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Family

Christmas Round Up

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Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Family, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings

Daniel read at the carol service on the Friday evening before Christmas and he was absolutely fantastic. I was very proud of him. Mr. Waffle tends to regard our children’s successes and failures as their own but I regard everything as a reflection on me and I basked vicariously in his glory. The carols were nice too.

On Sunday we had our Christmas drinks party. Every year I am in the horrors in prospect and then quite pleased with it when in progress and delighted with myself afterwards. This year was no different. We had a moment of suprise when Daniel said, as I stood poised with a toothpick over a cocktail sausage, “I think those are the ones Michael puts in his mouth.” “And puts back in the box?” I asked in horror. Apparently so. Anyhow we had an unopened packet and we spoke to Michael about toothpicks being a single use item so a win overall.

On December 23, I queued outside Sheridan’s cheesemongers in town for 20 minutes. It was a small price to pay as my sister-in-law was making Christmas dinner but I think we can take it as a sign that the Dublin economy is still doing just fine.

It was a busy couple of days. For all of us, apparently.

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On Christmas Eve, the children and I met and an old friend of mine and his children. We’ve been doing this for about 10 years now so that makes it a festive tradition, I suppose. I found old pictures of when the children were smaller and he and I were quite nostalgic. My children were politely indifferent.

When we got home, Mr. Waffle told us that the toilet seat upstairs had broken. I thought it a bit unlikely that he would succeed on his hunt for a replacement on Christmas Eve but I underestimated him. A Christmas miracle.

We went to midnight mass (starts at 9, over by 10.30) and so we had a pretty relaxed Christmas morning with no one up before 9.

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Christmas presents this year were pretty successful overall. I rolled over Mr. Waffle’s subscription to the Economist and did not get him a copy of “Surveillance Capitalism” about which I had given strong hints and which filled him with fear because all he really wanted was the new Ross O’Carroll Kelly book which I dutifully delivered.

As we were going out to dinner herself did us all an amazingly elaborate Christmas breakfast which we all enjoyed though she was slightly frazzled. Christmas lunch with the cousins was very good and entirely labour free although Mr. Waffle and I felt a bit guilty; we’ll have them around for dinner in the new year.

Mr. Waffle and the children refused to go orienteering on St. Stephen’s Day but we did go for a walk so there was that. I was not as pleased by the situation as this picture might lead you to believe but my children were an absolute delight.

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We did very little on the 27th and headed down to Cork on the 28th. We decided to have lunch in Milano’s in town when we got to Cork before pushing on to grace the relatives with our presence. I was ill-prepared for parking in town. I decided I would test out the city council’s park by phone service, it is not effective. I am €10 poorer and I still had to scoot off to buy parking discs – I met two traffic wardens and they told me that the park by phone service was down; where I might buy discs and that they would not clamp my car while I was gone. This is perhaps not fascinating but I had to get it off my chest. It ended up costing me €20 for an hour’s parking.

Nonetheless we went on to my parents’ house in reasonably good order. My sister and brother always get very extravagant presents for the children (and indeed me) and this year the children, yet again, cleaned up.

I gave my father a new cap – sorely needed – and it may have been my most successful present of the year. He wore it to mass on Sunday and we both thought it looked pretty good. He was chirpy on Sunday and as he and I drove back from mass together (leaving the others to toil on foot) we reprised together some of the more popular carols performed by the choir.

My brother, the boys and I went ice skating together which was moderately successful. We went to Kinsale for a walk with my sister. As I said cheerfully to my little group as I ushered them in to the car, “It’s not actually raining.” The children dutifully posed for the now traditional “caution children” shot.

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After an hour or so patiently waiting outside in the damp, we finally got our lunch in the Bulman. While we were queuing, my sister’s friend came with her husband, her five year old, her brother and her 83 year old father. We chatted. Mr. Waffle suggested that we should give them our place in the queue. The rest of us were heartless. He is a better person than us but we were hungrier than him. Happily we were all seated at more or less the same time so the terrible ethical dilemma did not arise. Then we went on to Charles Fort which, alas, was closed. Curse you, OPW.

