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Family

Too High or Too Low*

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Posted in: Family, Ireland

I have this theory about Irish people that we always have to do things to an extreme extent. It’s only fair to say that I have found very little support for this view among other Irish people.

However, you will recall that for a long time we were the best Catholics. Now we are the best liberals. We always wanted to be the best Europeans. When we had the bailout we were the best country at taking our medicine; we were never going to default like the Argentinians (I mean, they took that to their own extreme).

I don’t know if it’s a post-colonial thing or a small country thing or what. When I was growing up it was drummed into us by home, school, society that if you were going abroad you were representing your country and you couldn’t let us down. I’m not talking about going abroad to perform in the maths Olympiad here, I’m talking about a camping holiday in France.

Though all this does remind me of a funny story my mother told me. Shortly after she finished her master’s degree in Cork, she got a DAAD scholarship to continue her chemistry studies in Freiburg in Germany. It was the late 50s/early 60s and Ireland was poor and Germany was enjoying its post-war economic miracle and it was a world leader in science. Her professor in UCC said to her, “They’ll have all kinds of equipment there you’ve never seen before but don’t go around saying ‘Ooh, I’ve never used that before’ – you’re a clever woman, you’ll work it out quickly enough.” And so she did.

Anyway, in case you didn’t know, one of the things we quite like about ourselves here is that we’re good at death: talking about it; managing the rituals associated with it and generally seeing it as part of life. Regular readers will know that I am blue in the face from going to funerals and removals (the evening event – handy if work means you can’t go to the funeral – though a couple of hours out of the office to attend a funeral is alright by most employers). I have seen more dead bodies than I can remember. I don’t think there is a person over, say, 10 in Ireland who hasn’t seen plenty of corpses. And many under 10s have seen them too, it’s just not all of them have had a grandparent die. My mother died in 2019 and we had a normal funeral, full church, lunch, lots of people we hadn’t seen in years, random relatives, colleagues and friends (hers, my father’s, mine, my siblings’), the lady captain of the golf club, whoever you’re having yourself, and every one of them had something comforting to say. When my father died over Christmas in 2020, at the height of Covid, there were only 9 mourners in the church for the funeral and it was quite grim. I liked the way though that during Covid, people started using the condolence section of that stellar resource rip.ie to write messages of sympathy. I have pages and pages from my father’s death notice. That’s something quite nice that remains a feature even though Covid is over and we’re all attending funerals to beat the band again.

So, I think my credentials as a funeral going Irish rip.ie enthusiast have been pretty firmly established here. Nonetheless, I saw this in the paper this morning and I thought this is ridiculous, we’ve overdone it again.

Seriously, RIP the podcast? They’ve got to be joking.

*Billy Joel fans will know that the next line of this immortal number is “Darling, I don’t know why I go to extremes”.

Random Thoughts from the Aged

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

My father used to call those grey trousers he wore with a blazer his flannel bags. Does anybody say flannel bags anymore? I tried my children and they looked baffled.

When leaving the dinner table, the expression, “May I be excused?” was widespread in my youth. Has this too gone the way of the dodo?

At mass this morning, they said that the exit hymn is “God’s Spirit is in my Heart”. “What on earth is that?” I thought but once they started singing I found I knew all the words. I was sure, sure, sure that I hadn’t heard it since I was a teenager but the internet seems pretty firm that it first came out in 2002. I am baffled but maybe I did learn new hymns in my 30s? This seems very unlikely but who can say? Then Margaret Atwood was on Desert Island discs and she picked Beethoven’s pastoral symphony as one of her 8 discs. “Ho hum,” I thought, “I wonder what that is?” Yet another musical number Mrs. O’Shea taught the school choir, that’s what, though we learnt it with the following words which I feel Beethoven wouldn’t have approved of: Now winter is passing and soon it will be spring/with daffodils and tulips and birdies on the wing. I also recently heard for the first time in about 40 years “In an English Country Garden” – yet another number Mrs. O’Shea brought into our lives. It’s funny how these songs one learnt as a child can be really evocative.

I’ve been looking at slides from my childhood and although it is a pain to set everything up the images are so much better than the faded brown snaps from photo albums and I now respect my father’s commitment to slides though I was dubious for many years. When I see myself I recognise every single thing I am wearing and I know what feelings it evoked in me, what I loved, what I hated. I am fascinated by this as I am not very interested in clothes now. I wonder what happened to that youthful clothes lover.

I had lunch yesterday with my oldest friend, our parents were friends and as she is a year older than me (something she used to enjoy pointing out to me when we were little, but now, ah, how the tables have turned), I have known her since I was born. Anyway over Christmas she went to a 40th school reunion. “40, 40 years!” I screeched in horror. “That’ll be you this year,” she pointed out tartly. I am shocked. How did that happen? But also, perhaps it’s not as big a surprise as all that.

Christmas Update

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Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

Still alive. A bit challenging this year. We had my brother and sister on Christmas Eve which was nice but I was starting, alas, to feel a little under the weather. Did 2 solid hours in Dublin’s newly minted Catholic cathedral make me feel better? It did not although the singing was beautiful and the archbishop gave a pro-migrant sermon of which I strongly approved. My brother was beside me and it is hard to believe that he had ever been to Christmas mass at all as he kept saying, “Surely, it must be about to end now.” Herself commented sagely that the flower arrangers etc. still had to be thanked. She was right although the thanks were mercifully less extensive than they tend to be in our local church.

