Sunday, September 25, 2016

Getting Stuff Done

One of my plans for September was to write a daily post to Nelly's Garden and it seemed to be going fine until the 17th of the month. On that particular evening I was feeling extra tired and the very idea of dragging myself into my private, secret sitting room to write was wearisome indeed. Instead I posted this to Facebook.

Was going to write a blog post every day in September but then I got this nice bottle of red and the craic was good and I realised the internet is not the boss of me! Well, maybe Facebook is - a little bit.

Of course I thought I'd just miss the one day...

Then I read Oliver Burkeman's column in yesterday's Guardian. This paragraph resonated with me for I am always making complicated lists and plans that never succeed in the way that I'd hoped. They actually make me feel like a failure most days.

When attempts at unbending discipline fail, I turn to a post the Buddhist teacher Susan Piver wrote in 2010, entitled Getting Stuff Done By Not Being Mean To Yourself. It relates her own frustrating attempts at rigid scheduling, and the approach she chose instead: asking what she felt like doing. 

So today I did keep asking myself what I felt like doing and at one point in the mid afternoon I realised that what I really wanted to do was go to bed and nap. Which I did, and then when I got up about an hour later felt really refreshed and did lots of things without once consulting a list. And I even updated my blog.

Earlier today...

Sister and daughter 

We all went to Waterfoot for a walk on the beach.

Dogs and daughter

Friday, September 16, 2016

An Early Start and an Anniversary

Today started rather well. I got up just before 5:30 am and drank the cup of coffee my daughter made for me, then into the van, Ziggy on board for company and for our viewing pleasure a huge, nearly full moon setting in the south-west. Hannah was dropped off at work about a quarter to six and we spotted Daniel the Tesco cat approaching the staff entrance for his breakfast. Then Ziggy and I headed for Antrim to search for the exact pair of pale pink slipper boots that Miss Martha wants for her birthday. Approaching Asda, Ziggy alerted me to the Asda cat (name unknown) heading for the staff entrance for his morning meal. In the door at 6:00 am and slippers and croissants purchased by ten past. By 6:30 am we were outside my daughter's house posting Evie's forgotten homework book through the door. Met the next door neighbour, Hannah's colleague departing his house and wished him good morning. Like my conscientious daughter he too is expected to be on duty at six but apparently this does not trouble him.

Off home for more coffee, croissants and apricot jam. Hens out. The other bantie is sitting on eggs but I'll deal with that tomorrow. Bert is still in bed and will remain there for a further two hours.

It was my father's birthday today, his exactly a week after my own. I found myself thinking about him throughout the day, trying to remember specific things, early memories. I remember the feel of his large hand enclosing my tiny one as he walked me down the kesh beside our first home in Cannionstown. Going out in the green AEC lorry, me and my sister, both of us sitting on a thick rug in the middle where the heat of the engine beneath warmed our legs and bums. No call for seatbelts back in those days. There are other memories that aren't mine, ones my mother told me. She said he carried me down the stairs on the 9th of March  wishing me a happy half-birthday and she said that I'd stand in my wooden cot rattling the sides with excitement when I heard his lorry arrive in the yard.

I don't know if my younger siblings would agree with but sometimes I think that we older ones knew the best of him when he was in his thirties and had less to worry about. For there were four more children in his forties, he bought the farm, worked two jobs and sometimes times were hard for both my mother and father. And as if that wasn't tough enough they found themselves the parents of teenagers. Oh dear. Daddy just didn't get teenagers. But that is quite another story. Today on the 97th anniversary of my father's birth I'll only be thinking about those early years.






Thursday, September 15, 2016

Wild Life


This little creature is a Goldcrest. Earlier today it flew into a window and stunned itself. Bert saw it happen and picked the wee bird up before either of our two cats came upon it.

Hold on, 'til I get my camera, although I really hope it's flown off before I get it.

It didn't fly off, still too stunned. I asked Bert,

Is there something wrong with its feet?
No. It's not used to standing on flat surfaces. It needs to be holding on to twigs.

We took it over to the clematis montana and set it on a tendril. It fell for a moment, then found its wings and flew away over the hedge and into the meadow. Relief.


Now this fellow is a vine weevil. I've no idea how it found its way into the kitchen but that day that Bert got injured by the bullock there was one in the cab of the van. I was going to tell him all about it but forgot when I saw how he was hurt. Vine weevils are the enemy of horticulturists for their larvae love to eat the roots of plants such as clematis, primula and strawberries. I let the little brute wander around the kitchen and hope it dies before it finds one of my plants. They make a horrible, crunchy noise when they are killed and I'm just not in the mood.

Isn't it funny how one of God's creatures is a complete darling and another an utter bastard. Makes one think.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Looking Back: This Day Five Years Ago

When Pearlie was still around, before I burned my diaries....


The Diary of Nelly Dismal

My 25th year found me living alone in Drumtara, pregnant, poor and lonely. I was also very bored so, to pass the time, I kept a journal. It ran to two volumes and I have to admit it was one of the most tedious, self-obsessed and whiney journals ever written. It didn't contain an ounce of humour or interest and every time I've looked at those two notebooks since I have cringed.

So why did it take me more than three decades to rid myself of these woeful books ?

Today, during an epic attic clearance, I decided the time had come to burn the dreary things and the only place in the house with a burning fire is in Pearlie's room.

What's that ye have there?

Just some old diaries.

What! Reach them to me!

They're not yours Pearlie. They're mine. Just some old diaries I kept when I was in my 20s.

Setting them carefully on the fire.

I'd love to read those!

You would not.

Piling the coal around them.

I'd have been very interested in those.

I bet you would.

I felt a tiny bit guilty depriving Pearlie of the pleasure of finding out what a shallow twat I was when I was 24 but very, very happy to be rid of the reminder. Thanks be for the cleansing power of flames.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Getting Comfy


Why Paddy pictures two days running? Two reasons. One - I'm very tired and haven't the mental energy to come up with anything more challenging. And two - I'm sorting out my photo folders and have started on the Ps in the critter folder.

Monday, September 12, 2016

The Dogs In Our Lives, Paddy

Paddy

That is a photograph of Paddy taken in 2004 when he was full of vim and vigour. That would be Hector's cattle he is running at, the bad article - running the beef off them. He might have been around Judy's age, five or six - we never knew for certain how old he was. We'd had him for six months then and eight years later he was dying of old age.

Dogs -  they're not with us for that long at all. Only the memories last.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

A Flying Visit

Back from a flying visit to beautiful Eelburn and the people and dogs had a ball. Well - there was a ball for a while but then Dora lost it. There was this one time we'd been playing on the beach and the dogs had had their chow and the people were going out to eat when we looked back and saw this sad sight.

Left Behind. Jess and Dora

Of course we went back and took them with us.

Worst Bit. Jazzer snoring.

Best Bit. Under a quilt, lying on a sofa to escape the sound of Jazzer snoring and looking out on a skyful of stars.