Gossip

During a conversation with a friend, I mentioned that someone from our townland had suffered a serious financial setback many years ago. She was shocked to hear this and asked how I knew. I replied that I had heard it at home—local gossip.

"I never gossip," she said. "Nor does my family." I took this with a pinch of salt; everyone gossips.

The original person who had shared that information about another's finances was in our house again this morning. He told us that a house on our road had been bought by a lord. According to our friend, this ennobled and putative neighbour wished to be addressed by his proper title at all times.

Bert queried,

"And what would his proper title be? Your Lordship? Lordy?"

I replied,

"No! We'll call him Ballbeg. That's his proper title. But if he's a Scottish lord, we must call him Bawbag."

Crossing the Lagan

I crossed the River Lagan six times today, four times on the train, twice on foot.

The book I brought—because I never travel without one—was Transit by Rachel Cusk. Chosen as much for its weight as its content. I was further along than I had realised and finished it long before the journey’s end. That left me with nothing to do but look at the scenery.

I alighted at Botanic Station as I wanted to peruse the local charity shops. I was looking for an ecru sweater, something loose, to wear over the two forgotten Boden dresses I found in the attic. They had been there long enough to be practically vintage. I did not find a sweater. I bought books instead.

From there, the Asia Supermarket. A wok, some spices. Kimchi for Bert. It was a 35-minute walk via the Ormeau Bridge, or meant to be. Closer to 45 minutes in my case. So many woks, so many spices. I have a wok already, a large one, bought here years ago. It has served me well and will continue to do so. The new one is smaller, and useful when cooking for two.

It was disappointing that the cafe at Asia Supermarket was closed. I had been looking forward to a sit-down and something interesting to eat and drink.

My next destination was Lanyon Place Station, via the Ravenhill Road and Albert Bridge. Roughly 25 minutes. I was tired, thirsty and looking forward to some rest and refreshments at the station. And there it was. And all it had was Starbucks. I got an indifferent cappuccino and a truly bad cheese and ham ciabatta thing. Plastic ham and cheese and bread like sawdust. Never again.

Though I will return to Belfast. I will walk across bridges, along the Ravenhill Road. But I will never eat in Starbucks again. The coffee perhaps, in an emergency.

Having finished Transit (so good) I began another book, one I had bought on Botanic Avenue - I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O'Farrell. I have read it before, but a long time ago. It's worth another read. 

Valentine's Day

Nellybert doesn’t do Valentine’s Day, Halloween, Easter, or Anniversaries. Sure we barely do Christmas. But that didn’t stop me from teasing Bert about my absent flowers and chocolates when I returned from the town. I even claimed that the pineapple I’d bought was his Valentine's gift. It’s a good choice for it’s sweet and lasts longer than flowers.

If it hadn’t been for Bert’s recent diabetes diagnosis I would have used the occasion to buy wine and chocolates (for us both) but he’s cutting down hard on confectionery and alcohol and so am I. The shop was packed, with lots of solitary males buying flowers, chocolate and even one with an air fryer in his arms. My kind of fellow.

Then they all decided to leave at once. The queues for getting out of the car park were horrendous. If it hadn’t been for three separate drivers, two male, and one female, waving me through at bottlenecks I’d be sitting there still. Today, I observed that the drivers least likely to give way to another motorist were young women. Still, lucky there was an interesting programme on Radio 4 on Snowdrops which helped pass the time for me.

So folks, another time to avoid Tesco – the afternoon of St Valentine’s Day. Trust me on this.

Bog standard snowdrops, of no interest to a galanthophile.

One From 20 Years Ago: Clint Has Left The Room

 

The first person I knew with Internet access at home was Bert’s oldest friend Clint. All we knew of the Internet in those days was that there was a vast amount of information and access to free porn. Oh yes … and chat rooms. So for a while, Clint was the Internet expert. When he first used a search engine he typed the word ‘potato’ and was so excited by the results that he surfed the web for four hours steady. By the end of the week, there wasn’t anyone else in Kells who knew more about spuds than Clint. So this night Bert went over to visit him and to view this new-fangled surfing the web. Clint showed him how to log on to the Internet and look at the huge amount of information on potatoes that was there for the asking. Bert marvelled at all this. Then he asked –

“D’jever luck at the porn Clint?”

“I wudnae waste ma time." 

“What about the chat rooms?”

“D’ye wantae see the chat rooms?”

“Aye. I wudn’t mine seein’ them.”

