Sanitise My Ox

Or... O Miss Anxiety, or Animosity Sex.

That's three birthday anagrams for Vancouver Brother.

Eamon

Ganching blogged Birthday Season this Monday past. I got a bit of a jolt when I read it as I had completely forgotten that Sunday was our late mother's birthday. She would have been 93 years old and I'd always expected that she would achieve ninety years because she seemed so strong - until she wasn't.

Birthdays I Did Remember

Granda Mick. He shared the date with Matty and it still slipped my mind.

Mick

I remembered that it was Mick's late mother's birthday on the 29th. The day after Mick and yet I still didn't make the connection.

Gladys

Ava's birthday was very much on my mind. She would be eight years old on the 30th. I had a card ready and I needed to post it. I went into town to do it as I don't trust our country postboxes.

Ava (photograph by Naoise)

In town, I met a frail lady trying to push a shopping trolley back to the stand. I offered to take it for her as I was going past it anyway. She was pleased and told me that her legs were wearing out and that she would be ninety on her next birthday! I said that's amazing and thought to myself, Matty would be older than that, I wonder what age she'd be now? And still didn't remember it was her birthday.

On the way home I thought about Vancouver Brother's significant birthday and felt a bit cross with myself that I hadn't managed to send a card. Then I forgot to post Ava's card anyway and had to put it in the country postbox.

So that was Sunday - full of birthdays, Mick, Gladys, Ava and Vancouver Brother and never a thought was given to Matty's special day.

The birthdays keep coming. Harriet, Vancouver brother's daughter has her anniversary tomorrow, She's a wee bit older than in the photograph above but still every bit as lovely today as she was then.

And last, but not least - Matty with Jess

Tumbledown

Garden tiger, 23/7/19

On Monday afternoon I tripped and fell. There were a lot of people around but it was Hannah who came to my aid. There was a bamboo cane lying on a garden path and the tip of it caught in my Birkenstock causing me to completely lose my balance and down I went on the rough flagged path. I used my hands to save myself and it was the hands that bore the brunt. An abrasion on the left wrist, another on the right and worst of all a badly torn thumbnail. I was very lucky. But the nail. Afterwards, I thought, if ever I was really injured, in A&E say, with fractures, internal injuries and a torn nail, it would be the nail that would annoy me most.

Poplar Hawk Moth, 22/7/19

Bert spotted me on my hands and knees, among the sidalcea and the geraniums with Hannah attending me and do you know what he thought? He thought I was looking at a moth!

Elephant Hawk Moth 24/7/19

It's true that since Rachael loaned us her moth trap I have been a bit obsessed with lepidopterology, so much so that I arranged a special sleepover for Martha and Evie so they could share the excitement. That was last night. This morning we all gathered round to examine the night's catch.

Martha's specimen box proved to be a great boon for looking at and photographing the elephant hawk moth...

...which, like all the other specimens briefly captured, was returned to the wild and will be flying again tonight.

Gratitudes

This pertains to a conversation I had earlier today about gratitude, giving thanks and fostering positivity. I'm grateful for this conversation, especially on a day like today when the UK has had foisted upon it, a leader who seems far from being fit for purpose.

Gratitude number two is twofold. I'm glad of a friend like Rachael who encourages me to enjoy the natural world, who loaned her moth trap and gave me the chance to look closely at the world of moths. It will be ages before I learn the names of the many varieties of native moths but I know at least five more today than I knew on Friday. That's a start. Checking the moth trap this morning I discovered this one, a poplar hawk moth. I'd seen pictures before but in real life, it's a lovely creature to behold. After the release, the moth found a resting spot on our monkey puzzle and was introduced in turn to Hannah, Richard and Brendan.

Thanks to the magic of digital photography my poplar hawk moth pictures were shared with Facebook friends and the wider online world. That is another gratitude, today's ease of recording images. Beats the olden days when film processing was expensive and took ages and the photographs were far too often a disappointment.

And every day I am glad that Bert is in my life. Today he said he was 95% happy. It must have been the full 100% yesterday.