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My sister and I went for a wander around the craft shops of the town and Mr. Waffle and the children went home (having driven to Kinsale in two cars which was handy if not ecologically sound). By the time I got back to Cork that evening, I was starting to feel ill. I was sick as a dog last night and was not wellfor our drive back to Dublin this morning but here I am in the comfort of my own home with as much lemsip at my disposal as I may need to see in the new year.

A very happy new year to you all and hope Christmas went well for you too.

Weekend Round-Up

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Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Family, Michael, Princess, Siblings

A weekend filled with adventure and excitement etc. On Friday night, Mr. Waffle, the Princess and I went to see a local theatre troop do a Christmas special which was good in parts. Inevitably, herself knew one of the cast who had videoed her doing various worthy things in youth organisations over the years.

On Saturday, Daniel had a match miles away and Michael had his drama showcase. Michael’s drama went well, although Daniel was not delighted to hear another child address Michael with the words, “As your twin…” in the play. Daniel lost his match but felt he had played reasonably well so was cheerful enough notwithstanding his defeat. Sadly Michael has decided that he has had enough drama and doesn’t want to sign up for next term. Alas.

Then last night, my sister came up from Cork and joined us for dinner. Last weekend the Princess was in Cork and her phone died. While her cruel parents felt she would manage, her kindly Cork relatives decided to club together and get her a new iPhone X as a Christmas present which was delivered early (last night) on the basis that she couldn’t be expected to survive phoneless for much longer. And even though my brother who is a shameless haggler in all circumstances managed to get the shop to knock €75 off the price, it was still quite the expensive present. Herself was ecstatic as well she might be.

Today Daniel read at mass and he was absolutely wonderful. After mass, Michael lent across to me and said, “Wasn’t Daniel supposed to be reading today?” He had completely failed to notice his brother reading which does make me wonder whether any of the service at all seeps in.

This afternoon, herself was off on a Christmas baking extravaganza with her friends, the boys had their friends over to play “Call of Cthulhu” [“Dungeons and Dragons adjacent” is how herself describes it, probably all you need to know] and I went off to my bookclub Christmas meeting which was quite delightful.

And now my sister is going to call in again having visited IKEA (which she loves and is not available in Cork) and will doubtless come bearing further gifts. Very satisfactory. And how was your own weekend?

And We Like Sheep

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Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland, Reading etc.

Mr. Waffle and I went to Handel’s Messiah in the local church last night. It was completely sold out – the organ restoration fund thanks you – and all very nice but it is long. A good 3 hours including the interval. It took a lot out of me but at least I had thought to bring a cushion and I imagine I was quite a bit more comfortable than the local bigwigs who graced the performance with their presence but had not had the forethought to bring their own cushions.

Today is my beloved grandmother’s birthday. She was born in 1897 and died in 1984. I always think of her in November.

That’s all I’ve got for today. More tomorrow when I am feeling stronger.

Cork


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Princess, Siblings

I was in Cork at the weekend with herself. Nothing really happened but here we are in November and I have committed to posting every day. It’s only the 11th and I’m exhausted already.

I took herself to the cemetery to see my mother’s grave and almost missed it because the enormous overgrown hydrangea bush nearby, which is a handy marker, had been chopped down by somebody in an excess of enthusiasm. We went at dusk and it was quite beautiful. I couldn’t help feeling that had she known, my mother would have been delighted to be interred in such an interesting cemetery.

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My father and my aunt were pretty remarkably perky. I made herself consult with my father for his live take on the rise of fascism for her history essay but as he was only 15 in 1940, it was a bit underwhelming – he just summarised what we knew already – but he did comment that his views were formed in part by the papers his aunts and uncles took: the Daily Mail and, oh God, the Express. I can only rejoice, I suppose, that he himself is a Daily Telegraph reader.