So with that Clint started tapping away at the keyboard. He found a chat room and logged on. Within a moment Debby was requesting Clint join her in a private room. He, shocked, hit the back button, logged off, switched off the computer and pulled out the plugs at the socket. “That’s enough o’ that nonsense. D’ja want tay?”

A Letter From Nelly

Springhill,

Cullybackey

31^st January, 2025

My Dearest Cousin,

Hoping this letter finds you and yours in good spirits. I am sorry to have left this letter so long, but life got in the way as they say. A great deal has happened since I last dropped you a line, and not all of it was good.

Were I to dwell on global occurrences I might depress us both so much that we should have to take to our beds for the remainder of the winter. Instead, I will concentrate on domestic matters.

We had quite the storm last week, quite unsafe to go out of doors with all the bits of hedges and trees blowing about. Sadly the middle bay of our polytunnel lost its covering and of course, the children’s trampoline rolled away taking the washing line and part of a small tree with it. The trampoline is wrecked but it could have been much worse. Our friend Howie lost his polytunnel, glasshouse, hen house and hens. His hens were not blown away, Foxy took them. Such opportunists, foxes.

Still, we were lucky to keep the electricity. It didn’t even flicker. Others were not so fortunate with thousands of people without power for days.

The next thing was I got another stomach bug. Remember I had one just after Christmas. Throwing up for 12 hours and off my food and feet for another 12. No fun. Folk keep telling me it’s a virus, something going around but funny it always seems to happen when I have been ‘over-indulging’ which is something I tend to do when my friend Cinta is having a sleepover. I’ve decided to eat more sensibly for a while and not to take alcohol at all. So far so good.

Speaking of eating sensibly, Bert has been told he has Type2 diabetes! Swisser could hardly believe it as he has always been slim. On Tuesday had a long day at the hospital having various tests as his blood sugar was extremely high. They were even considering starting him on insulin! Querying he might have Type1! Which would be highly unusual for a man of his years. Instead, he is on another drug and has to do a prick test before and after meals so we are both going to be eating sensibly from now on. The good news is that his blood sugar score has more than halved and the lovely nurses are pleased with him. Bert has been fortunate not to have had much to do with hospitals etc. and cannot get over how lovely everyone is. I told him it’s because he is a lovely patient.

Of course, he is a little bit sad that he can’t have cream and lashings of golden syrup on his porridge anymore. I have told him he can have it as a treat on his birthday.

But poor Cinta! When she was with us at the weekend she said she had five days off work to look forward to and was so happy about it. But that evening her dog Dora (sister to our Jess) collapsed while out on a nighttime walk and had to be carried home. They managed to get a vet’s appointment the next day but the news was very bad. The whole family are heartbroken. They brought her out to bury her here yesterday. She got a lovely spot between the hamamelis and the hebe. It’s strange to think that next January (If we are spared!) and the hamamelis is in full bloom again she will be gone 12 months. The life of a dog is not long.

Which brings Judy to mind. I cannot see her being with us a year hence. Oh! I will be glad to see this month over and done with. Too much anger and sadness and not nearly enough hope.

I shall finish now before I drive you under the bed covers. Perhaps the next time I write there will be some more cheerful news to report

Your loving, hopeful cousin,

Nelly

Dora and Jess in their younger days. Dora at the front

Hamamelis Pallida 

One From Ten Years Ago

 

Burning Books

One of my delights is reading to Martha and Evie; that pleasure is greatly increased when I enjoy the story myself. We are all loving the Winnie the Pooh stories by A.A. Milne. A few weeks ago I was given a pile of books by a friend. Most of them were Charlie and Lola books which were new to me but I knew Martha would be pleased with them. There was also a Winnie the Pooh book which was unfamiliar. Martha picked Charlie and Lola for this afternoon's reading session. It was OK. It might grow on me as I become familiar with the characters. Evie chose the new Winnie the Pooh book. As I opened it I saw that it was  a Disney book written by someone called Tammi J. Santa Croce. The children appeared to enjoy it but not me. It jarred. The prose was inelegant, the tone simplistic, the story trite. Croce had endowed Piglet with a stammer which was entirely ignored by me in the reading. The worst of it was the author's treatment of Tigger. She had him saying things like 'li'l buddy', 'where are ya?' and 'tigger-ific'. The most awful part was when he said, 'Hey, buddy boy! Whatcha doin'?' I was appalled and resolved to get rid of the dreadful book at my first opportunity. It's actually burning on the fire right now.

