Cork

95 Years and 9 Months Exactly

1 January, 2021 9 Comments
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Family, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings

Christmas Day – And aside from that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?

On Christmas morning, herself made an elaborate breakfast. It was really amazing but she was exhausted from her efforts.

She got a fancy new dress for Christmas. Unlike her brothers whose new Christmas clothes were a matter of indifference, she was delighted. But not surprised. “Why did you write about my Christmas present on your blog?” she asked. “But I had disguised the reference,” I replied, “and anyway, you never read my blog.” “It was insufficiently disguised and I was reading the blog because of you – I was looking into the etymology of torytop and your blog was one of the references.” A torytop is a pine cone. Everyone knows that.

At lunch time we went out to Mr. Waffle’s brother’s family and had a lovely Christmas dinner with them. My sister-in-law is a great cook and the children were delighted to see their cousins. All was very pleasnt. We stayed a bit later than expected. I tried to ring my father on his mobile (I had bought him a new one on Tuesday but failed to set the right ring tone and, I fear, he couldn’t hear it) and I rang the hospital but couldn’t get through to the ward. One of his friends, Stanley, had tried to call him as well and rang me to check if he was ok. I explained that my father had gone into hospital on Christmas Eve and that he wasn’t able to hear the mobile particularly well. But he was on IV antibiotics and we hoped all would be well. Stanley asked whether my father had got the copy of the Holly Bough which he had dropped in to him. I assured him that he had but that my father only ever read it on Christmas Day.

My friend in Brussels – my oldest friend, our parents were friends and I’ve known her all my life, texted me at 5.26 to ask how my father was. “Fine,” said I. Reader, as you may have guessed, he was not fine. My sister called at 7.15 to tell me that he had died at 5.30. Poor Dad. I know he was 95 and in hospital so you’d hardly expect it to be a shock but it was a shock. The hospital rang my brother and sister at 5. They were there by 5.15 as it’s only around the corner but by the time they got up to his room with Covid and PPE and everything it was 5.30 and he had just died. Apparently he was reasonably ok on Christmas Day, talking to the nurses and asking for water and so on.

My poor in-laws, it was a bit awful. I cried, Michael cried, everyone was a bit weepy. My sister-in-law and brother-in-law gave me non-Covid compliant hugs. We went home. It did not pan out how I had imagined Christmas night would. But at least we’d had dinner. My brother and sister had to have Christmas dinner with my 91 year old aunt when they got home from the hospital and tell her that her brother had died. It was pretty awful. Back in Dublin we pulled all our Christmas crackers which had a Darwinian element allowing the winner of the cracker pull to give out stickers for funniest person in the room; hairiest person in the room and so on. We laughed a bit and then I cried again. It’s so strange. I am much sadder than I was when my mother died. She had dementia and she had been leaving for a long time. Mentally he was the same as ever. On Tuesday 22 December, I was talking to him about Brexit and on Friday 25 he was gone, snuffed out forever. If I’d known it was going to be our last conversation ever, I would have tried to talk about something more interesting. Still, I sat down and talked to him for a good hour and a half on Tuesday morning. I went to the market on Monday 21 and bought the wherewithal to make an excellent ham sandwich which he ate with every appearance of enjoyment at lunchtime. I am so grateful to my brother for calling me and telling me to come down.

God, all the things my father knew about – he read so much, he was so knowledgeable and clever – and experienced – he lived for such a long time. I read somewhere once that every time an old person dies, it’s like the Library of Alexandria burns down again. God knows, that was true of my father.

He died in the Bons where he had worked himself and been a regular patient over the years – it was a good place for him to die. They didn’t have to shoot him in the end.

St Stephen’s Day – Back to Cork

I slept badly and woke up unsure about what to do. Should we stay, should we go to Cork? God, I really wanted to go to Cork but what could I do once I got there? And Covid made accommodation arrangements so complex, hotels were hard to find, I was worried that we would give Covid to my brother and sister if we descended upon them.

My wonderful friends M and R whose holiday house in Garryvoe in East Cork we have used so many times before came to the rescue and gave us their house. I cannot say how grateful I am. I think they had been planning to go down themselves and spend the next lockdown there but we went instead. We still have their spare key in a drawer. Fortunately for us if not for them.

