Last Friday night, after her brothers had gone to bed, Mr. Waffle and I took the Princess out to experience the Christmas Market and ancillary attractions. She absolutely loved it and so did we. She was as good as gold. We didn’t get home until 11.00. I said to her “I am a little bit worried that you will be tired tomorrow and very difficultâ€. “So am I†she said. And so she was. We went to the Brico (DIY shop) and she screamed blue murder. We were mortified. She didn’t really catch up on Sunday either. On Monday when I got home from work, the childminder said the Princess had gone for a nap at 5.30. When Mr. Waffle came home, I persuaded him that we should leave her: she had eaten and she was really tired. “OK†he said “but what happens, if she wakes up at 2.00 in the morning?â€. “She won’t and, if she does, I will get up with herâ€. At 2.00 in the morning, there was a knock on the bedroom door “I want to get upâ€. My noble, noble, saintly husband got up with her, gave her corn flakes and, most miraculously, persuaded her to go back to bed. The following morning, all was sweetness and light.
Belgium
Christmas Spirit or the first weekend of Advent
I know that Saturday was only December 1 but I thought we’d get a Christmas tree as we are going to Ireland on the 20th. While, in theory, I really admire the Belgians for not making Christmas a two month orgy, I was, nevertheless, slightly peeved when having promised herself that we would decorate one while the boys napped, there were no Christmas trees to be had.
30 days of non-stop blogging and a nasty head cold had taken their toll on me and I retired to bed for a nap after lunch and slept until, eeek, 3.23. Catastrophe. Despite rousing the boys and chivying the Princess we only managed to get out the door at 4.23 meaning that we arrived at the Grand Place at 4.55 which, I can tell you was a herculean effort involving much sprinting and mincing the ankles of innocent tourists with our buggy. Alas, too late. Saint Nicolas and his donkey, his brass band, his little black helpers (I know, I know) and his supply of free sweets had gone leaving only a mound of sweet wrappers to mark his passing. The Princess bawled. I nearly cried myself. To add insult to injury, another Saint Nicolas was in the Grand Place surrounded by an anxious band of kiddies and their parents. Unfortunately, he and his helpers were there to do a photo shoot and didn’t want children in the way so this was, possibly, the only Santa on earth who shooed children away. My poor little mites held out their hands longingly to touch the great man’s cloak and were brushed away by angry men saying “Stand back, stand backâ€. If I could have found out what they were advertising I would tell you so that you could boycott it.
We pushed off to look at the live crib and they were interested in the sheep. Mr. Waffle then had the genius idea of taking them to the merry-go-round which saved our bacon and largely wiped out the memory of mean Santa.
Saint Nicolas normally comes on the night of December 5 in Belgium, however, he is a busy man and he comes to different houses at different times. He came to us on Saturday night. The Princess reverently placed a carrot for his donkey inside the door on a plastic lid. She lined up her shoes and the boys’. She agonised that Saint Nicolas might not know where to put the presents in the absence of a Christmas tree but we reassured her. We put out a special tablecloth and left out for Saint Nicolas two speculoos biscuits and a bottle of Christmas beer (this is Belgium, of course Saint Nicolas drinks beer). I put the Princess to bed and read her her story – “The Night before Christmasâ€. “Put it on the table for Saint Nicolas to read, big people like to have something to read while they’re eatingâ€
Saint Nicolas and his donkey came and polished off their treats. The Princess got a bicycle. Oh the excitement. It was fantastic. The boys were slightly less entranced with their wooden toys and felt that, if he were any good, Saint Nicolas would have brought them bicycles too. Some squabbling ensued only partially resolved by distribution of the chocolate, mandarins and marzipan pigs left in the children’s shoes (the hygiene implications of this are mildly alarming but since Michael yesterday bent down and tasted the water in a puddle we probably have more serious concerns, like Weil’s disease).
The day was young, we’d all been up since 6.30. This gave us ample time to make 9.00 mass, almost on time though the Princess cycled and I walked with the boys. They were really keen to walk so I let them, a decision I had ample opportunity to regret as I marshalled them towards the church in the driving rain over a period of 20 long minutes.
We had intended to go to Antwerp Zoo to meet the Dutch Mama and her family (it being a half way point between Brussels and the Hague) but the cold driving rain had really put me off even though the children were very hyped up. We took them home and put them in front of Barney while we telephoned back and forth to the Hague to decide what we would do. I think it was in Dooce that I read that it’s not Barney that’s sinister but those stage struck children who play with him. This is true. My daughter is turning into them. She’s a great little mimic (she does an excellent English accent based on her friend L’s diction which she just puts on all the time except when I want to record it for youtube ‘before cars everyone had hosses’ ‘horses’ ‘yes hossesâ€) and it’s slightly terrifying. I digress. The Dutch Mama’s husband is some kind of nuclear engineer and when the nuclear disaster comes it is he who will be limiting the damage. It is therefore comforting that he is a precise and thorough man but I still had some difficulty believing his claim that though it was raining in Brussels and the Hague “the rain in Antwerp stopped three minutes agoâ€. In the end, we went. We had no alternative plan and we feared being rent limb from limb by the children, if they didn’t get to the zoo.