My last gratitude is still to come. As I was telling Dave this morning I have, for the longest time, on the point of turning out my bedside light and getting ready to fall asleep, given thanks for my own comfortable bed, my own safe home. This comes from years of working in residential care homes and hostels and sleeping over in situations that were all too often unsafe and unpleasant. Now I get to sleep in my own bed almost every single night. What could be finer?

Moth Trap

My friend Rachael, she who encouraged and helped us to start making a proper natural meadow, came over this afternoon. She had a look at the patch, admired the yellow rattle, the eyebright, the yellow and red bartsia. She produced a vintage bill hook, sourced at a car boot sale, and proceeded to slash at tufts of too-rich grass that was threatening to swamp our little meadow patch. The energy! We were advised to collect the seed of oxeye daisy, self-heal, birdsfoot trefoil and red clover all growing nearby to add to the meadow mix. There was some talk of a goat to graze the rich grass but I rather baulked at that. I do not trust goats. It is not so long ago that we tried to help some folk whose goat had escaped on to our road. To this day I don't know if they ever found it again.

Apart from the slashing and consulting, Rachael had something else for us. A moth trap, on loan for a while. We are very excited. We'll set it up tonight and see what happens.

Maybe we'll collect one of these,

Drinker moth sitting on an egg box, collected by Rachael the previous night.

Or one of these,

Burnished brass moth 

What Happened...

...is the title of one of the books I am currently reading. Hillary Rodham Clinton. Moderately interesting. No pictures. Picked up in a charity shop for a quid.

Bert and I went first thing this morning to Whiteabbey Hospital where he was to receive the follow up on the biopsy on the warty lump on the side of his face, I waited outside and finished reading Falling Leaves by Adeline Yen Mah. I forget where and when I sourced it. Probably a charity shop. It was an interesting read if only because it gave a first-hand account of life in China and Hong Kong from 1937 to the 1990s. That has left just thirteen books on my reading pile.

Next, I opened The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. It too is a memoir too, set in America, and also about a dysfunctional family which is really the only kind of real-life family worth reading about. I barely managed a paragraph before Bert returned with the happy news that the warty lump is nothing to worry about. He is to rub cream on it.

Other charity shop finds currently being read are,

The Lake House by Kate Morton. Bit meh.
Emotionally Weird by Kate Atkinson. Barely begun and I'm finding it hard to get into. But it's Kate Atkinson so it will probably be good.
The Little Friend by Donna Tartt. As above.
Human Traces by Sebastian Faulks. This has been on the go since March. Slow-going. But Bert finished it and so must I. This is the point of reading many books at once so that they are not thrown aside unread when a more tantalising read comes along.
Picador Book of Blues & Jazz, edited by James Campbell. I'll probably still be reading this in October even though I promised to give it to the guy who works in the library after I've finished. Which is very much a Coals to Newcastle situation.

Library books on the go are,

Ordinary People, Diana Evans. Early days yet.
How Not To Be A Boy by Robert Webb. This one is very, very good.

Bought from internet booksellers,

Five Children and It by E. Nesbitt. Why not? I enjoyed it as a teenager. I was book deprived as a young child so read a lot of children's literature when I was older.
Pastoral by Andre Alexis because I so loved Fifteen Dogs. Fifteen Dogs broke Bert's heart. He was all sniffy and broken-voiced when he closed it for the final time.

Given to me by Hannah,

Spill Simmer Falter Wither by Sara Baume. Barely begun. Hannah said if you enjoyed Fifteen Dogs you might like this.
The Beautiful and the Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald. First time reading it. Not liking it much. But I will persevere.

So, what else, apart from reading has happened?

Gracie went home to her real family and I missed her.
I visited my Aunt Clare.
My grandson James had his fourth birthday and his little sister Emily has started to walk.
Jazzer and I had a day out in Belfast without going near the actual city centre.
Martha and Evie returned from their Connemara holiday taller and browner.
It rained all week.
And overnight my hair went from looking perfectly OK to looking like a badger's! Must be time to visit Rhonda again.