Then I had to talk to the people whom I had assured that my father was fine. First my own friend in Brussels. That was hard. Technically she’s known him longer than me as she’s a full year older. She was sad, it’s like the end of an era for her too. Then I had to ring his friend Stanley whom I had called the previous day. I really wanted to not weep. This was the man whose wife died the same weekend as my mother. My sister and I went to her funeral and wept and the grieving widower had to comfort us. I was hoping to somewhat salvage my reputation. Not a huge success. I started off strong and was doing a good job. He has such a nice accent, I thought to myself (upper middle class Cork merchant prince – people often mock the Cork accent because they don’t appreciate its range) and focussed on this. Stanley was a very nice man and very good to my father. My father had been a friend of his father’s and he was a good bit younger than my father. “How old was he?” Stanley asked me. “Nearly 96,” I said. “Well, I’m 76, and I’ve known your father nearly all my life. I remember the first time I sailed with him, my father had bought a new boat in Dublin, and we sailed it down to Cork, my uncle, my father, your father and I. I was 13 years old,” he said. Still not crying. Going very well for me frankly. “Thank you so much, you were always very good to him,” I said. And he was, visiting my father and chatting about yachty things and Cork things when most of my father’s contemporaries had died. “I was delighted to,” he said, “your father was a very easy man to like.” That’s when I started to cry. And then he said, “He loved to read, didn’t he? He read absolutely everything. If he was around at my parents’ house and nothing much was happening, he’d pick up the Beano and start reading it.” My sister said she was talking to the same friend later and he said, “He really loved the Telegraph didn’t he?” I’m afraid he did. He started reading it in England when he worked there in the 50s and the Times went on strike. And he stuck with it. An anti-Irish paper as well as everything else in my view. I wonder whether the Telegraph knows that it’s lost a loyal reader in Cork. At one stage I understand that for its own obscure reasons it carried the Cork church service times but not Dublin ones; a source of delight to my father. Anyhow, Stanley said that he had once seen my father pick up a week old Daily Telegraph (which by definition he would already have read) and read it in preference to that day’s Irish Times. He hated the Irish Times or the “Dublin Intelligencer” as he always called it.

I rang another 95 year old friend of my father’s. He said sadly, “You know we were friends for 78 years.” Not bad. When I was going through my father’s old albums from the 60s (he used to develop his own black and white photos), I found a good few pictures of this friend doing nautical things. I must pass on copies.

I rang my mother’s oldest friend, Brenda. She picked up the phone. I said hello and then I couldn’t say anything else. And straight away she said, “Is it Dad?”. She is such a wonderful person and now that my parents are gone, I value her more than ever. Isn’t life odd? When my mother first met Brenda more than 60 years ago she couldn’t have known that her children would be relying on her after her own death. She chose good friends, my mother. Brenda reminisced about a dinner she went to when my parents were first married. Although my mother was an academic chemist and excellent cook, the world of the freezer was new to her and she’d tossed a piece of frozen beef in the oven for a couple of hours in the expectation that it would cook. It did not and as my father started carving, it became clear that the beef was raw. He said to my mother, “What were you aiming for dear?” which still caused Brenda to chuckle.

I talked to the undertaker over the phone with my brother and sister. They were there in person and I was off in Dublin which was unsatisfactory. Being 250kms away is awful sometimes. Undertakers do an amazing job though.

My cousin Damien called and said that my parents were happy together now and I had another cry for myself. My mother’s ever practical friend Brenda when asked about this said that she had asked her father whether there was a heaven and he said, “Well, if there is well be happy there and if there isn’t we’ll never know. ” So a win either way.

We drove down to Garryvoe that evening in the lashing rain.

I stayed up late doing a jigsaw and not sleeping and the power had gone out and come back again in the course of the storm lashing the house all night.

December 27 Sunday

It was great to wake up in Cork. Even better that the electricity hadn’t been cut off. We went for a quick walk on the beach. It was absolutely full of families.

