belgianwaffle

Archives for March 2014

Here I am, nearly 45, and still alive


Posted in: Family

That line comes from something. Can I find it in the richness of the internet? I can not. I thought it was from “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock” but it’s not. I offer you:

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

So, tomorrow, I will be 45.

This is what it is like to be 45.

1. I can feel a draft. I am constantly saying, “Close the door!”
2. I really wanted an airtight biscuit tin for Christmas. Nothing says Christmas like an airtight biscuit tin.
3. I bought a new winter coat from Windsmoor.
4. I rely on my children to make me aware of the latest internet viral video. In fact, are there videos any more?
5. I love to stay in with a book or the internet. In Chesterton’s short story “The Strange Crime of John Boulnois”, John Boulnois says “.. sitting in that chair with that story I was as happy as a schoolboy on a half-holiday. It was security, eternity–I can’t convey it… the cigars were within reach…the matches were within reach… the Thumb had four more appearances to…it was not only a peace, but a plenitude.” I am not a cigar smoker but I know what he means. Incidentally, to my knowledge we have three copies of the Fr Brown short stories in the house. Could I find one? No but the internet provided.
6. I love being on my own.
7. I love BBC radio 4, I really do. Not as much as my father who has, for as long as I can remember, had it on all night – very loudly – on his bedside table, but a lot. Even stupid old “Money Box Live” and “You and Yours”.
8. I find music in pubs VERY loud.
9. When I see teenagers, I frequently find myself thinking variants of what is that child wearing/she’s a lovely looking child, if only she would wear some nice clothes/is that the fashion, I wonder.
10. My parents are old and, alas, ill. I love my siblings and enjoy spending time with them. Even my extremely annoying brother.
11. I find a basket on my bicycle really handy. What is the point of dropped handlebars? Cycling makes me feel slightly smug.
12. I am not always sure what day of the week it is offhand. Or what age I am. I can usually make a good guess.
13. My children have reached the age where they can largely entertain themselves but they still love me.
14. I like to go hill walking with my husband.
15. I feel stretched in all directions; work is busy; home is busy; my parents are old and live 250kms away. In the evenings, there is always a pile of domestic administration awaiting my attention.
16. I like home improvement shows on the television. You wondered where the audience was for those programmes; your hunt is over.
17. I generally only see my friends at my bookclubs and at lunch.
18. I book my holidays 6 months in advance.
19. I like classical music in the background as I eat my breakfast and read the paper.
20. I like to do things in the garden.

You may wish me happy birthday.

More Birthday – Normal Service Resumes Tomorrow


Posted in: Family, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

Mr. Waffle and I went for a birthday walk in the mountains today. It was an absolutely beautiful day as you can see from this photo taken in town at 9 this morning.

Unfortunately, my pictures from the mountains do not do the day justice. But never mind, I will make you suffer anyhow.

Before:

During:

[Sore knee from skiing – Andorra ’96 – coming back to haunt me somewhat during the ascent along with pulled calf from tennis match on Friday night. This is what happens to the elderly.]

And the view from the café afterwards:

.

My 5 year old niece has just called me because she remembered it was my birthday – that’s the kind of dedication we like to see in young children. My father and aunt sent cards. I got lovely presents from family members. Lots of people emailed. This is the first birthday, though, when I haven’t spoken to my mother because she is just not well enough to talk to me. She is, however, the person who taught me to continue enjoying birthdays as a grown-up so I am sure that she would be delighted that I am still celebrating with enthusiasm.

Here is my cake.

It’s all about who?


Posted in: Princess, Siblings

Sister (to me last week): You haven’t updated your blog in ages.
Daughter: I know, and I have said so many blog worthy things.

So, obviously, I’m back.

The Wisdom of Belgians


Posted in: Mr. Waffle

I got my hair cut recently. I was speaking with some enthusiasm about the new hairdresser when Mr. Waffle commented, “Il faut jamais changer du coiffeur”. “Eh?” “Remember, the obstetrician said it when you were giving birth.” I am glad that he has treasured this advice all these years to be produced at an opportune moment.

Cat News


Posted in: Hodge

Just because you’re fat, doesn’t mean that you’re not hungry. Our cat is living proof of this. All of our meals are eaten to the accompaniment of increasingly desperate squawks from the cat. She is on an endless, unavailing diet which she undermines by catching and eating wildlife supplements.

Mr. Waffle bought me flowers and a card on Valentine’s Day. We don’t usually bother with Valentine’s Day because I am terminally unromantic. The children put us under pressure though and he was always more likely to crack because at heart he is a complete romantic. I put the flowers in a vase in the other room and the cat used her time alone in the kitchen to eat the roast beef intended for the Princess’s lunch time sandwich; so it was a definite win from her point of view. When I went to the fridge to get the pre-sliced turkey which was the alternative for lunch, I found that the fridge door had opened (an ongoing problem – sloping floor, poor seal, overfilled) and the cat was working her way steadily through the turkey slices.