Miss Gracie

Today was lovely and I spent a good deal of it working in the garden. This, despite a night of interrupted sleep. Miss Gracie, who has been staying with us while her real family holiday in the West of Ireland, did not eat one bite yesterday. Which was worrying. Then she needed up three times during the night. First, at around one am to boke. Then at three am to pee. Then just before five to... eat? She did seem hungry. So I cooked her some chicken and she deigned to eat a morsel or two.

I love Miss Gracie. She is the oldest dog in our immediate family but I'll be happy when her real people come back because I have a feeling she is taking a hand out of me. And I think she'll be glad too to see the wanderers return.

Uncle John

Sitting this morning in a chapel only a few miles from where I live yet I've never been in it before. I got there early. They were bringing the remains from Randalstown to Portglenone for the service then afterwards back to Randalstown for the burial. The chapel was packed, standing room only. There were at least six priests on the altar, maybe more. That's a lot. My Uncle John was very well known, a big family, six children, eighteen grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. A dynasty. Through his own efforts and those of his children and grandchildren he was connected to  a lot of GAA clubs, he played for Roger Casement's in Portglenone, met my Aunt Clare at a match at Kickham's in Creggan and after their subsequent marriage and settling in Randalstown he became a well-respected supporter of Tír na nÓg, where many of his grandchildren played. Then there were the Derry clubs he supported for all of his three daughters had crossed the River Bann to marry Derry men and their children played for a rival county. Not that Uncle John cared where they played as long as they played hard and well.

But, oh, he was a good and tolerant man too. He still had a lot of time for those who didn't play football, camogie or hurling. John was supportive and kind to me when life was hard and problematic. He never judged, he always cared. It was for this reason that I asked him to be godfather to my eldest child, who I raised, for the first five years of her life, as a single parent. 

Now, as I've said, John was A GAA man to his core. An Irishman, a Gael, a Catholic. That's who he was. But there was not an iota of bigotry or sectarianism in the man. Reared in an area that was predominantly Protestant and Presbyterian he respected well and was in turn very well thought of by his neighbours. As it turned out I have come to live in a place only a couple of miles from where John's family lived and when I'd tell folk that I was connected to him I could feel myself rising in their estimation.

So, there you go, the end of an era. Another good man departed this earth. He'll not be forgotten. Kindness is never forgotten. Thank you, Uncle John. 

John on the London Eye sitting between two sisters. On his right his wife, Clare and on his left our mother, Martha.

A Sackable Offence

I knew this woman once who worked in a woman’s hostel. Occasionally asylum seekers, those with children, came to stay in the hostel. There was one young woman in particular that she always remembered. This young woman was a Romanian gipsy and she had a son around one year old. Her name was Andronica.

The other women in the hostel did not take to Andronica at all. They picked on her, they complained against her, they said she was cruel to her little boy. The woman I knew never saw any evidence of this so-called cruelty but, nevertheless, it was reported to Andronica’s social worker and staff were asked to monitor the situation.

Andronica had barely a word of English and this too made life very difficult for her. The woman I knew tried to communicate with her, even bought a Romanian phrasebook but it was hard going. The social worker told the hostel staff that Andronica had extended family in Dublin and that coming to Belfast had been a big mistake on her part.

Weeks passed. Andronica phoned her family in Dublin almost every night. The telephone was just outside the office door and the woman I knew could overhear her desperate phone calls.

One afternoon Andronica’s social worker called. The news was not good. Andronica’s case had been decided and she was to be deported back to Romania in a matter of days. Andronica was not to be informed in case she scarpered. The woman I knew felt really bad about this. Andronica had got herself and her son to Ireland to join her family but because she had flown to Northern Ireland instead of Dublin she was unable to get to them. Later that evening she called her family. The woman came out of the office and asked Andronica if she could speak to the person on the line. She was handed the phone. The woman asked who she was speaking to and was told that it was Andronica’s brother. She told him that his sister and nephew were to be deported. She told him that they should make arrangements to meet her in Dundalk. Then she handed the phone back to Andronica.

When Andronica hung up the woman I knew invited her into the office. She showed Andronica a map of Ireland and indicated where she was staying now and pointed to where she needed to go. To Dundalk. A border town. Halfway to Dublin.

