Over the weekend we went swimming, we went to the Salvation Army shop where we bought all sorts of things we don’t need, we walked around the area round the shop and saw vats of wholesale olives for sale, the Princess nearly lost her life as we dragged her away (she is inordinately fond of olives) and we went to a tapas bar and a photograph exhibition and the park and dinner on Saturday night. We’re shattered.
Dinner on Saturday was interesting. It was at the home of my oldest friend. Not the friend I have known longest but my friend who is oldest. There were two other couples there who I had not met before. Mr. Waffle and I had the distinction of being the only couple who came from the same country (the issue of Cork’s independence being still undecided). There was much talk about bringing up bilingual children. Since most of the people there had children in their twenties they were able to speak confidently of their success. Oh the sophistication of it. Then we sat down to dinner. For reasons which are now not entirely clear to me, the issue of Cyprus came up. I said something flippant along the following lines: “weren’t the Greek Cypriots bad to vote no to reunification?” Then, as everyone looked at me in horror, the Greek man across the table leapt in and asked me about the knowledge of the agreement. Detailed knowledge. Ladies and gentlemen my knowledge is scant, very scant. It is gleaned from scanning cross items in the Economist. This was quickly revealed by my opponent and after that my downfall was inevitable. As I drowned in Greek facts about the number of Turkish troops on the island, I cast a pleading, desperate glance around the table. Mr. Waffle looked at his plate, the nice Canadian lady tried entirely unsuccessfully to change the topic, the Greek gentleman’s wife tried to draw him off but to no avail, he had scented blood and was closing in for the kill. Somebody murmured “Mr. Verheugen (EU enlargement commissioner, if you really want to know) is in complete agreement with you”. Like a drowning man clasping at straws I said “And he’s Dutch” and pointed at my immediate neighbour, a Dutch gentleman in the hope that he would then take the fall for the EU commissioner’s views on Cyprus. It was then that Mr. Waffle decided to intervene “um, actually I think Verheugen is German”. Oh you do, do you? I can tell you there were words about this in the Waffle mobile on the way home. Anyway, my straw was snatched away by my husband and we were off again “Oh yes, I remember being at dinner parties in 1974 saying Turkey would invade Cyprus and they laughed at me…”. I was a shadow of my former self, I can tell you.
And then on Sunday, I was looking at myself in the mirror and pawing anxiously at my hair. “I look like one of the Hardy boys” I moaned. And for the first time in living memory my husband made a negative comment about my appearance (well, he’s not stupid). “It could do with a cut alright” he said.
Goodness, it’s been one disaster after another here.
on 11 October 2004 at 15:29
Mr Waffle just gets better and better. You must feel like a third wheel in this blog at times, behind your bilingual cursing daughter and your punning Euro-know-it husband.
on 11 October 2004 at 21:04
This is Mr Waffle. I’ll write quickly as I don’t have much time – she may catch me at the keyboard any second. Silveretta, stop getting me in trouble ! If this goes on –aargh, got to go
on 11 October 2004 at 21:57
Did you see it? Just for a moment there, this blog seemed to shine more brightly. It was a form of spiritual and actual enlightenment the likes of which I can only hope we live to witness again. Really, it’s like breathing the exhalations of the Dalai Lama.
on 12 October 2004 at 12:38
Silver – you stirrer!
on 12 October 2004 at 14:25
Stirring is an art-form and should be admired as such. Keep up the good work silver. (not that I could possibly comment myself for fear of retribution).Anyways – personally, I think the hair looks wonderful. No Hardy Boy ever looked so stylish.
on 12 October 2004 at 18:50
We are all allowed to make an utter and absolute bollock of a dinner party once in our lives. Of course any further invites – not wholly impossible, given how forgiving older folk can sometimes be – to the location of the blood-letting should be approached with a more appropriate level of homework & tact…. Or send Mr Waffle on his own, just in case….
on 13 October 2004 at 20:15
Jack, I didn’t think it was that bad…Silver, there will be trouble, I’m warning you.