I don’t care what nonsense you think.

The title is from something I came across on social media. The person who wrote it was tired of listening to misinformed baloney that some folks picked up watching YouTube videos.

For me YouTube is for revisiting musicians I've not listened to in an age or to hear new to me music. It's an amazing resource. But to inform myself on history or current affairs? I don't think so. Because...

'Yeah, well, you know, that's just like, uh, your opinion, man.'

January Blues

 

First of all - a Victoria Sponge update. A recent reader will remember that Bert was making one for the visit of Martha, Evie, their folks and the Antipodean branch of the Haribo family. I illustrated that post with a picture of a Mary Berry Vic Sponge and some of the FB folk thought that was the one that Bert created. Afraid not. We did not take a picture of Bert's VS nor did we tell our guests (except Paul) that Woody had munched a chunk out of the lower layer. It must have been all the eggs and butter that attracted him. Cats do love a bit of dairy. 

As far as I know, none of our guests got cat flu. I was careful only to serve them the parts of the cake that remained uncattered.  The cake was actually delicious, much nicer than the carrot cake I made. Onwards and upwards with the Victoria Sponge, Bertram.

It was after that enjoyable evening that my mood declined. Nothing to look forward to except snow and icy weather and taking down the Christmas Tree that I had grown to love. That tree cheered me every day it was up. When I took it down on Sunday I had another mood slip.

I let the news get to me. Certain names were triggering. I won't mention them. President Carter's funeral was the only news event I tuned into and then only slightly. One glimpse of an over-made-up face and I recoiled from it.

But, enough of that. I am going to look for joy even it only lasts a second. I usually don't like snow but this time it was beautiful. Not too much of it, not that deep but certainly crisp and even. I'll draw a veil over the slippy, slidy, very scary journey I made on Tuesday when I foolishly took the back road from Galgorm to home. At one point I thought I would have to phone Bert to bring the tractor to pull me out of a hedge.

Since then I've been confined to barracks. Hannah doesn't even like me leaving the house in case I fall and break something. I might go out tomorrow.

I had a lovely chat with London Sister earlier. That's why I'm going to search out my joy. She told me so. That picture of the frosted witch hazel is joyful even if, thanks to my dodgy sinuses, I can never smell it.  I'm told it's divine.

Also, the cats good Pippin and bad Woody curled up together. It's a rare event these days. Pippin doesn't like Woody that much.

I wish Rusty had someone to cosy up to this cold night. This might be when he really feels the loss of Lily. He has lots of fresh straw, a sleeping bag tied around him and an old duvet. I hope it's enough.

Victoria Sponge

Over the past few months Bert has taken to making cakes and usually, they are very good. He started with baked cheesecakes and these were excellent. His Chocolate Guinness has been a big success on two occasions. But... he is becoming over confident, and thinks he can do no wrong. At Christmas his Sicilian Orange and Lemon cake was a flop, literally. It is a tricky one but I've managed to make it work many times. 

Now Chocolate Guinness cake may be easy but the classic Victoria Sponge is not. I remember serving up a failed VS to the children many years ago and Martha asking me,

Granny, why are your cakes always like biscuits?

We are having people over this Saturday (many of them Australian) and Bert is making a Victoria Sponge. This is Thursday. I'm all for getting ahead but I'd have thought the day before would be soon enough. Anyway I've just gone in to the kitchen to check on his progress and he seems to be making a hash of it. I kindly told him so and he assures me that all will be well. He is using cake tins that are far too deep and he has not lined them! 

I am torn between hoping his Victoria Sponge will be successful and wanting it to be a disaster so that I can say,

I told you so!

Here's what I think. He could not care less if his cake does not work out because he wants to eat it immediately, no matter what. 

Mary Berry's Victoria Sponge. Bert has a lot to live up to here. I'll keep you all posted.

Conversations

 Bert: Where's that Holy Joe calendar that was on the freezer?

(A local congregation blesses us annually with a calendar featuring scenes from the Northern part of Ireland  complete with Biblical verses, also some tracts, and a CD of their pastor's sermons.)

Nelly: It's in the recycling bin.

Bert: What? Why did you do that?

Nelly: I do it every year.

Bert: But I needed a calendar for my room.

Nelly: You have a calendar. The Fane Valley calendar that Feely gave us, the one you said that Clint would be so jealous of because of all the pictures of fine Hereford bastes.

Bert: I think it was very negative of you throwing out the Gospelly calendar.

Nelly: I do it every year and you've never complained before.