The woman I knew went off duty the next day and was away for several days. On her return to work she was informed that Andronica and her son had left the hostel without informing staff or social services. Some of her fellow residents were able to let staff know that she had called a taxi which had taken her and her little boy to Dundalk.

Bringing in the Hay

Bringing in the hay always used to be a fun time. Old style balers, old style oblong bales, stacked in nines and as many hands as possible to get it on the trailer and back to the shed. Old style balers are not so common these days but Clint has one. The field, the one in front of the country housing estate used to belong to Johnny, Bert's father and Bert said that when he and Johnny went to bring in the hay at least ten or more youngsters from the estate would appear just for the fun of the thing to help and to get a ride on the trailer. Nowadays that field belongs to Clint and the young ones aren't interested in riding on trailers and bringing in the hay. The only helpers Clint could get tonight were over sixty.

Bert knew it was coming up. He warned Clint.

I don't know that I'll be much help to you. My knees are murdering me.

Clint said,

Huh! We'll be some crew. Murray's got a bad heart, I can't get a breath and you can hardly walk.

The call came and it was the loveliest evening. Balmy, a slight breeze, a promise of rain to come. I was tempted to join them. Decades since I helped to bring in hay but I remembered it as being enjoyable.

Bert said,

Are you sure? You might hurt your back...

I decided against it.

Then Banjo Man turned up. Needing to speak to Bert about getting the shed delivered. We drove down to the hay field. I tried a bale. Not too heavy. We gathered a few, Banjo Man and I. He was worried he might break a nail on his picking finger but he didn't. Shed talk over we dismissed him. He had been working hard in Dublin all week while the rest of us (not Clint) were lazing in the sun. I stayed. Murray and I soon realised at 65 and 73 respectively that working together we achieved more than struggling to lift heavy bales on our own.

It was so satisfying and all finished well before nine o'clock. A field of bales gathered and loaded. There was a time when I'd have expected a lot more of a Friday night than an hour or two of hard physical work. But... when a body is 65 or older the pure joy of it is still being able to do it.

Blue Sky Day

A shortie with photies. Nellybert took the dogs for a walk on the beach at the gloriously, beautiful Whitepark Bay and Bert used his backpack, a backpack so sadly missed on our trip to Rathlin Island. In it, he carried a bottle of water, two mandarin oranges and binoculars. And, whilst on the beach, a pair of Converse and some stripey socks.  

Here Bert throws a stick for the dogs. I told him that his stick-throwing is of a standard that is positively Olympian. For husbands with dodgy knees need to have their spirits raised.

No sign of sore knees here although none of this pack are getting any younger.

Results

Early summer is usually a very positive time for me what with longer days, warmer weather,  growing things and observing wildlife. It's not been like that this year for I've been feeling a bit rough, a bit elderly these past weeks. There was a viral infection followed by another viral infection and my chronic Brexititis. Sleep patterns were disrupted and I was feeling well below par. So I sought medical advice and today I had my final results.

The good stuff. I am not pre-diabetic, my thyroid activity is normal and my blood pressure is excellent. I was measured and have not shrunk. Still exactly the same height as when I was eighteen. 5 foot 2 and a half inches. I always stressed that half an inch.

The not so good stuff. My cholesterol is slightly higher than it should be although I do have lots of good cholesterol. Who knew there was such a thing as good cholesterol? I got weighed and I'm obese. I suspected that anyway. So now when people lie to me, saying

You're not fat.

I shall counter this by saying,

You are wrong for I have it on the best medical authority that I am actually obese. But, hey, who cares! At least I haven't shrunk!

It's one of my favourite things telling people that they are wrong. That, and still being 5 foot 2 and a half inches.

And this.

A Catch Up

Wednesday: On this day I was supposed to keep Hannah company as she travelled a job interview in a far away town. This was cancelled due to her being offered another job in a nearby town. So I went to the Tannaghmore funeral with the young brother. The man whose funeral it was came from a big connection. The priest who conducted the funeral Mass was from the United States, a friend of the family, his people originally from Ireland. Father Pat Universal. That is a name with a ring to it. The service was beautiful, very life-affirming. Nick Cave said recently that atheism is bad for songwriting. I get that. Cave goes on, "It doesn't matter whether God exists or not - we must reach as if he does." That resonates for me. I don't know if God exists, but I want to live as if he does.

