The Red Hand

It's been a while since I updated my blog, and I do apologise.

However, I've been rather busy!

This week we've been taking advantage of the nice weather and taking the Mother-In-Law's garden to pieces.

However, this may have been a mistake, as after taming the jungle to start from stratch, the grass seed doesnt seem to have taken at all, resulting in a rather bald looking front yard. Oh dear. We'll try again soon.

We also painted and papered the M-I-L's bedroom and lounge... my shoulders have never felt so much pain in my life!

However, the ample amounts of wine and sunshine made it slightly more bearable, as you can imagine.

Some of you might be wondering what on earth all this has got to do with red hands. And surprisingly, it's nothing to do with red paint, as you might imagine.

Do bear with me though, as the explaination is on its way.

So anyway, one of the three Brother-In-Laws came to visit yesterday, with his fiancee and child.

It was a rather pleasant day filled with the joys of various wines, beers and spirits, and alongside good company the bad weather hardly mattered at all.

However I got the absolute shock of my life when said Brother-In-Law unexpectedly slapped me with great force on the back!

That STINGS!

He then went on to proclaim, whilst I was fighting the urge to smack him in the mouth, that I'd begun my "induction", and recieved my first Red Hand of Ulster.

And indeed, I had.... upon lifting my shirt I discovered a perfectly formed, lovely red handprint.

I must say, I was not impressed, and he recieved a swift "Red Hand" to the thigh. Git.

Other than that, my life has been rather dull, dear readers.

I'll add some pictures of my surroundings for you soon, as I'll be creating a new Flickr account for the purpose, methinks.

Or I might just directly upload them.

Either way, you'll find out soon enough.

Building Blocks.

The Tantalising Tales of Turbulent Times....
What a title :] I'm sure that consitutes as a superiority complex.

I've recently moved house, from North Wales to Northern Ireland, and I'm finding it quite odd.
For instance, in Wales, you can call someone Welsh. In Northern Ireland, you can't call anybody Irish, unless you want a smack in the mouth, and a lecture on the North/South divide -.-;

Also, people swear a lot here. Very loudly, so I've found.
Now, although quite often one for profanity myself, I've found the copious amounts of cursing rather hard to deal with, as usually, in Wales, a curse-word is a bad thing.
Here, you could be talking about anything, to anyone, anywhere etc(you get the idea), and swear like a trooper. And not a soul would bat an eyelid.
Except me, of course. My eyelids would be batting more than the England cricket team.

I miss home a lot, sometimes.
My husband-to-be [refered to as MadMonk] and I moved to NI thinking that it's closer to his family, there are more jobs here, and Ireland is always beautiful.
At least we got the first bit right!

I miss living next to the beach terribly. No more midnight jaunts to the seaside, or aimlessly kicking stones along the promenade.... No more fish and chips with a beer and an ice-cream looking at the water.... No more cleaning the salt off the lens of your glasses, even!

I dream sometimes, of a beautiful place I know. It has it's own name, but I will call it my Little Eden. If it's owner ever reads my blog, they will know where I mean.
Little Eden is a place that really strikes me as the most beautiful place I'll miss.

Living here isn't so bad, though. Really. :]

Thanks for reading. x