We drove up to Cork. My parents’ house is full of memories of my father. All his books, his paraphernalia, his chair. It’s a bit like the house is a person. We were all sad. It was so strange that he wasn’t sitting there when we went in. My sister and I went up to the funeral home to see my father laid out. He looked very well actually. We had thought of donating his body to medical science but medical science passed on that opportunity. It was nice to see him. He looked a bit cross but very dapper. After some consideration, we decided to bury him in his yacht club tie. I touched his hand and half expected him to sit up and say irately, “What?”

We did some preparation for the funeral mass. We chose Wisdom 3:1-6, 9 about the souls of the virtuous; herself went off the suggested list and wanted something from Revelations (Rev 21:1-6) finishing up with the Alpha and the Omega, no one else really had views so we went with that. My cousin volunteered to sing. Due to Covid restrictions we could only have ten people at the funeral which is a very small funeral indeed. I mean I would be bringing half of the mourners.

My cousin from New York rang me to sympathise. My friend who is a doctor in Vermont rang me. She was sad because it was a bit the end of an era – my father taught her and all her friends in college.

December 28 Monday

Because the Monday was a bank holiday and the notice could only go in the papers on Monday, we held off until Tuesday for the funeral. It was a long, long time. Mr. Waffle got a Discworld jigsaw for Christmas. We were all glad that it made it to Cork.

The notice appeared in RIP.ie on Saturday. Ireland’s final news source as Mr. Waffle calls it. At this stage of Covid, the undertakers and churches are really on top of revised funeral arrangements. The address for live streaming the funeral was in the notices. And now the condolence bit of RIP.ie which was always quiet before is full of nice comments. And I found that people rang me more. When my mother died, they were all at the church and didn’t need to but it was nice to get the calls.

We went into Middleton to do some shopping and put on the radio, they were playing Christmas songs. As Mr. Waffle said, “It’s still Christmas outside the car.” He remarked that this must be what it’s like to be Muslim or Hindu and see people celebrating Christmas, you know, good for them but nothing to do with me.

Herself volunteered to make lunch when we got back and the boys, Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk on the beach. Then we all went up to Cork and I took the children and Mr. Waffle to see the body. They were a bit sad. The undertaker came flying out to the car after us as we were leaving and asked whether the children would like to leave anything in the casket. We were baffled. Like what? “A poem the children had written or something”. Herself spoke for all of us when she answered politely but firmly, “No thank you, Grandad would have hated that.” It was the undertaker’s turn to be baffled but she was quite right.

That evening before going back to East Cork, I gave my brother a lift to his friend’s house. On the way, my sister called to let us know that she had just got a notification that she was a close contact of a Covid case and had to restrict her movements. She wouldn’t be able to go to the funeral. We all nearly cried. She has been super-cautious as she has had cancer. Why her of all people?

My cousin Sheila rang that night and was suitably appalled. Honestly, it was horrendous.

December 29, Tuesday – The Funeral

I had such a vivid dream that my father was still alive in a logistically awkward way and sprang from bed thinking, “We’ll have to cancel the funeral and let everyone know, this is typical.”

My children got ready. Michael’s jacket was a bit on the small side and his shirt a bit big, but ok. Daniel arrived downstairs in a perfectly fitting jacket and shirt (win) but with his nether limbs clad in jeans. The horror. “I thought you said it would be ok, I haven’t got any other trousers,” said he. Look, we were where we were and it wasn’t likely we would pick up another pair of trousers before 11. At least they were navy jeans. All in all, we looked pretty good, I thought.

We stopped off at my sister’s house on the way to the church to drop off some essential supplies. She left in exchange some, still in the box, cotton handkerchiefs which my father had asked her to get before he died but which she hadn’t had a chance to give him.

I was surprised when I got there to find the churchyard full of people, cousins, my brother’s friends. All a bit random but apparently it’s a thing now, people can’t come into the church but they come to the car park and sit in their cars and watch the service online from their phones.

The actual congregation was small: me, my brother, my husband, my children, my 91 year old aunt (my father’s sister), my 84 year old aunt (my father’s sister-in-law), my cousin to mind my aunt, my cousin who was singing and, slightly randomly a friend of my brother’s. I introduced the children to him and he said, “I was taught by your grandfather and your grandmother in college.” So a bit odd but nice all the same to see a former student when my father’s identity was so tied up with college. There was also an unknown man in the corner of the church in a hi-vis jacket (Covid inspector? Local who always goes to all the funerals and wasn’t going to let Covid stop him? Spare priest?).

