23 July 2020


Hello folks, I have some bad news for you, at least I think it is bad news. I am quitting. Yes, you read that right. Thing is, I am  too old for this game or any other game and it is all down to age and degeneration. I cannot describe how I feel but a few hundred handkerchiefs might help.

Seriously, I have blogged for many, many years and enjoyed it all. Mainly, though, I have enjoyed the company of you lovely people and I thank you for being there for me. I will put the books away and forget that once upon a time I wrote stories and books. 

I made special friends, many of whom shared laughs from way back, dare I say before blogging was invented, or maybe it was merely being thought about. To those people I send my love and thanks for everything. To more recent blogging friends I wish you everything you wish yourself. Keep blogging and ENJOY. 

08 July 2020


1. Why did it take me so long to sort out what goes where, when and why? I am talking about posting stuff on line, but I guess you knew that ... wink.

2. I used to be a dab hand at publishing but I at my vast age I forget stuff too easily. 

3, Give in, says brain, Why should I, says I? 

4. Well I gave up on the story after several attempts. Stick to what you know, says the brain.Well, he can talk, he doesn't know much himself.

5. It is celebration day, in two or three hours the phone will ring and I will dash to talk to my stepdaughter in Oz. I'm only writing this to keep from dancing with joy. 

6. Charlie the cat is fast asleep on MY chair. He thinks he owns everything in this house.

7. My typing is getting worse. Gone are the days when I could almost do everything blindfolded.  Good job I can still find my I think!

8. I need to cheer up, 

9, Just did a jig round my sleeping cat. His one eye protest put me in my place. Usually, he reprimands me with two eyes. I reckon he's the new lazy, even I could do better. 

10. Ah yes TEN. That means this rubbish is at an end. 

Enjoy, folks.

03 July 2020

My Trip - worth repeating .. I wish!

In 1954 Patrick and I did the journey to Cape Castle to celebrate his parents ruby wedding, a grand affair with a marquee and a slap-up meal and attended, it seemed, by the entire population of Northern Ireland.

'A great fuss,' grumbled Patrick, who was not keen on crowded functions. Nevertheless, he didn't mind joining his four brothers for after-dinner drinks … half a crate of Bushmills whiskey which was probably still illicit. And he didn't mind staying in bed the whole of the following day and night, cursing the pain in his head and blaming me for allowing it to happen.

Well, I enjoyed the anniversary party but if you were to ask me what I ate or to outline the topics discussed around the table I'd be hard pressed to remember. What does come to mind was the decision of the Portrush group to attend the village ball. It would be a perfect end to a perfect day. Or so I was led to believe.

My dress was ideal for a ball being ankle-length and created from shimmering pink parachute silk, though the high-heeled satin shoes were hardly fit for walking the dark and muddy lanes. Patrick assured me that I looked like a princess. I took that with a pinch of salt considering his inebriated condition.

Brimming over with jollity, we arrived at the dance hall. I remember turning the corner of the lane and seeing the single lantern over the door of a wooden hut. And I remember the mirth deserting my soul. I had expected more than a decrepit shack to dance in. I had expected to be whirling around a Casino-type place in the arms of my well-oiled husband.

One of the brothers took my arm and guided me towards the entrance. Patrick trailed behind singing Baa Baa Black Sheep. I was mortified when we reached the door and Patrick began chanting, Yes, sir; Yes, sir, three bags full, to the amusement of the man on the door. I was so humiliated ... and was even more so when the doorkeeper seized my left hand and quick as a flash imprinted the back with a black-ink date stamp. My entrance ticket, I was told, and a pass-out. I complained bitterly about the mess but was reassured that the ink would eventually wash off. The word ‘eventually’ bothered me no end.

Inside that glorified shed, straight-backed wooden chairs were arranged in rows on two sides, with a single chair bang in the middle of the floor. A red-cheeked, robust individual with a shillelagh under his arm paced to and fro inspecting the floor and shouting instructions to an elderly man in a grey cap and tweed jacket who was scattering chalk like he was feeding the fowl.

And then the band arrived. 'Here's the band,' Patrick cried, as one man and his fiddle sauntered towards the chair in the centre of the room. I closed my eyes, convinced I was hallucinating, but opened them again when the first musical strains hit the air. The fiddler was standing on the wobbly chair, tapping one hob-nailed boot in tune to an Irish jig, his red polka-dot kerchief crumpled between the fiddle and his chin. Around him ruddy-faced farmers, fingers dyed blue with crop spray, danced at arms-length with their wives, solemn-faced women, straight-legged and aloof.

Totally bewildered, I joined Patrick and the brothers on the hard chairs and bemoaned my fate. I felt like an overdressed dummy though Patrick continued to assure me I was the belle of the ball. If he could've transferred his intoxication to the poker-faced couples on the chalk-strewn floor, I would have been better pleased. If he had been sober, my presence in a room smelling of classrooms and wood yards might have been more tolerable. And then I saw the funny side of it. I started to laugh, and Patrick laughed, and the brothers joined in. The fiddle-player grinned and broke into a livelier jig. And I wouldn't have missed the experience for the world.

So when I am asked what my in-laws ruby wedding was like, I reply with truth that it was a remarkable affair. But it's not the event that comes to mind, it's the jolly-faced fiddle player with the polka-dot kerchief and the amiable grin.

PS... a true story, Only the names have been changed, 

02 July 2020


Well now, remember me? I have no idea what I am doing but thought I would give it a go, after all it is a long time since I last blogged. If it wasn't for a guy who knows his way around I wouldn't be here now. I was persuaded, you see. Don't let 'em beat you was the cry. 

This is a practice job, an attempt to find things and try my hand at blogging again. I miss it, but the aching back was not too pleased when I inserted the plug and opened my blog. 

How are you all?  It was a toss up whether to continue reading your lovely mail at home or thank the senders via the blog. I chose the latter in case there was something I could learn and enjoy. 

I haven't been lazy in the last few weeks. I have enjoyed some male company and listened to his wisdom. I was encouraged to buy a new printer, and to test it out with glee. Glee? Okay, yes I am joking. 

Charlie the cat is fine, he knows how to snuggle when I need it, which reminds me it's time I fed that gorgeous animal. Take care, everyone, and don't do anything I wouldn't do! Byeee!!