The Princess, her aunt and I went to see Pride and Prejudice in the Gate this evening. It was very long and the lead actors had as much chemistry as a pair of lemons. Disappointing and very tiring.

A lot of Irish women are called Majella. St. Gerard Majella is the patron saint of expectant mothers and those parents who didn’t fancy Gerardine for their daughters often went for Majella. Whenever I meet a Majella, I think, difficult birth. I am not sure whether Majella has any traction elsewhere but it continues to be a reasonably common name here for women aged 35 to 65. Goretti (another saint’s surname – St. Maria Goretti) is also a, less popular, choice for women of that age group.

You think that pair are bad? There is worse to come in this trend of using saints’ surnames as girls’ first names. My mother has a friend called Labouré which is, I think, the world’s worst name, just shading Gobnait (second worst girl’s name). I am reminded of all this because there was a quote from St. Catherine Labouré in the leaflet at mass on Sunday: I place myself before the good God and I say to Him: “Lord here I am, give me what You will.” If He gives me something, I am very pleased and I thank Him. If He gives me nothing, I still thank Him because I do not deserve anything.

So, not only the source of awful names but sanctimonious also. Feel free to share weird names you have known in the comments.

This morning the Princess sang out from her bedroom “Happy Thanksgiving, happy Hanukkah!” As I dragged myself from my bed, I said to Mr. Waffle, “Americans can stay in bed and eat turkey today: sequentially not simultaneously.” “Well, he said for every American B eating turkey, there is an American A getting up early to put it in the oven.” If you are American A, I salute you.

At breakfast, the Princess announced, “I think we should be more intercultural and celebrate Hanukkah.” She added for the benefit of her brothers, “It’s a Jewish festival and you get presents every day for 12 days.” We will not be celebrating Hanukkah, despite special pleading but a happy Hanukkah to you,if you are and good luck with that present buying regime.

Me: Whose turn is it to get the Angry Birds water bottle?
Michael: Daniel can have it.
Me: That’s very generous of you, Michael.
Michael: I just don’t like the flask.
Daniel: That’s not generous, that’s unfortunate.

The Princess and I are going with her aunt to see Pride and Prejudice in the theatre. It is the Gate Theatre Christmas production and it’s always something undemanding for all the family. A couple of years ago they did Little Women and the Princess and I went. It was her first grown-up theatre experience and it was absolutely magical.

Co-incidentally a friend of hers from school is going to the same performance. She and her friend have thrown themselves into diligent preparation which extends to creating a list identifying everyone in the class with a character from the novel [Mr. Darcy, alas, remains uncast]. It also involves reading the novel which I would have thought was a stretch but they seem to be enjoying it. We were talking about it at dinner this evening.

Me: How are you getting on with Pride and Prejudice?
Her: Lydia has just eloped with Mr. Wickham.
Me: Oh vile Lydia.
Her: Mrs. Forrester should have taken better care of her.
Me: Oh, I don’t know, surely, it’s Lydia’s parents fault that she’s so badly brought up.
Her: Well, she is only 15.
Daniel: I think Lydia is very lucky.
Me: Why is that, sweetheart?
Daniel: Only three more years and she’ll be old enough to play Halo.
Herself: Oh Daniel, Pride and Prejudice was published in 1813.
Daniel: So?
Mr. Waffle: Lydia will never be able to play Halo.

I stayed at home today languishing in bed. As every parent knows, you must be a death’s door to stay home when you have children rather than go into work. I was going to go in but I was up half the night coughing and Mr. Waffle forbade it which I found rather pleasing though you would think at 44, I would be capable of deciding myself rather than wanting my husband to write a metaphorical note but so it is. I am better but not better this evening, as my mother would say. Nablopomo is killing me this year.

Some time ago, I agreed with my sister that I would drive down to Cork with her. I did that yesterday. Mr. Waffle had previously arranged to go and see Ireland play the All-Blacks today (particularly distressing defeat for Ireland, since you ask).

I needed to be back in Dublin by 12 today to facilitate Mr. Waffle’s departure to the match. “No problem,” I said. I didn’t realise when I blithely agreed to this that I was going to be ill this weekend. And then, it was only subsequently I realised that everyone in Munster was also going to the match. I managed to just about secure a ticket on the 8.00 train (change at Mallow) for €32.99 one way. When I got on the train was heaving with polite rugby supporters and the reserved seat signs weren’t working so there was much jostling for position. Polite jostling. I sat beside a polite New Zealander (a happy man tonight, I assume). There was no tea on the tea trolley and I had the dubious pleasure of forking out €2.50 for a cup of boiling water (for my lemsip).

I was collected from the station by Mr. Waffle and the children and we proceeded to mass. The Princess did her second reading with considerable aplomb once she realised that her moment had come (this was proceeded by a frantic scuttling up the aisle on my part and a hissing to her to go up – apparently her friend A had already said “Go on, it’s now, you idiot” so my intervention was as embarrassing as it was unnecessary). She had a great reading, it was a long one and it contains this line which is a good one: “for in him were created all things in heaven and on earth: everything visible and everything invisible, Thrones, Dominations, Sovereignties, Powers – all things were created through him and for him.” Daniel has joined the choir, so he was up at the front of the church with his sister and Michael was left sitting with his father and me.

As I have covered previously, Michael does not like going to mass. It lasts forever and it is precious time from the weekend. He walked to the church with dragging footsteps complaining of a sore leg. He counted the seconds at mass until he had got to 15 minutes and asked was it over yet. It was not. I do understand. Some of the longest hours of my life have been spent in mass as a small child (and it was only 40 minutes then). But he is not pleased. It was this Sunday that the parish priest chose to say in his sermon – “We don’t come to mass because we must. We don’t come to mass because we are forced to do so to be good Catholics.” Michael began to protest, all too audibly that that was exactly why he came to mass. He folded his arms and glowered at his father and me in turn.

It did end eventually and Michael was keen to return to his home. On the way home, the neighbours asked Dan in to play with their middle child who is a great friend of his due to their continual excursions to GAA matches and training together. “Sure,” I said. “We’re going out at 2.30,” said the friend’s mother, “Is that ok?” “Fine,” I said. We were dropping Mr. Waffle to the rugby match; news which Michael greeted with prolonged howls of outrage “I want to go home to my own house.” We were slightly late, traffic was heavy, Mr. Waffle likes to be punctual, no one had had lunch, Michael continued to recount his woes loudly and sniffly, I was conscious of our deadline at the other end when the neighbours needed to drop Dan back and my lemsip was wearing off. It was a tense car journey though in the end, Mr. Waffle was on time, we were on time and Michael got home.

When we got home, Daniel discovered that his Christmas list had gone missing and needed to be found immediately. Michael couldn’t open the milk bottle which needed to be opened immediately. Herself looking at me trailing around the house miserably still in my coat with my overnight bag in the hall said, “Mum, would you like me to make lunch?” Which she did, very competently. I’m beginning to feel that those teenage years may not be as bad as everyone says they will be.

I’m still sick as a dog but a quiet afternoon at home has done much to restore me. We had a particularly thrilling game of ludo.