I’ve never been to the zoo in Antwerp before. It’s next door to the station and, therefore, right in the centre of town, overlooked by apartment buildings. It is very odd but strangely endearing. It has an out of town arm (Plankendael) which I have never liked (memorably we once paid 42 euros to get into Plankendael and wallow in the mud and a further 16 to make our own sandwiches) but is strangely popular with other people. I did like the Zoo though. Since it was mostly pouring rain, we largely had the place to ourselves. The children were delighted to meet again and so were their parents. While the parents were somewhat unenthused by the icy driving rain, the children didn’t seem to mind. And we had the burger restaurant to ourselves except for a couple of pigeons (again, those niggling hygiene concerns). I know zoos aren’t really very nice for the animals but as we stood there huddling together (the adults, the children were haring around delighted with themselves) in the rain looking in at the monkeys in their nice warm dry climate controlled glass boxes, it was hard not to feel a tiny bit envious. I’d still go back like a flash though.
The Dutch Mama and I have a thriving system of clothing exchange for children and I had brought her a big bag of things (mostly hers now going back to her to kit out her extremely cute new baby – quite possibly the best child in the world – she spent her time at the zoo smiling or sleeping, mind you, she was in her buggy with its waterproof cladding). Having brought them all the way to Antwerp, I was determined to hand them over. Once Michael slipped on his bottom in the mud in the zoo our time there was up. We decided to cut our losses and head for home. We entered into a complex arrangement whereby Mr. Waffle would hand the bag of clothes over to Mr. Dutch Mama at the zoo gates. He did so while I stayed with my children in the car and the hardy Dutch children continued their exploration of the zoo with their Mama. I would like to say now that I appreciate that a paper bag full of clothes and weighing a ton was probably not the best container for a wet wet wet day. I am hoping that a) the bag didn’t dissolve and b) the Dutch contingent will some day forgive me.
Christmas belongs to the Germans
Everything that we associate with Christmas was, essentially, imported by Queen Victoria from her German relatives and exported from there to a waiting world. I was forcibly reminded of this today when I went to the Saxony-Anhalt Christmas market in Brussels. It was absolutely beautiful. They had lovely things for the children, singers in odd costumes who sang to them, not a single tacky stall and the most wonderful wooden toys and decorations. It was without doubt the most perfect Christmas market I have ever been to. It helped that the whole thing seemed to be fairly uncommercial. They were selling things but in a very relaxed way. We were all enchanted. There is absolutely no way I am taking my children to meet Santa after they have seen his workshop at head height in the Saxony Anhalt Christmas market.
I think we can take it that the festivities have begun.
NaBloPoMo – OK, W tomorrow, no really.
Freedom of Speech
The local nasty extreme right wingers stuck a brochure through the door. I see that they are concerned that freedom of speech has disappeared. Under the liberal consensus no one can criticise Islam any more. Don’t worry they have a solution; send all those nasty people back where they came from. In the case of the very nice Muslim women who work in the boys’ creche, I think that would probably be Etterbeek.
NaBloPoMo – Are we there yet? P is for Parker, Parks and Pratchett
Parker, that’s Dorothy Parker, obviously. Do I need to say more? “If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised”
I have always liked the idea of Tim Parks rather more than the result. He is an English man who married an Italian woman and lives in Verona. I find his books about growing up in the midst of what is, essentially, an Italian family with a funny English father, insightful and sometimes amusing. His writing can be a bit convoluted for me. The best of his books is “A Season with Verona”. Although Verona is famous in the English speaking world for Romeo and Juliet, it is famous in Italy for being the most racist town in the country and having the roughest football fans. He spent a season bonding with the roughest of them. It is enlightening and surprisingly touching from time to time.
Terry Pratchett is great. He can be a little hit and miss but as my favourite aunt who reads everything says, why get something new from the library when you know you can rely on Terry Pratchett to deliver the goods. Mildly humourous fantasy set on a fictional planet called Discworld which resembles our own in many ways. I have them all.
Perspective
I am fascinated by the way the British are so cautious about some things (careful, peanut packet contains nuts!) and so utterly reckless about others (more debt, help yourself sir, no, no, don’t bother with any independent advice).
A friend of mine who is half English, half Belgian pointed out what should have been obvious to me, namely, that the issue is not one of concern but of liability. The “careful contains nuts” brigade do not have any views about the well-being or intelligence level of their customers, they are merely anxious to avoid being sued. The financial institutions are much less concerned about this as the market is famously lightly regulated and they can get away with blue murder.
