I’m sure you will be relieved to hear of my improvement as you must be as sick of this as I am. I did spend a considerable part of last night sitting up on the sofa coughing with a tissue poked up my nose but all my other symptoms have abated. Hurrah. Poor Princess is, however, feeling very unwell. In what must be a new low, Peter Pan went on this morning at 8.55.
This is what happens, if you let your child watch too many Disney, DVDs, please note American accent.
The doctor came round this morning and examined myself and the Princess. Mr. Waffle didn’t feel we were sick enough to justify this indulgence but this being Belgium, there is a team of doctors out there whose job is to come to your house and they don’t care how sick or well you are as long as you pay their very moderate fees.
He said that I might have flu but they hadn’t seen much flu this year so he was reluctant to diagnose, though it was odd that I had suffered four days of high temperature. He said I should be better soon. I see no sign yet. Still, I wasn’t expecting to, I just need a cert for work once I’ve been off for three days. It would be much cheaper and handier for everyone, if they’d just trust me. Moan, groan, grizzle, whinge.
The Princess really is sick now though and he seemed quite impressed by her illness. Shall we say a full novena that the boys don’t succumb?
Because the one time I had the flu, I could barely struggle out of bed. But I have got a nasty cold.
Yesterday, I spent all day in bed, being poked in the eyeball from time to time by a very bored Princess. Our cleaner kindly agreed to stay all day and keep an eye on herself but I think she (the Princess and probably also the cleaner) has now decided that there is such a thing as too much television. She went off to school today with a spring in her step.
Our cleaner is a very nice woman from the Eastern part of Poland and she disapproves profoundly of my decision to work. Yesterday, she said to the Princess – isn’t it nice to have Mama at home instead of her going off to work? The Princess was gobsmacked; here she was having the most boring day of her life and she was supposed to like it. I was mildly gratified.
And in other whinging about the help news (is there anything more irritating, than someone who does that?) our childminder does not, like me, believe in always telling children the truth. I like to think that it builds up their soft skills. The other day, Daniel, expressed a desire to see the childminder’s daughter C. It was 6 o’clock in the evening, the childminder was just leaving, she said “you want to come with me, you want to see C?”. Daniel’s little face lit up. Why would she torture him this way? As I say, building up their soft skills.
Finally, the Princess has a half day at school today, I rang L’s mother who lives around the corner to ask her, if she could take the Princess this afternoon, in view of my enfeebled state. She croaked on the other end of the phone – no, I have the flu and so has my husband and my two year old. Given that she was just starting to feel ill when she was around here on Friday afternoon, perhaps it is the flu after all.
Back to bed, while I still can.
I have a rotten cold: achy limbs, runny nose, hacking cough, temperature, dizziness and general misery.
I spent last night alternatively roasting and shivering. The Princess arrived in to our bed at 1.00 in the morning with the same symptoms. I said we would stay home together today. Is she now sick? Nope. She seems to be the picture of health and is sitting up watching “Mary Poppins” while I am about to haul myself back to bed.
Michael (combing his hair and looking at himself in the mirror): Michael est belle.
Mr. Waffle: Michael est beau.
Michael (crossly): Michael est BELLE.
Mr. Waffle: Ta soeur est belle, tu es beau.
Michael (furious): MICHAEL EST BELLE.
Mr. Waffle: Michael est belle.
Last November, during the NaBloPoMo odyssey somebody recommended Robertson Davies to me. I can’t remember who it was but I am very grateful.
I have just finished “The Deptford Trilogy” and it was excellent. Mr. Davies writes beautiful, spare, precise prose and it is a constant joy to read.
I learnt a lot about Canadians. I had always thought of them as like Americans only saner and with better healthcare and gun control. I also thought of them as French speaking Catholics; I mean, I knew there were a lot of English speakers there too but Quebec had unduly coloured my view of the country. Now I know that there are whole swathes of Canada that come from the same dour Scottish strain that is visible in Northern Ireland and it has given me a very different feel for the country and one that is much more nuanced.
The amazing thing, to me, is that I had never heard of Robertson Davies, even though one of his books was shortlisted for the Booker prize. Even though a Canadian friend said, that he was regarded as the father of Canadian literature. And I am not alone, very few of my friends had heard of him. Shame!
I have also just finished “An Accidental Diplomat” by Eamon Delaney. This is not a great work of literature though it was a bestseller. It’s possible that most of the copies were bought by officials in the Irish Department of Foreign Affairs. It gives an account of the author’s time as a junior diplomat in the Department in the late 80s to mid 90s and names many names. Apparently, there was a feeling in Foreign Affairs that the real problem with the book was that it did not contain an index. I started it years ago and gave up in annoyance. I came back to it, however, and found it gently humourous (very like a blog, not so much like a book – dreadfully poorly edited too, loads of typos and repetition) and I feel more indulgent to the author who this time round seems like a very young man from a very long time ago rather than an irritating cocky know it all only the same age as me. That’s middle age for you, I suppose.
And finally, I have also finished Seamus Deane’s “Reading in the Dark”. I thought as I started it – I am never reading a book by a poet again. Opened at random at page 132, may I offer you the following: “the rain dripping from us in clock-steady drops”; “small artilleries of thunder rattled in the distance”; “the Sacred Heart lamp burning in its chained vessel above the altar:crimson, scarlet, crimson, steady, flickering, steady”. I am not saying that the language isn’t beautiful but it’s a bit rich and indigestible for an entire novel. In the end, though, I was seduced by the book, it has a good plot and some wonderful set-pieces: ghost stories and, in particular, the maths class chapter which is masterful.
Finally, finally, I was away and I bought Mr. Waffle back a present of this book “Affluenza“; I’d seen it well reviewed and I thought that the premise was interesting, namely, that we’re all bitten by a bug which makes us spend money unnecessarily. Mr. Waffle looked at the offering. “But you hate Oliver James“, he said. “It’s written by that Oliver James, the man from the Observer?” I asked in horror. “Yup, and,” he said, flipping over the back of the book, “he’s 8.99 better off thanks to you.” Blah.