I am a bit worried that Bert might have succumbed to Late-Onset Presbyterianism. I shared my worries with Hannah. She said,

Mum, I think you need to accept that as Bert grows older he will be turning into Pearlie. Don't be telling him I said that.

I said,

But I tell him that every single day.

<><><><><>

Later on that day, I'm in Tescos. There is a stand offering reduced bedding items, duvet sets, pillow cases etc. in shades of soft green that exactly match my bedroom. I'm drawn to it. There is a throw that tempts me. But I cannot see what price it is. I go to the help desk with the item and explain my predicament. The assistant is a lady of mature years, giving off an air of being completely scundered with Christmas and the New Year. She scanned the throw and said,

You may put that back on the shelf. It's not reduced. Twenty pounds. I wouldn't give that for it!

I did as she said. And loved her for it.

It's that time of the year again.

The Visitors Book Revisited

So how was our Christmas? It was quiet, but it wasn't always so. Here are a couple of festive blog posts from the Nelly's Garden's earliest days. Sometimes, looking back, I wonder how I ever had time to blog with a full-time job and a hectic social life. What it was to be young - only a mere stripling in my early fifties.

My favourite Christmas picture. Lovely Holly no longer with us.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

The Visitor's Book

As I cannot be arsed to think up a new post I have decided to post some seasonal extracts from the pages of Nellybert’s Visitor’s Book.

…. We arrived on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately (once again) Bert went to the wrong airport. How was I supposed to know that Belfast City is the one in Belfast? Anyway Ma should have done her research properly. Everybody knows that flights from Norfolk come into the wee airport…

…. It wasn’t too awful a visit. As usual there were way too many scary aunts around. I just hid behind piles of cushions and dogs. Nelly gave me a very strange present….

…. The night I stayed there were so many people there I only got a sofa. It was my birthday too! That panelling in Nelly’s shower room is fabuloso. My projectile vomiting wiped off a treat…

…. If I weren’t an animal-loving vegetarian I’d shoot that fucking cat. Pissed all over me just as I was getting off to sleep….

…I toddled over for the New Year’s Eve party and had just the one drink. Nelly said it was a triple brandy or something like that. Very nice. But you should have seen those young ones. Bottle after bottle of stuff they were drinking. I never seen anything like it. Mind you I would have liked to try that red stuff the weans were at. Hardy Breezer they said it was called. Nelly had that oul camera out. She knows I hate getting my picture took….

…Nelly and me made pizza and salads then I played a game were all the dogs were sharks. They needed new shark names so Rosie was Peter, Scruff was Trevor and Paddy was Paul. Mammy had to chase me all round the house to try and get me to go to bed at half-twelve. Nelly tried to help her but Mammy dunted her out of the road…

…Nelly and me went for a walk and talked about life and stuff and I was telling her all about being a first-year at Slemish and about all my teachers and friends and stuff. Nelly started girning later about how we all get crumbs in the butter and spread it all over the surfaces. She kept getting me to make her coffee.

NB: Other visitors included Zoe, Dave, Jean, Jonny, Tricia, Brendan, Sadie, Naoise, Mel, PP, Jenny, Marty, Jazzer, Barbara, Martina, Ian, Lee, Martina, Caoimhe, Penny, Scruff, Macy and last, but not least, Gracie.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

The Visitor's Book 2006

Here are some of the comments left in Nellybert’s Visitor’s Book over the holiday period.

…. Nelly said it was Christmas Dinner but it wisnae! It wis beef and ye haftae hae fowl for Christmas Dinner! Nelly was that cheeky when I said – she said it was a dinner and it was Christmas and I was tae come ower before it got cowl and to tell you the truth she trailt me ower aginst my will. And her oul puddin’ was rotten too, it was as bitter as gall…

…. I always spend my New Year’s birthday at Nellybert’s and you’d think I’d get a bed by now but it was still the bloody sofa.

…. Nelly forgot to make the vegetarian gravy so I had to make do with cheese sauce which was exceptionally good. She did make me a special stuffing and it was yum-yum but there was something about it…you’d nearly have thought…but surely not? Nelly wouldn’t do that…would she?….

