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.
Daniel
Lydia’s Tragedy
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.
Overdoing It
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.
To Hell or to Connaught
Daniel: Is that a prison?
Me: No, actually, it’s a former mental hospital.
Daniel: It looks like a prison.
Me: It does a bit. When it was built, people with mental illnesses were treated a bit like prisoners and locked up in really unpleasant places. In fact, in Ireland, we have a very bad history of locking people up in mental asylums just because they were a bit strange or difficult. I read somewhere that in the 1950s there were more mental patients per head of population than anywhere else in the world.
Daniel: That Oliver Cromwell was really terrible, wasn’t he?
There are More Things on Heaven and Earth, Horatio
Daniel got to read a prayer of the faithful for the first time on Sunday which he did with aplomb, accuracy and great bravery [and speed]. Meanwhile Michael was off at the children’s session where he was busy looking for proof of the existence of Jesus. Apparently, the woman in charge told him that the Romans were terrific record keepers which may not be a theologically accurate response but did the job as far as I was concerned until his sister said, “Well, of course, we know he existed from Roman records but whether he was the Messiah or some kind of mad man remains unclear.” “If only we could travel back into the past and check like the Termoonator,” said Michael. “I think you mean the Terminator,” I said. “Is he a cow?” asked Michael.
All Change
On Friday morning we got up half an hour earlier and walked to school [we almost always drive, alas]. It was a lovely morning. Michael had floated the idea in the first place having been to a talk with the school for sustainable energy week. However, on hitting the pavement he was less keen drooping visibly and complaining of a sore leg. As good luck would have it, at the first traffic light we met a group of other parents and children and Michael was miraculously restored to health and they all went running off together sharing the scooters out amongst themselves.
One of the fathers who often organises vouchers for the teachers for Christmas, said to me, “We’re going to get a voucher for Máistir A [the boys’ teacher], fiver a head.” “Great,” said I mentally applauding his advance planning but not, you know, handing over the tenner on the spot. When we got to school it transpired that the Máistir had got a new job in Kerry [where he is from] and was starting on Monday. Although the school had been told a month previously, the children weren’t told until the day before to avoid distraction.
Apparently on Thursday a note came home in the school bags. But there was no homework on Thursday as the Sam Maguire and some of Dublin’s winning all-Ireland team had come to the school, so we hadn’t opened the bags. The children had been told but when asked whether there was any news from school they answered as follows:
Herself: No
Daniel: No
Michael: Yes, I was put on the balla dána by Múinteoir S [a cruel and unusual punishment that you may have to google].
Not a word about the máistir’s departure which I take it means that they are untraumatised. I’m a bit shocked myself but that’s life I suppose. The boys are getting a teacher who is very popular – he was out for the start of the year having surgery on his leg and he is just coming back now. 3rd class are the envy of the school. It’s an ill wind, I suppose.