My sister watched it online with tea and toast. Her friend who is a veteran of online funerals (welcome to Ireland folks) said the online streaming was one of the best she had seen. My friend in Brussels watched it too and sent me a screen grab.

Lots of people watched online actually. My brother was baffled, “It’s not exactly fascinating TV is it?” Michael did the first reading. The second he heard my father had died, he asked could he do a reading. He was first up which was a bit unnerving notwithstanding the minuscule congregation; but he got into his stride and did fine, herself did the second reading and Daniel and my brother divided up the prayers of the faithful. I have to say, my children were an absolute credit to me. I did a speech at the end. The people at home didn’t seem to mind but those in the freezing church gave very clear feedback that it was a bit long. I might put it up here eventually.

Between my brother, his friend, my cousin, my husband and my sons, we managed to carry the coffin out of the church although my sister said that seen from above it listed precariously. My brother and each of my sons claimed that they carried the full weight of the coffin. It seems unlikely but as my brother was the tallest, there may have been some merit in his claim.

We went to the graveyard. It was the coldest day of the year. Absolutely bitter. There were some more people at the graveyard: a couple of cousins, a friend of my sister’s but it was a small crowd. He was buried in the plot that my great-grandfather bought in 1913 beside his grandparents, his uncles and aunts and my mother. His own mother and father were elsewhere but that plot was full when we investigated burying my mother there in June 2019 so we were on top of that. We stood there absolutely freezing while the coffin was lowered down. The priest said the usual prayers and then he said, “We’ll say a decade of the rosary.” God, I thought I was going to die of cold. Herself gave her gloves to her 91 year old great aunt but I felt that she and my 84 year old aunt might have their demise hastened by the time spent in the bitter cold.

Then my poor aunt and cousin turned around and drove back to Limerick without even a cup of tea in their hands. It seemed terrible. We went back to my parents’ house. My brother brought my aunt into her own house next door. It just seemed so awful to me that she would be in her house alone the afternoon her brother was buried that I thought, I don’t care and went next door and brought her in to my parents’ house. We lit a fire and had tea and sandwiches and exciting Christmas biscuits. Meanwhile my sister following her Covid test (very painful she said) went on her own to the graveyard, to visit my father’s grave which may possibly mark peak misery.

I saw that my parents’ vile Christmas tree was sitting in its box in the breakfast room. I have written about this tree before. I can’t imagine that it was particularly attractive when my parents bought it for Christmas 1967. The intervening years have not added to its attractions, most of the silver tinsel has fallen from its branches. I have always hated it and lobbied unsuccessfully for a real tree every year while I lived at home and swore that I would always have a real tree in my own home when I grew up. My brother saw me looking at the tree and said, “Oh yeah, Dad said that if anything happened to him, he wanted you to have that tree and put it up every year.” Oh how we laughed. For clarity, this is not something my father would have said but my brother enjoys torturing me.

I was a bit sad leaving my brother alone in the house; he lived with my father and it must be strangest of all for him.

When we got back to Garryvoe, Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk on the beach to look at the moon.

Wednesday December 30 – Going Home

The Princess and I went for a walk on the beach early in the morning before the hordes descended.

The boys and Mr. Waffle and I went slightly later and saw someone swimming. Dear God in heaven, Garryvoe is freezing in the summer.

Then we packed up and headed back to Dublin after lunch.

There was snow on the Galtees on the way back and the most spectacular sunset and moon rising. It was lovely to be home. The house was freezing though, Aga or no Aga.

I got a text message from one of my cousins sympathising. He was stuck in England for Christmas and he commented bitterly that he had only just found out about my father. People forget about you when you’re not there. I saw the text and decided to reply later then about 20 minutes later I got an agonised message from him saying, “When I said people forget to tell you, I was giving out about my mother and brothers, not you!” Poor man, as my sister said, if he knew me at all he would just know that I am a slow responder to messages.

Thursday December 31 – New Year’s Eve

It felt a bit like the beginning of our Christmas break. When we got up, there was loads of snow. Daniel was so excited, he was like a small child. Herself began work on a newsletter. “Can I see a copy?” I asked. “It’s for my intimates,” said she. “I’m one of your intimates!” I said. “No,” said she, “you’re my mother.” Fair.