…It was great at Nelly’s. You should have seen all the toys Bert got from Santa. He got a rocking horse and a crane and he let me play with them. He wouldn’t let me play with his guns and he’s got three and they’re real ones too. Then Nelly showed me Harry de Cat’s grave and it’s got tiles on top. Nelly says that’s to stop Mr Fox digging him up which wouldn’t be very nice because he’s a skellington now. Nelly and me went for a really long walk in Portglenone Forest then she wouldn’t let me go to the shop for sweets because her exhaust fell off…

…Martina and me showed Nelly our Bebo pages and Nelly told Mum that I said I was 16 on mine and that Martina had a photo on hers with a Benson in her mouth. She’s a tout. You couldn’t tell her anything.

…The dinner was very nice but I swear to God you could not move through that house without bumping into some sort of an animal. Zoë had her wee dog Gracie out with her and though it’s a lovely looking wee thing, and there they were all oohing and aahing about how cute and sweet it was to see her playing with the new kitten, I saw the dirty looks that wee brute was giving that kitten when it thought no one was watching. I’d not like to leave them on their own for too long…

This year our visitors were Zoë, Dave, Hannah, Jamie, Eamon, Mel, PP, Jenny, Marty, Jazzer, Swisser, Martina, Erin, Ben, John, Buffy, Dirt Bird, Pearlie and Gracie. Ganching sent her apologies and some rather nice presents.

Oh Christmas Tree!

My oldest daughter called round the other day and I was telling her, what with one thing and another, I wasn't feeling the festive season this year. And I confessed that I wished I'd sorted out a Christmas tree because that would have cheered me up. After all, Lorraine, despite Robin being so ill, made the effort to dress a tree for the sake of their grandchildren.

Zoe said, 

Surely after that storm there will be something  in the wood that you could bring in for a Christmas tree.

Storm Darragh did bring down scores of trees in our wood. The Scots pines were hit hard and a young oak grove also sucuumbed to the wind. But most of the casualties were firs.

Zoe and her dog Posie headed out to scout for a suitable evergreen. I imagined she'd find the tippy-top of some brute of a fir tree that Bert would have to take the chainsaw to. But no. She returned with the news that they'd found a perfect tree, a little fir that she'd planted that was ripped right out of the ground by the winds. She'd marked it with a silky scarf and after she left Bert went out to bring it in. It was potted up and brought in to the house. After what it had been through (Zoe grew it from a seed) I didn't want to put it in any of the living rooms. Far too warm for it with the wood-burners. So I settled it in a cool corner of the kitchen. I hope the tree enjoys a few days there and in the meantime will be cheering me up no end. I don't even mind that it looks a little lopsided. Bert potted it that way.

I expect this little tree will be at Zoe's house next year. After all, she did grow it from a seed.

 

A Life In Pictures

Teller of tall tales. The General. The Wee Manny. A Rascal. A Traveller. An Adventurer. 

It has taken me all this time to begin this post and per usual I'm drawing on one I wrote almost ten years ago. 

I went to today's funeral (the first of the year) with the Wee Manny. He arrived at our house more than an hour early all suited and booted. In our part of the world, by the time a man is in his middle age he has his funeral rig ready at all times. This outfit will consist of a dark suit, a dark tie, black if the funeral is that of a close family member and, given the Irish climate, a heavy dark overcoat.

It was a battle getting Bert to wear his suit but he allowed himself to be persuaded. The funeral suit is a much easier option than trying to find other items of dark (clean) clothing. And the dark tie is always in the inside jacket pocket.

The reason I went with The Wee was because Bert was picking Hannah up from work and the Wee and I, both being Virgos, are  particular about punctuality. We were there at least half an hour before the proceedings began. The Cuningham Memorial is very close to where I live yet this was the first time I'd ever been inside it. The interior is traditional, with heavy roof beams and beautiful stained glass. The pews are those old-fashioned ones with doors. Ours seated just three people. As always, on entering the church, I had to stop myself looking for the holy water font and in the pew I noted the absence of kneelers. Presbyterians do not kneel. At least I did not attempt to genuflect as I entered the pew. I did that once but I hope no one noticed. That was at Church of Ireland wedding so you'd almost get away with it.

As we sat in that pew I reflected that The Wee is actually my oldest friend. Not old in terms of age, but old in the length of time we've known each other. I met him nearly forty years ago and knew of his existence a few years before that. The Wee was one of the cool dudes, living mostly outside Ballymena, in London, Amsterdam and other interesting places. I first met him in Dublin while I was visiting my sister who was at Trinity College. He and I had a mutual friend and the three of us went on a pub crawl. Little did I know that The Wee and I would still know each other forty years on and that we'd go to funerals together and that we'd have spent the time before discussing our favourite baking dishes and other mundane things. He introduced me to Bert nearly thirty years ago so I expect I'll have to be friends with him forever.

