There's a reason for this midweek post! I tried earlier but was surprised to find that I couldn't write one. It was only by accident (many hours later) that I found the reason was having my name at the bottom. Suddenly and without my knowledge the code for it must have been wiped out. Once I removed my name from Settings all was well. So it looks as though I have to carry on regardless and insert the name every time.... if I remember.
Here's another story I wrote in the early days.... hope you enjoy it.
LET'S GO TO THE BALL
In 1954 Patrick and I did the journey
to Capecastle 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.
Valerie
energetic pursuit. However, I
do dislike seeing elderlies almost knocked over by inexperienced runners. Yes,
it happened recently to an elderly man, right in front of me. Fortunately, he
didn’t hit the deck or Mr Runner would have felt the power of my hand. Yep, I
might be ancient but I could still pull a punch if pushed, or should I say when pushed? To give him his due he
didn’t run off but he didn’t even ask how the guy was. He had stopped – end of
story! 
incidents whereby we were bothered by
runners and cyclists who wanted the paths (not roads) to themselves, using bad
language to make us shift. No matter that we were three times their age and
less able to move quickly.
Thought for the day: Cyclists protect themselves with helmets but a mere walker doesn't. Maybe the law should change so that walkers wear protective gear as well. Coats lined with steel wouldn't come amiss! 