Mr. Waffle and I went up to the Hell Fire Club to see more snow although there was probably more on our road – a disappointing quantity of snow. Then later we realised that we shouldn’t have gone outside 5 kms from home from the 31st, we thought it was the 1st, oh well damage done. And GAA training is cancelled again. Alas.

Then I got a text from my sister that she had tested positive for Covid. 2020, the year that keeps on giving. We have to restrict our movements for 14 days from when we last saw her. Since my brother didn’t see her the day before she was tested, it doesn’t apply to him which seems just crazy. I feel a bit worried about my aunt now. Imagine if we’ve given her Covid. The children will have to go back to school a day late but to be honest, what with the country being in level 5 lockdown and everything else, we didn’t have big plans.

On our way back from the Hell Fire Club, we saw a man walking in the rain with a bike wheel badly buckled. “We could fit his bike in the car, will we stop and give him a lift?” I asked Mr. Waffle always concerned about our fellow cyclists. Mr. Waffle looked at me and said, “Are you serious?” Look, I’d briefly forgotten our Covid status, we’ve had a lot on.

So we were waiting for our text from the HSE about testing. As Michael said the whole thing makes no difference to him except he’s going to get a swab stuck up his nose. But the test and trace system has been overwhelmed and we’re not going to get tested unless we have symptoms and so far we all seem fine. Happily so does my sister. Keep your fingers crossed.

I went to light the fire. We’re out of fuel and we can’t go out to get any as we’re restricing our movements. I found a coal man to deliver on January 2. A hopeful sign for the new year. Here’s to a better 2021 for everyone.

Happy New Year!

A Random Medley

24 December, 2020 4 Comments
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess

This post is so long I have broken it into headings for your convenience. Lucky you, happy Christmas.

Bookclub

I had my online Christmas bookclub. Normally at Christmas we have a Kris Kindle. This year, we had to post out our presents to each other/deliver anonymously to doorsteps. It required a great deal of organisation and our most organised member organised. And it was nice but, actually, it made me quite sad. It just seemed to rub in how much we were missing small things and a (max €15) Christmas gift is not going to make any difference to that. I hope this time next year we’ll be back with live drinks and mince pies. I did ask my most middle-aged pandemic mother question ever to the group: “Where do you think I’d get a good online mass for Christmas?” Did they have views? My God, yes, they had views.

Cycling News

Daniel has been cycling to training for a good while now and, like all my children’s cycling expeditions, I am really nervous when he heads off. My nerves were justified as at the last training session of the year a couple of weeks ago, he went over his handlebars as he had to brake suddenly to avoid a car turning left into Tesco. In fairness, the driver stopped to check he was ok and he landed on his hands rather than his head. Instead of coming home he went on to training and he also had a near miss on the way home (a van braked suddenly and the van behind swerved to avoid him and nearly hit Dan, protected from oncoming cars by a line of paint which is what all too frequently counts as cycle infrastructure in this country). By the time he got home he was pretty shook. He was up all night with a sore hand but an x-ray on Monday morning confirmed nothing broken, just a bad sprain. Why do people cycling in this country have to take their lives into their hands when they go out?

Further cycling news: the corporation have removed the car parking in front of my parents’ house in Cork and replaced it with a cycle lane. I rejoice. My sister does not, partly because it came as a complete surprise to residents and, I suppose, she is the one who needs to park in front of the house. I am afraid to tell her that I am an enthusiastic supporter of Cork City’s cycle lane policies.

Rat Alert

In other less than good news: the few of us physically present in the office have to sign in, I usually glance up the list to see who else is in and one day last week, I was not delighted to see that Rentokil had signed in earlier in the morning. “What’s the story?” I asked the man on the desk. Apparently a rat had been found on the ground floor having gnawed its way through the skirting board. Now my office is on the fourth floor so I’m assuming it’s just one rat and that they can’t climb stairs and all is well. Still I’ve advised my colleague on the 4th floor who keeps a bowl of nuts on his desk that he might want to reconsider that. I am indebted to my colleagues working remotely for the knowledge that rats are a huge problem in the other side of the building. One told me that when she was on a smoking break, herself and four colleagues saw a large rat sauntering towards the back door of the building which had been left ajar. Notwithstanding stamping and shouting by the unnerved smokers, the rat continued sauntering towards what he clearly thought of as his front door. One of the smokers had only just lit a fresh cigarette but she abandoned it and they all ran for the back door. As my colleague said, they were none of them small and they got stuck in the door while the rat wove his way in between their legs. People, let’s not keep food in the desk drawers.