Turned out forever wasn't as long as I thought it would be. Robin, you will be missed and we will be talking about about you and your exploits forever.

Robin

Thirteen days ago I went with my friend to the local hospital to visit with her husband. Seven days ago he was discharged to spend his final days in his own home. Six days ago Bert and I visited him. Four days ago he died. 

He came back home today. And he will leave again on Friday.

I met him first in 1975. Some years later he introduced me to Bert. And we were friends from then on.

He is the third person in my circle of friends to die this year. All from cancer. I guess we're all around that sort of age. 

I'll write more after the funeral.

No Excitement and a Wee Catch Up

 No Excitement

Someone asked me today if anything exciting going on in my life. I replied that there was not and that I was glad of it.

So, definitely, no excitement to report on the blog since the last time I properly updated and that was the day we found out that quite a lot of people in the United States feel that they had not had enough of Donald Trump. Since then I deactivated ‘that’ platform and have resolved to take a break from the news.

I am also taking a Duolingo break and have been reading more. And sorting books as there are more books in this house than shelves to hold them and I have shelves enough to hold more than a thousand books. It’s going well. I’ve got as far as Proust and Pullman and both those authors are getting to stay. For now. I’ve filled three boxes for Tesco’s charity bookshelves. Keep an eye on the Ballymena store readers, it’s going upmarket.

Wee Catchup

As usual, there were visitors. Stand out was the Saturday that Martina and her children called with us. Despite it being a damp, late Autumn day the kids had a great time swinging, trampolining and feeding Clint’s calves. They are lovely children and I believe they enjoyed themselves as much as their mum used to when she was a little’un.

An evening at Ballymena Academy to see Martha and a host of incredibly talented young people in their school musical, The Addams Family. It was a great evening. Martha had two sets of grandparents, her parents and her sister to support her. Fun fact – every Martha in the school (all three of them) took part in the show.

There were two birthday suppers. Bert made both cakes. A Chocolate Guinness cake (Nigella) for Evie and a carrot and ginger cake (Hummingbird) for Dave. Both were delicious but Dave’s could have done with more ginger. Dave likes ginger.

Then we had a lovely evening at Les and Dawn's. They cooked us delicious Chinese food. And were great craic as always. A good night.

There were two trips to Belfast. St George’s Market on Remembrance Sunday. Hannah drove. We walked past City Hall just before 11 am but were too far away to spot Michelle. The second visit was by train to Botanic. I walked to the Palm House, bought some jeans in the Oxfam shop and did not buy a single book. But I did finish reading The Remains of the Day on the journey back and forth. So good.

Then the snow came. So pretty, so boring. The dogs, especially Chico, adored it and even old Judy had to get out for a jolly good sniff and a plod around. Now we are waiting to see what Storm Bert brings. Leitrim Sister messaged me to say that I should tell Bert to wind his neck in.

One From Thirteen Years Ago

 

Home Alone (November 2011)

I'm home alone. Pearlie has gone to one of her regular respite placements so that means two whole weeks without a battalion of carers tramping in and out. And it is also two weeks without her constant griping and complaining. It is a chance for Bert and I to have a taste of what it must be like to live as a couple in privacy and peace. We get this for eight whole weeks a year, and I know that makes us very fortunate people.

As I said I'm home alone. Bert has gone off to Malin Head with a couple of friends. I hope they get reasonable weather and aren't blown off the Head. I've been left with the chickens, the dogs, the pigs and the cats - not too burdensome. Clint has been left with the cattle. I'm supposed to be watching and listening for one of the heifers 'looking away' but we're not holding out much hope. The beast has had numerous goes with A.I. and a good run with the bull and she just can't catch. Clint came in to talk about it. He knows Pearlie isn't here so I've got nobody to moan at me.

Huh! The only place that one will be looking away at is the abattoir. She's far too big a baste to be keeping as a pet.

I interpret this as a dig at the kune kunes but I do not react. He goes on.

Aye! It's the freezer for her, no question about it.

I'm sure he'd like me to get sentimental about her so he can come over all manly and practical and farmerish but I do not give him a chance. He goes on,

Did Bert ever get the bags sorted out for the butcher?

I concur that if he did, I have not been informed of it.

Huh! He's an easy-going boy waltzing off to Donegal in this weather and no worries about the butcher! And in November! Sure it's wild up there! He has little or no sense. I don't know what would take him up to Malin Head at this time of the year!