We had exchanged presents with my sister earlier in the day as she was spending Christmas Day with her partner’s family. I always feel she does quite poorly out of this as she is very generous to the children and doesn’t get so much from us. She did not disappoint this year and I gleefully pocketed a blue book voucher and a nice candle and the children got untold largesse. She also gave me a novelty jigsaw which was a blown up picture of our cat. I think it’s going to kill me. And I’m also feeling a lot less enthusiastic about the cat.

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Comparisons are odious but this jigsaw which I received from my middle child was much more satisfactory.

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You’ll see there’s a piece missing. We spent days on our hands and knees on the floor looking for it but finally a couple of days ago we swept the jigsaw into its box and decided the piece was lost. This morning middle child found the missing piece. In a trouser pocket. Was I delighted? I was not.

Back to our chronology here, I felt ok when we got up on Christmas morning and v much enjoyed the present giving (good haul thanks) and receiving. Mr. Waffle does a treasure hunt for the children on Christmas morning and that was great too.

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We were having the in-laws and my brother to Christmas lunch and the children were a great help in prepping and the table looked fantastic; the food wasn’t bad either. All in all pretty satisfactory though I am, if possible, even more grateful to the in-laws who host almost every year. This year they have moved out of their house to facilitate very significant renovations. If you pray to a deity, please remember them in your prayers, they’ll need it.

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By the time evening rolled around, we were all a bit exhausted though we did play one game of 110 with my brother. Wouldn’t say everyone was totally into it.

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I’ve no idea what happened on St. Stephen’s Day. I whined about being ill. The Princess admired the spectacular bruise which the dentist’s butchery had left her with. My brother hit the sales and we put him on the bus to Cork.

On Saturday I was still ill. So sorry for myself. Herself and myself went to look at the antiques shops on Francis Street (all still closed) and had lunch in the Argentinian place on Meath Street. I was exhausted after my mild outing.

To everyone’s horror we realised that we were booked in to see Dublin Gothic in the Abbey that evening. A three hour play about one Dublin building. And two, yes two, 15 minute intervals leading to a total run time of 3 and a half hours. While there were varying levels of enthusiasm when this Christmas treat was booked, I think that it would be fair to say that on Saturday night we all shared the exact same enthusiasm level namely zero. To be fair to the play, it wasn’t too bad but it was too long and we weren’t in the form to appreciate it as we might. It gave us something to talk about and there were some very interesting ideas and funny bits but you know, 3 and a half hours is a lot even when you want to go and you are in the whole of your health neither of which necessarily applied.

On Sunday I felt just well enough for a mild stroll around the Botanic Gardens. Very sorry for myself still.

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On Monday I finally started to recover. We rejoice. Herself and myself and Mr. Waffle had a look at the antiques shops many, but by no means all, of which were open.

Then we went home and she packed and we dropped her to the airport to go back to London. Gutting. I felt very sad. But there you are, this is the lot of the Irish mother. I did it to my mother and she did it to her mother so I suppose we can only hope that some day she’ll move home again like my mother and I did. She’s starting a job and moving flat in January so exciting times ahead and I guess London isn’t so far.

Today my recovery continued apace and we climbed the Sugar Loaf. These pictures give the impression that we were there alone but in fact this was not at all the case and every family in Dublin appeared to be on the mountain having a health giving walk. It was a beautiful day and you could see snow on the higher mountains in the distance and all the way across to Snowdonia in Wales.

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I am delighted to report that I have no plans for this evening. I hope that your Christmas passed off peacefully also and that you are recovering from the inevitable illness of the season. A very happy new year. More blogging in 2026; something for you to look forward to.

Golden? Would you say Silence is Golden?


Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle

I have Scholl sandals with wooden soles. I tend to wear them instead of slippers in the summer. The family hate them; I’m sure they’re good for my feet so I persist in the face of general disapproval. Mr. Waffle remarked, to general acclaim, at one point, “In summer, a mysterious figure stalks the house, I like to call her Madame de Clompidour”.

That is all. Unless you have an annoying slipper story of your own to share?

Saint Nicolas


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

He came – after all these years. As I write one of the Dublin based children is still in bed, so possibly excitement levels are not what they once were. But look, it’s the thought that counts!

I guess it’s a long time since 2006.

For Those who have Died; a November Thought


Posted in: Family

Today is my Nana’s birthday. She never liked November much. Of course, when she was born in 1897, it wasn’t Christmas like it is now. Or, in fact, even when she died in 1984. I absolutely loved her and I loved when she came to visit. She only lived about 70kms away but it seemed like she lived on the moon. She came for lovely long visits and then we mightn’t see her for ages. I mean the roads weren’t as good as they are now but there was the train; still she had lots of grandchildren who were keen to see her and she had to divide herself up fairly, I suppose.

Anyway here we are on my first Communion; both looking quite pleased and I note the grass has been cut for the occasion to add extra glamour. My mother made my dress and had to wash it (as she frequently reminded me) three times on the day because I seem to have spent my time running around in it and falling over. Cissie who lived with us gave me the little mass book which I am pretty sure I still have somewhere. I remember her showing me how big the print was – a positive for some reason – and I pointed out that this was only at the consecration (I sometimes think I must have been unbearable) but I loved my little prayer book with its mother of pearl cover and I think she must have known that.

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