Thursday: Roy was poorly so we took him to the local vet in Portglenone. What was wrong with him? He was spooked, edgy, couldn't settle, wanted to be outside all the time, wanted to be given a lot of attention. Not himself. The vet gave him a thorough examination. The only issue was a raised temperature, and him being a big fat boy. The vet thought he might have a high temp because of inflammation in his joints and gave him a shot of something anti-inflammatory. What about his weight? Should we put him on a reducing diet? Oh no. There is no point, he is too old. What about treats? Should he have less treats? Oh no. Give him a couple of treats a day. I love this new vet. The shot worked its usual magic and old Roy is back to normal. Often I think that animal medicine is much better than human medicine. We should all go to the vet.

Friday: I worked in the garden and enjoyed it very much. My energy levels are back to normal. Those blood tests I took? The only thing mildly problematical was my cholesterol levels. I have an appointment to see the practice nurse on Tuesday for blood pressure and advice.

Today: More garden work and I cooked a leg of lamb. A few slices for supper and I shall make curry with the leftovers. And always - checking out the pollinators.

.
 

Leftovers

Today was interesting, at least what passes for interesting in the Nellybert household, for I had Things To Do. The first thing was the purchase of two Mass Cards from Portglenone Abbey for Jazzer and I were going to a wake. The man whose wake it was, God rest his soul, had no need of Masses but it is a nice thing to do for the family and the gratuity given to the monks helps them in their work. Whilst at Portglenone I also bought a rather woody bacopa for £1.99 which I straightaway took cuttings from and, if all goes well, the grace of God and all that, I should finish up with about twenty quids worth of bacopa.

I then received a call from Jazzer who informed me that she had a fourth grandchild safely delivered, a boy, who might be called George, or Luke, or Jude. I hope it is Jude as I am feeling very Catholic today and there are always desperate cases and lost causes to worry about, Brexit never being far from my mind.

This newly arrived boy, George, Luke or Jude might look something like this.

This is a photograph of his mum when she was a baby and the very first picture I ever took of her. She was and still is a character.

Such a busy day yet I had dinner plans. We'd have the leftover and very excellent Fish Pie with extra vegetables. I forgot to inform Bert of this plan as I was busy. Busy as a bee.

Time to go to the wake. I picked Jazzer up and off we set. Wakes in the afternoon can be rather laid back for that is when all the old people go, all doddering around on sticks and so. Not that Jazzer and I are doddery, the timing just so happened to fit with our busy, busy day. Jazzer busy welcoming a new grandchild, me busy taking bacopa cuttings.

There is a notion that strong drink is taken at Irish wakes but that is not usual in the community I come from. Our wakes are famous for tea, sandwiches and traybakes. I was rather looking forward to that as I hadn't had much lunch. But when the nieces came round with the teapots, the good china and the edibles I was chatting to one of the brothers and before I could respond Madam Jazzer had indicated that we would not be taking refreshments as she (and I may have referred to this before) has a horror of eating anything that she has not prepared herself. I could have choked her. I did manage to get a cup of tea, and very delicious it was too, but hadn't the face to tramp into the kitchen demanding egg and onion sandwiches. Still, as I said to Jazzer on the way out,

Sure it will give me a better appetite for the Fish Pie.

She said,

How much do I owe you for the Mass Card?

I said,

A bottle of wine should cover it.

Mrs Banjo Woman delivered home and then the long drive home for me. (I went by Kells.) All the while pondering on which vegetables we should have with the Fish Pie. I was almost decided on frozen petit pois.

Home. At last. And there is Bert setting off for his evening walk up the back lane, four dogs at his heel.

I called,

Shall I heat up the Fish Pie?

Bert isn't that keen on leftovers but I was determined to sell it to him, knowing he'd enjoy it. I had already decided to tempt him with Maris Piper chips if he demurred. I'd not have chips, just the petit pois and the leftover carrots and broccoli slices.