I remark that I thought the break would do him good and mention that we've got a piano.

Aye! I saw that. I don't know what you thought you needed that for. Huh! What with that oul squeaky clarinet and dinnilin' away on an oul out of tune piano that'll hardly do him much good. It would answer him a lot better to finish that ranch fencing he started.

I have to agree that Bert has a rather dilatory attitude to general chores.

Well! I'm away down to get my own livestock foddered and in before it's too dark to see.

I bid him goodnight.

When he is gone I say to the dogs for there is no one else to say it to,

Y'know – there are a lot of things that Bert is good at, that Clint is not.

And I smile a little smile to myself.

Focus on the Positive

 Well! That was very disappointing. 

My first instinct was to become despondent, but I didn't want to feel disheartened, so instead I deactivated Twitter/X (about time) and decided to take a day off from The News. I have made plans and a list.

Today I will read.

I will light a fire.

I will throw out clutter as I come across it. So far I've binned a worn-out tea towel, an oven glove and another pudding bowl.

I will shower, put on a nice outfit and take Vee shopping.

And I will upload my holiday photographs and recall the lovely time I spent with family in Norfolk and London.

Then I will watch a light-hearted show about a group of people with some strong opinions and no politics. Hello, Sheldon Cooper.

Two photographs taken at Pensthorpe.

Katy and I spent some time at the inspiring West Acre Garden Centre and walled garden. 

James was keen to show me around one of his favourite places - Wroxham Miniature World where I discovered that my grandson is an expert on British railway engines.

Halloween is a really big deal where Katy lives. Emily and I were on the door for Trick & Treating. 

It seems I didn't take that many photographs in London. Too busy walking, eating delicious food and catching up with my sisters. The bench is a memorial to the comedian Sean Hughes and is situated in beautiful Highgate Wood. The second photograph was taken at the celebration for The Day of the Dead in Columbia Road. The reason I didn't get many pictures was because I was too busy  having my own photograph taken. It was a novel experience to have at least twenty photographers taking pictures of London Sister and myself outside We Are Arrow. We weren't even dressed up! 

October Reading

 After the shameful amount of books read in September I am pleased to disclose that October was a big improvement. I started slim, as in volume size.

The Sign Of The Sugared Plum by Mary Hooper.

I picked this one up at the Tesco charity bookshelf. At first I thought it might be a children’s book but apparently not. An account of life in London during the Great Plague. Moderately engaging and not recommended but at least it got me reading again. Otherwise avoid.

More Tesco finds – The Finding by Nina Bawden. Underwhelming.

Yet another Tesco find – My Folks Don’t Want Me to Talk About Slavery edited by Belinda Hurmence. A previous owner must have picked this one up at an estate in the Southern States of the USA. It was a quick read, interesting, part of an academic research project. My inbuilt cynicism led to some distrust of the editing process but I still found it interesting.

Ganching led me to Three Hours by Rosamund Lupton. She mentioned it in a blog and described it as something she read in a 24-hour period. I had a copy (Tesco again) and being in the mood for a binge read I found it to be just the job. 24 hours later – enjoyable read to be returned to Tesco charity bookshelves at my earliest convenience.

So that’s me back on track at the reading again. I was longing to read the new Elizabeth Strout, Tell Me Everything. According to the reviews it brings together many beloved Strout personalities including Olive Kitteridge, Lucy Barton and Bob Burgess. My only difficulty was – I hadn’t read The Burgess Boys. Well, I have now and I like it very much. Still haven’t begun Tell Me Everything but it is sitting there, waiting for me – a brand new copy. Long time before it ends up on Tesco’s charity bookshelf.

The last book I finished was Dirty Linen by Martin Doyle. I bought my copy in St George’s Market from yer man who runs Belfast Books. His is not a store I’d normally be in but the book was half-price and I’d wanted to read it. Yer man said it was a ‘tough read’ and I’m not sure what he meant by that. But there is this – I’ve often thought that the accounts of the people who died during the period of our Irish history that is called ‘The Troubles’ has been fairly well documented. What is less well documented are the stories of the injured and the bereaved. Martin Doyle’s book went some way to bring some of those stories to the fore.

I went to an event at Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy on Friday evening. The writer Colum McCann in Conversation. It wasn’t quite a full house but it was nearly. Novel readers must be mostly ladies of a certain age. I’d guess the youngest person there was around forty-five. I did not tell the author that I’ve only read one of his books so far and that I picked it up from the Tesco charity bookshelf. Let The Great World Spin. Since then I acquired two more novels and bought another two at HomePlace. It was a good evening.