We went out on Friday night for my sister’s birthday which was a bit disastrous as both she and my brother were quite ill and herself was exhausted. We ate our way around Cork over the weekend. After our ill-fated dinner on Friday night, herself and myself had a satisfactory breakfast in the Crawford, then picked up lunch ingredients in the Market and in the evening she had chips and Tanora from Jackie Lennox’s; the following morning we had breakfast in the Nano Nagle cafe (aside, is it too early for the return of Hanora as a girl’s name?). All in all a culinary tour de force.

How was your own weekend? Much food?

The Death of Olga Bracely


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

A couple of years ago, I rescued a ceramic hen from Cork . She was a feature of my childhood when she would be brought out on special occasions to sit on boiled eggs. My father slightly resisted her departure to Dublin but the house in Cork is so full of stuff that he yielded and let her off to the bright lights of Dublin.

When I got her to Dublin, my family felt she needed a name, so she was called Olga Bracely after the character from the Mapp and Lucia books although in character she was much more a Mrs. Mapp type than an Olga Bracely as the latter, despite her great name, is in fact a lovely individual whereas my hen clearly had a very difficult personality.

Until this week, she sat on the shelf above the sink superciliously surveying her domain. Sadly, though, the other evening I stuck something up on the shelf leading to a domino effect which broke a picture frame and knocked Olga Bracely to the ground where she was smashed to smithereens, only her head and tail remaining intact. They are currently sitting forlornly on the shelf but they may have to go. Alas. Call me craven but I just don’t think I’ll mention it my father.

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Olga Bracely in her prime

The Only Throw Away Generation


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

I have covered before how I am essentially regarded as some kind of weird changeling in my family as I am pretty tidy and my parents and siblings are less so. A key component of being tidy is getting rid of things – throwing them out, giving them away, eating them, if necessary. Apparently my father’s mother was pretty tidy and it is a source of lasting bitterness that she gave away some of his toys before he was quite ready to say goodbye (he is 94, I think we can call it lasting at this stage). In Cork, when something can’t be found, even something no sane person would ever throw out, the question is always, “Did Anne throw it out?” like, for example, “Anne, did you throw out a cheque for €500?” This is an example drawn from life.

My mother used to stymie my attempts to get rid of things and chastise me with the words, “I’m not part of the throw-away generation.” She would then carefully preserve whatever item I had been about to toss carelessly into the bin – a useful box, an exhausted tea towel which could be repurposed for shoe shining, a random screw – and put it away somewhere. She was a big fan of “a place for everything and everything in its place” in theory although the practice was slightly more haphazard.

And now, I find that my children are stopping me from throwing things out. Reduce, reuse, recycle is a household mantra. However worthy, it is quite tiring. Now, when I go to throw things in the bin, my hand is stayed by anxious teenagers who want to know whether it is going in the right bin and indeed whether we can reuse it. Also, Michael, the world’s most sentimental child, has retained all his childhood toys many of which have not been used in years. But given my grandmother’s example, I know that I can never get rid of them.

I suppose it’s only a question of time before I turn into my parents and start stockpiling things in the attic. I was in Cork recently and my father said to me, “Do you remember the stairs to the attic in [the house we moved out of when you were 12]?” I did. “Do you remember the sisal matting that was on the stairs?” More surprisingly, I did. “Well,” said he, “it is stored under the eaves in the attic. ” In response to my raised eyebrow, he added “Perfectly good carpet, it might be useful again someday.” The bane of my life, the potential usefulness of manifestly unuseful objects; proof – it has been sitting up there for nearly forty years. “Anyhow,” I wanted to say to you that your mother and I wrapped many valuables in it when we moved. ” He reminisced, “I think that the solid silver salver that Uncle Jack got when he retired (about 1950 I would guess) is in there.” I took myself to the attic. I found rolled up carpet under the eaves, having fought my way through an extraordinary array of material, and unrolled it gingerly (on top of a hideous coffee table that I recognised from my youth which was a present from my granny but which my mother, I have to say understandably, never liked) in the feeble light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Nothing. Then I looked left and right and saw that the whole space under the eaves was filled up with rolled up carpets. I know when I am beaten. Uncle Jack’s silver salver and any other treasures will have to wait for the next generation to unearth.