He answered,

I ate it.

Me.

All of it?

Bert.

Aye.

I could have choked him.

But I consoled myself with the thought that I can make another Fish Pie. And after I supped on bread and cheese I ate both of the tiramisus that I'd bought in Lidls on the way home. They were very nice but not as good as the Fish Pie would have been.

The Greedy Bees

It's almost fit to be seen. Just need the pictures up, the cat's footprints on the sills sandpapered and retouched and an oven glove that isn't red. We had our first family meal in the newly decorated kitchen this evening. Fish pie (Mary Berry recipe) with hard-boiled eggs, just like the Chamberlains do it. All agreed that fish pie must always and ever more contain hard-boiled eggs. Dessert was raspberry and apple crumble with custard. Evie helped Bert make the custard then dished up, a job she enjoyed very much.

Meanwhile, out in the garden, I noticed a big dark splodge on new flowers on my Cephalaria gigantea. Closer inspection showed the splodge to be three bumblebees feeding. Three hours later they were still there partying away drunk on pollen, or nectar or something delicious. I checked the flower out on the RHS site as this is my first year with it and it is an absolute bee and beneficial insect magnet. I am delighted. Also, it self-seeds readily. Prepare your plots, nearby friends and family for this is a plant I intend to share.

Six o'clock

Nine o'clock

It's nearly half past ten now and they are still there. But it's getting too dark for a decent photo so you will just have to take my word for it.

Shed Building

Bert and Ben spent most of the weekend building a garden shed for Jazzer. They make a good team. Meanwhile, Marty finished painting the kitchen while Jazzer and I went to the garden centre. I was too weary to do anything else. I look at other people and wonder where they get the energy from, for mine is seriously depleted.

They just fitted it together to see if the roof and it will be dismantled and transported to its new home by lorry. Jazzer is very excited and is already choosing curtain material. Curtains? I don't even have curtains in my new kitchen.

New kitchen photographs? When I can get it shipshape. Then there will be photographs.

Oh To Be A Bumble Bee

I spoke to my GP this morning. She is a brisk lady and I like her yet if I meet her outside the doctor/patient sphere I generally pretend not to have seen her. Reasons to talk to GP?

Feeling tired most of the time.

Virus infection that has lasted more than three weeks.

Have no clue what my BP, cholesterol levels are or whether or not I'm pre-diabetic.

Recent reduction of sugar and alcohol. Yes, doctor, I was stress eating and drinking too much and when I stopped I felt great for about two days, then slumped into lethargy.

Panic attacks. Mild enough but horrible too. The last one was Saturday when Swisser was going on (and on) about all the health issues she has and that I might have too.

So the GP asked me to call to the surgery for bloods. I did and got a slightly dour nurse. She laid out four little collection tubes and I thought I was going to be injected four times. Seems like I' m thick as well as sick. She said,

Just a wee scratch.

I said,

God! You're good at that!

She was dour no more. And she was good at it.

Swisser says that sugar is good and doesn't make anyone fat. I said,

I prefer my opinion to yours.*

She's not even a nuclear physicist. Merely a professor working in the food science field,

Yet were I a tired and lethargic bumble bee, sugar would be just the thing to cure my ills.

When I came in from the garden yesterday this one was clinging to my sweater and hardly fit to move. A few drops of sugary water and its energies were restored. If only that would work for me.

*Chernobyl, Sky Atlantic. Very good.

Family

The trip to deepest, darkest Norfolk went well. My daughter's house is currently a building site as they are having an extension built. What could be more pleasurable for an almost four-year-old boy?

As for Emily, she is standing but not yet walking. Crawls like an Olympian and calls everyone Dad.

Their parents are kept very busy and barely get a minute to themselves. For ten years it was just the two of them, then two babes in three years. Still, judging by these pictures I think Mum and Dad are quite delighted with their curly-haired rascals.

All Being Well

All being well, this time tomorrow I will be in deepest, darkest Norfolk where I am intending to spend a few days with Katy and family. It is unlikely that I will be blogging much while I am there as it would be difficult to compose witty posts whilst spending time with small, delightful and unruly children. I'm looking forward to it.