I’ll be taking Colum McCann on my holiday to Norfolk and London. This Side of Brightness. Already packed.  

Family Time

 

These past few days, I have had the pleasure of Ganching and Kerry Sister's company. They took a house close to where we are, and we were together for part of every day.

So I thought I'd illustrate this blog with a picture of the two of them but when I went to my vast store of digital photographs and looked at the file labelled Friends and Family/General Family/Ganching Kerry Sister the picture above was the only one I could find. I'm not sure what they were at.  Definitely not a prayer meeting. They are both divils for the culture so I suppose it was something of that nature. 

Which reminds me. Ganching, knowing that I'm always collecting random stuff from the internet, asked me to look out an article written by a priest about another priest. I'm off to do that now.

One From Sixteen Years Ago

Pearlie's Favourite Niece visited us today and I found myself remembering how  it was when Nellybert and Pearlie shared a roof.

What a difference sixteen years make. Back then I referred to myself as 'middle-aged'. Now I too am old. And dare to hope that in 10 years time - when I'll be as old as Pearlie was that my middle-aged people will have a lot more patience than I did.

But then - I don't intend to be a curmudgeon. Promise!

Choices

The following is based on a true event. One of the most difficult things about having Pearlie living with us is the struggle to hold on to a sense of myself as a fairly decent human being. There is no feelgood factor.

A few weeks ago I went on a shopping expedition to get Pearlie some decent clothes. Pearlie has never had the remotest interest in clothes and, as long as I’ve known her, has garbed herself in layers of hideous greying underwear, jumpers, cardigans, vile skirts, men’s socks, battered footwear and the lot topped of with a horror movie of a headscarf and a home-made and much patched apron. She had the look of a poverty-stricken Eastern European peasant from the nineteen-forties only with added nylon and polyester.

But now it’s up to me launder this gruesome stuff so I’ve been sneakily throwing out the worst of it and replacing it with decent clothes from Marks & Spencers and the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. There will be no more baggy, outsized interlock cotton vests with fraying hems in this house.

Sure ye could put a stitch in them.

Excuse me Pearlie. A stitch? I do have a life. (Or at least I used to)

Her hideous long-legged cotton knickers bought from the packman are slowly being replaced by similarly granny ones from M&S only the Marksy ones are light and thermal and almost pleasing to the eye.

Where’s all my other knickers? Did Margaret take them home to patch?

In the bin long, long ago.

I spent over three hours picking out a skirt, a cardigan and underwear for Pearlie. Had I been shopping for myself I’d have completed in half the time. But I know how hard she is to please. Skirts must be lined, they must not be too long or too tight. Knitwear must not be bulky but it must not be too light. The sleeves must be roomy, likewise the neck. Colours must not be too bright. I played safe and got dark green. I’ve seen her wear dark green a lot. The underwear was thermal, soft and it fitted her. Exhausted I made my way home.

I didn’t show her the new duds at first. I knew she’d be bound to hate something and I even had a notion of packing them in her case so that the first time she saw them would be when the care assistants at the respite home hung them up in her wardrobe. But next day she was in a good mood and I felt I could handle the criticism so I showed her what I’d got. And amazing joy – she liked everything! I was delighted.

But that was Sunday. On Thursday Favourite Niece came out to pack her suitcase. That evening I didn’t get home until nearly eight and I was feeling pretty tired. I was surprised to see that Favourite Niece’s car was still in the yard. Moments later FN bounced out of Pearlie’s room went straight up to me and said, “That skirt’s no good. It’s falling off her. Can you get it changed? And she doesn’t like those knickers. Says she’ll be far too cold in them.”

Did I stay cool? Not exactly. I swore a bit ( a lot) then I did get cool. Well maybe more cold than cool. You know that cold anger thing where you might like to kill somebody? That was me.

Since then I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been thinking about choices and how it is supposed to be important to give old people as much autonomy as possible. And I was also thinking about how great it would be if middle-aged people got to exercise some choices too like whether we wanted to launder patched rags or not. Or maybe we could choose whether or not we welcomed an aged dictator and a haphazard team of carers into our lovely home.

So anyway after thinking long and hard I have decided that these are the really important choices to offer my aged dictator.

• Milk or Tea.
• Pink hot water bottle or blue hot water bottle.
• Shape up or Ship Out.
• My Way or the Highway.