after Bush senior?

Too easy. You should know that Bert. It was Clinton.

I thought it was. Just checking.

Other people fact-check on Google. Bert fact-checks on me. But I don’t always know the answer. For instance,

Who won the fight last night?

What? What fight?

Fury and Wilder.

How should I know? Go check it on your Smart TV.

Bert’s television is smart, his phone is dumb.

He has his friends at it too. Rod was round the other night and we were watching vintage pop on Bert’s Smart TV. Rod asks,

Where is Clodagh Rodgers from?

Newry? Wait a mo’ - I’ll check Google.

Turned out it was Warrenpoint. I’m not infallible.

Clodagh Rodgers. God, she was deadly. Amazing legs but couldn’t dance for toffee.

Visiting Dippy

I had me a day out in Belfast yesterday, my first in four months. I made the usual rounds of the Botanic Gardens and Ulster Museum. The museum was thronged with pre and primary schoolies and their courageous minders known to the rest of us as 'teachers'. The noise was deafening. The draw was the big lad in the photo, Dippy the Diplodocus dinosaur skeleton on loan from the Natural History Museum in London. 

After that and a dip into the vintage shop on Botanic Avenue (I bought a yellow Rupert scarf), I walked to the city centre and had a dander through the continental market which was thronged and a complete rip-off.  Then off to Next to buy pyjamas for Master James. Whilst examining the racks I heard a familiar voice address me. Banjo Man in his painter whites there to measure up a job. We looked at each other awkwardly and decided not to hug. We always hug. But not while I'm shopping and he's working and he's got a mate with him. Like I said, awkward. 

My next stop was Cath Kidston for Miss Emily's nightwear. Yet again I noticed how very pleasant and friendly Belfast sales assistants are. Job done, it was time to shop for me. I went to the new Seasalt store and had a most enjoyable time picking out a few items. I liked almost everything in the shop which is an unusual experience for me. 

The only fly in my ointment was that, yet again, I'd left my phone on the kitchen table and that was where I'd stashed my book token so I had to buy some books with my real money. I'll have to brave the dour salespeople of Ballymena to get that book token spent.

The other difficulty of the left behind phone was that I had to use a public phone box to call home for a lift from the station and of course no one answered and the phone box still took my sixty pence. Sixty pence for a phone call! Outrageous. So I had to spend a fiver on a taxi. We met Bert on the lane and made him reverse. According to Hannah, he'd been on eggs all afternoon waiting for me to phone and the two minutes he popped out for firewood was when I called. My own fault, for forgetting my phone. And my book token.

Later that evening Banjo Man called round. Still in his whites, on his way home from work. I said,

I know why you're here!

And we hugged.

Displacement Activity

This photograph is my most viewed on Flickr. It is also, according to Tineye, my most purloined picture.

Holly De Cat is twelve years old now. We got her just before Christmas 2006, which is why she is called Holly. She still looks like a young cat. The people we got her from asked me, "What will you feed her? She will only eat chicken!" No pandering in this house. She eats what she is given. Doesn't turn her little pink nose up at anything.

Why am I writing about my cat? Because I am at a loss for writing anything after reading my sister's blog entry for today.