Since Bert's birthday I have been on a sugar detox as on the night after his birthday tea I thought I might die from a poisoning. Sugar is a poison y'know, especially when consumed in industrial quantities. This detox also includes alcohol as it too is very sugary. I do feel a lot better for it. I may eat a biscuit or drink a small glass of wine whilst in England but intend to be moderate.

I spent a good deal of time today working in the polytunnel. Mostly dealing with seedlings and young plants that Bert might neglect. As usual, I have grown far more plants and flowers than I have room for.

Tonight, Zoe and I are going to see The Unthanks at Seamus Heaney Homeplace. All being well.

Boxy Daisy Titters

Big birthday for Bert today. As is traditional, the birthday cake was served on the Monday closest to the special day, so yesterday. Zoe took the photograph. I have one almost exactly the same but this one is better.

I gave Bert a backpack as a present after the whingeing he did on Rathlin about being the only man on the island without one. He kept saying to people afterwards,

Every man, woman and child had a backpack and there's me, in every single photograph, carrying a shopping bag.

Here's what I think. (1) It was a very nice shopping bag and (2) he was lucky anyone wanted to take his picture.

Bert and his shopping bag wandering the leafy lanes of Rathlin Island

Then on Friday, I took Bert to the Seamus Heaney HomePlace to see Mikel Murfi's The Man in the Woman's Shoes. More than one member of the family had recommended that we see it at our earliest opportunity. And I will not be falling out with any of them for it was heartwarming and brilliant. Mikel Murfi was playing the companion piece, I Hear You And Rejoice, on the following night and I was sorry I wasn't going to see that too. Zoe did and she enjoyed it but said there wasn't the same hilarity in it.

So, it was a busy few days, not helped by the fact that I am still laid low with the summer cold. The kitchen got painted on Saturday, finished on Sunday. Window frames and skirtings still to be completed. It is all looking very fine.

Well, it was a Saturday night. A few beers won't do much harm.

Bert's best birthday present today? It would be hard to decide between Dawn and Les' hamper of fine cheeses and port or the return of Hannah Banana from her travels in Europe. Tough one. Ziggy would definitely say, Hannah! But maybe a small morsel of cheese too. Sorry, Ziggy. Far too good for dogs.

Roamer

No blogs posts for two days in a month when I'd promised myself a daily post. So what did I do instead?

A lot of coughing, especially during the night when I'd wake myself up. Then, to make up for that, a lot of napping during the day. I had a low-level summer cold exacerbated by hayfever and it had settled in my chest. Inconvenient and exhausting, not at all life-threatening.

Yesterday there was a little drama. After a night interrupted by coughing I was awakened by a cacophony of barking at around six. Grumpily got up (Bert never hears it) and let all four dogs out, left the door open and went back to bed where I managed to sleep for another hour until wakened again by some really unnecessary barking from Ziggy and Jess, both of whom were perched on my bed woofing away. They got a harsh telling off from me and I dropped off again. At nine Bert got up and informed me that four dogs were now five. Milling around with our own pooches was a very handsome and friendly black labrador.

No collar, full set of balls, great condition, lovely temperament. Highly unlikely that this was an abandoned dog. But where had he come from? I checked social media and no-one had reported a missing lab. We took him to the vet to check if he was chipped. He wasn't. I thought this was compulsory? Maybe it's not. The vet was really helpful, knew all the right people to call. They actually went through their own records and called all the male lab owners. We tried out names on our foundling. Are you Marley? Oscar? Bob? He did not respond. It was the call to the dog warden that did the trick.

On the journey home the council called and the dog's minder was in the yard before we'd got him out of the back of the van. Turns out he wasn't a local dog at all. The man who called for him was local and he'd agreed to look after the lab for a few days while the owner was on a fishing holiday. He'd picked the dog up the night before and he'd escaped his pen soon after. The man and his wife spent hours looking for him and had yet to inform his owner. As friendly and handsome as the black dog was we were still really glad to see him safely off the premises.

Bert said,

So what was his name again?

Romuld.

Rommel?

No! Romuld.

That's not a name.

He's calling him Roamer now.