Yesterday evening when I came home she had managed to heave her impressive bulk on to the roof of the neighbour’s shed. She was delighted to see me and made a series of pathetic, I’m stuck noises. I tried to coax her down but to no avail. Even though I was late for my tennis match (lost 6-1, 6-3, alas, thanks for asking), I felt I couldn’t just leave her there. I hauled out the ladder from our own shed and hopped up to grab her but she had disappeared. I leant out uncertainly checking the neighbour’s shed roof and guttering and I heard the cat in the distance as though she were indoors. I started checking pipes, peering into alcoves and generally risking life and limb. I heard her again and there she was sitting looking at me from the doorway of our own shed with a “what is she doing” look on her face.

So, for those who asked, she’s fine thanks but the rest of us are starting to feel increasingly resentful.

#tycdinners


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

Look at me with my trendy title. You will never guess what I did last night. You don’t have to, however, because I am going to tell you.

I saw a competition on broadsheet: to enter you had to tweet a picture of the statue of Grattan at College Green and add the hashtag tycdinners. If you won, you got an “intimate dinner for two” in a secret location. So I entered, but you know, just because I was passing really.

So you can imagine then, my surprise, when this popped up in my notifications:

I never win anything; I was delighted. And then horrified; the nature of the competition was that night or never [and I’d only seen the notification at lunchtime]. This competition is designed for trendy young people who don’t need to get a babysitter before they go out. Not just that but Daniel and Herself were scheduled to sing at the First Confession between 7.15 and 8.15 and somebody had to look after Michael at home. It looked as though the first competition I had (possibly ever) won was slipping from my grasp. My husband, who is, as you know, a saint, said, why not ring your friend F and see whether she can go with you instead of me.

I rang friend F.
Me: What are you doing tonight?
Her: I have to work late doing some tax prep (she is a tax lawyer so not as bad for her as other people, or, who knows, actually, maybe worse).
Me: Oh dear.
Her: Well, I could be flexible, why, what is it?
Me: [Slightly garbled explanation]
Her: Feck the tax, I’m in. [She was accepted for art school but decided to do law at the last moment, I feel this makes her my most alternative friend].

With the excitement of dinner at 8 in a secret location; me only getting home from work at 6.30; and two of the children to be bundled out in their best bib and tucker by 7, it was all a bit of a scramble. Mr. Waffle bought chips for the children for dinner which I didn’t touch (my body is a temple etc.) and which they regarded as a hugely welcome unexpected bonus. I cannot reflect on my children’s meals this week with a sense of anything even approaching virtue.

Never mind. My friend called round to collect me [obligatory phone call – do you know the way punctuality was never my strongest point? – I’m running a bit late] and I navigated us to the secret location with some success. I read aloud to her from the email: “just go in the steel gates”. “Really?” said she. “Through the steel gates to this unknown man’s garage. Are you sure about this competition”

Anyhow, we were met by the organiser who is part of a company rejoicing in the unlikely name of Designgoat who was charming and F was reassured. He said he made furniture which was lovely and everything but, you know, dinner. We were brought to an enormous room where he had made a little house and inside the little house [which matched the one at the bottom of the Grattan statue] was our table, our chef and our kitchen.

Aside, I said to Mr. Designgoat, I know somebody who works in the creative business; my husband’s, brother’s wife’s sister is a stylist and her husband is a graphic designer [go me – and such a close link]. He paused for a moment and said, “Oh you mean A who is working upstairs as we speak”. Welcome to Ireland. Also about were me&him&you who were involved in a way that is not entirely clear to me but they were lovely young men and they took our pictures. It was an environment where I was finally able to sample an extensive range of this hipster beard I hear so much about.

Our chef was called Essa and he was young and charming and we were filled with hope. And hungry. He mentioned that Mr. Designgoat had only finished the restaurant kitchen half an hour before he had to start cooking and it looked a tiny bit primitive [he only implied the latter but as, it turned out Mr. DG was his brother so he was, perhaps, more frank about the logistical shortcomings than a stranger might have been].

There was mild apprehension in the air. It was misplaced. The food was amazing. And there were loads of courses. I was particularly taken with the granita and the cod [two separate courses – focus]. And Essa chatted away merrily to us while doing all kinds of fancy things with no apparent effort. He was doing this on his night off, so I felt slightly guilt ridden – chefs and junior doctors the home of the long hours cultures – I felt he needed his night off. Never mind, it was all good for us. Did I mention the homemade Snickers dessert? Are you screaming with envy? Rightly so. Also, I now know what a micro herb is. There will be no stopping me now.

While somebody else worried about washing up we got to look at the Mr. DG’s studio and workshop – I nearly asked how much it would cost to make some furniture for us but then I remembered about my piano costs (I’ll tell you another time) and scuttled out into the night before committing any terrible extravagance.

I can tell you, this is what I always thought the romance of the big city was all about.

Tomorrow morning, however, I will be standing at the side of a windswept pitch somewhere in North County Dublin looking at determined 8 year olds playing Gaelic football.

Insert your own sage comment here. Did you know that sage can be grown as a micro herb? Really, I can stop anytime.