My Anglo-Belgian friend points out that the Belgian banks are far more paternalistic and there are no credit cards in Belgium merely deferred debit cards; everyone must pay off in full at the end of the month. An English friend tells me that her bank in Belgium was horrified when she and her husband decided not to take a fixed rate mortgage. “But” they said, “it’s twenty years, anything could happen.” They decided to chance it on the basis that it was only variable up to a ceiling of 2% more than the fixed rate.
The Belgians are also delightfully relaxed and normal about children’s safety, something I feel is not the case in Britain and increasingly not the case in Ireland. I was reading about the Madeleine McCann case in Le Soir a couple of weeks ago. The editorial was very disapproving about England and referred to its dreadful history touching on various tragic cases of abducted children. I did have a slight feeling of ‘hang on a minute, watch out for the mote in your own eye’. But it seems to me that the real difference is that though at some level, in Britain, people know that their children are statistically very unlikely to be abducted, they don’t act that way. In Belgium, despite everything, they still do.
NaBloPoMo – O is for pretty much everything
Flann O’Brien is a genius, he also wrote as Brian O’Nolan and Myles na Gopaleen. If you have never seen a ‘Keats and Chapman’ story and you like poor puns, I can recommend an excellent Christmas present for you. If you have never heard of ‘the brother’ your life is about to get a lot happier. The catechism of cliche is a thing of wonder. There is a little background information on the great man here. When I was growing up a hard backed brown volume called “The Best of Myles” was my father’s constant companion. I would occasionally sneak off with it only to be forced to replace it promptly following a bellow from my indignant father. I was going to give you a Keats and Chapman story but they are all rather long and the goodness of the internet does not appear to extend to providing a copy of a text. I am, however, selflessly going to retype something from the catechism of cliche. If you don’t love this, you have no soul. If it reminds you of my style, you have no tact.
“Is treatment, particularly bad treatment, ever given to a person?
No. It is always meted out.
Is anything else ever meted out?
No. The only thing that is ever meted out is treatment.
And what does the meting out of treatment evoke?
The strongest protest against the treatment meted out.
Correct. Mention another particularly revolting locution.
‘The matter will fall to be dealt with by so-and-so.’
Good. Are you sufficiently astute to invent a sentence where this absurd jargon will be admissible?
Yes. ‘The incendiary bombs will fall to be dealt with by fire fighting squads.’
Very good indeed. Is that enough for wan day?
It is, be the japers.”
John O’Farrell wrote what I think is the funniest book I have ever read. It’s called “Things Can Only Get Better: Eighteen Miserable Years in the Life of a Labour Supporter” and it incapacitated me with laughter in private and, regrettably, in public. Yes, I was the hysterical woman on the tram. I read two of his other books but though perfectly acceptable, they did not live up to this brilliant, brilliant book.
I got a present of an Ardal O’Hanlon book from the, now former, publishing exec. Ardal O’Hanlon is an Irish comedian most famous for playing the gormless Fr. Dougal on the “Father Ted” series. I thought his book would be funny, it was not. I thought it would be poorly written. It wasn’t. I don’t think it sold very well either though. I’m not sure anyone expected Father Dougal to write a dark brilliant story of Irish small town life (sort of like Pat McCabe, but to my mind much better – is it coincidence that he and McCabe come from the same small town? I think not – stay safe, stay away from Monaghan). I would never have bought it in a million years but it was brilliant. I don’t think he ever wrote another and this seems to have sunk without trace which was a shame.
My husband brought a complete set of P.J. O’Rourke books to our marriage. I like him. I can’t help myself.
Do you realise that if it weren’t for Ireland and the diaspora, I would have no entries under O?
Random Films
I gather from peering into someone else’s copy of Le Soir on the tram, that in Michael Moore’s new flick “Sicko†he gives the nod to the Belgian health system. Which is, indeed, excellent. Mind you, it is sustained by whopping taxes. It’s all about choices. I’m probably with the Belgians here.
I saw a fantastic film about the influence of the orient on Venice. Do you know the French word espèces meaning cash? Well that’s what it means, now you know. But did you know that it comes from épices, meaning spices; I didn’t think so. And further that in the middle ages when you went to pay your bill, people asked whether you would be paying in cash or spices? Venice had a monopoly on pepper; boy were they rolling in it. There’s a pun there somewhere.
NaBloPoMo N is for NothombÂ
Amelie Nothomb is a Belgian author who apparently lives in the Galerie de la Reine (very swish) and is mad as a hatter. I have read two of her books and they are excellent and the langugage is easy (perhaps not a hurdle that my favourite English books have to jump).
“Stupeurs et Tremblements” is a semi-fictional account about a young girl going to work in a Japanese company. It is hilarious and also sad. “Metaphysique des Tubes” is about the first three years of her life (spent in Japan where her father was a diplomat). Much of this time was spent lying and not moving but she was eventually brought to her senses by her grandmother feeding her chocolate. This is even funnier than “Stupeurs et Tremblements” and quite a lot weirder. Apparently her stuff is a bit hit and miss but I have had two great hits.