In other smoking related news, my bicycle has a basket which people like to throw rubbish in, if its parked on the street, because they can. I was surprised to find half a packet of cigarettes the other day. It seemed a bit wanton. I presented the puzzle to my family. “Well,” said Daniel, “it’s not always Christmas.” I suppose not.

Housework

Dinner time conversation with my loving family wherein I said that Mr. Waffle and I have never argued over housework. This is true, it’s pretty evenly allocated (I would like to record yet again my thanks to my amazing mother-in-law who did a very good job on ensuring that all her children know that housework is for everyone). “Nah,” said herself, “somebody’s getting a good deal here. Who is it?” Mr. Waffle looked around the table, pointed at the children and said, “You three”. This is true also.

Unloading the dishwasher has become a point of contention now that we are all at home so much. Herself sent round a link to this hilarious article: The Stages Of Unloading The Dishwasher When You Live With Other People – The Shatner Chatner. Her father made a suggested addition to deal with a particular problem at our house:

He forgot the people who are still waiting for a sign from on high.
“Trust not this bleep from the machine, for verily the Evil One can take on any disguise to ensnare you. It may be a trap. Wait instead for the Lord appear and confirm that the dishwasher needs to be unloaded.”

Cork News

On Saturday afternoon, I got a call from my brother saying that my father was not well and it might be a good idea to come down to Cork before Christmas. By coincidence, I was told that day that the fathers of two women I knew called Anne had died. I’m not very superstitious but, you know, still. I hot-footed it down on the train on Sunday afternoon.

My father was pretty frail, I thought. I live in fear that I will give him Covid, of course. He’d had a fall the previous week and looked like he had been out street fighting and he had a dreadful cough. The carers (of whom there are very many) were a bit anxious. I was a bit anxious. He was pleased to see me though. When he was less ill, he always liked to celebrated the winter solstice on December 21 and it was nice to be with him that day and reflect that the year is on the turn.

My poor father, though, he is so ill and so bored. It’s a grim combination. His eyesight is pretty much gone so he can’t read which is a huge loss to a man who read all the time. My brother and sister in Cork do an amazing job but it’s tough going. If it weren’t for the radio, I don’t know what he would do. For the first time in my memory he didn’t have the radio on at top volume at night. I’m not sure why but I didn’t find it a reassuring sign though it did make it much easier to drop off. He’s still mentally absolutely fine and it was nice to chat to him though his voice is suffering from his awful chesty cough.

Some gems from our conversation. 1920 was a big year for Cork: one Lord Mayor was shot; five months later the next Lord Mayor was imprisoned in Brixton, went on hunger strike and died 74 days later; then the Black and Tans burnt Cork city centre just before Christmas (see below the before and after picture from an exhibition in the Nano Nagle heritage centre). My father was born in 1925, does he remember any of his relatives speaking of these momentous events? Long pause. “I remember Uncle Dan saying that he had to renew his motor tax in Fitzgerald’s Park because the City Hall had been burnt down.” There you have it folks, stirring times. He also told me that somewhere in the house there is a picture of him boarding that flight in 1935. Where? He waved his hands expansively: somewhere. Aha, because it’s easy to find things in my parents’ house.

Up to when I turned 11, we had a woman who lived in our house and minded us and cleaned – Cissie. We were all very fond of her but when we moved house, she left us. The first intimation that I had that we were moving house was finding her at the kitchen table in tears saying she was never going to work with children again because it was too hard when they left. You might think that my mother’s careful perusal of the Saturday property supplement might have given me a clue but no. I was gutted. We all were. My sister, who was only four when we moved, used to march out of the new house announcing, “I’m going back to my own Cissie”. Cissie went to work as a cook for a religious order and, as far as I know, she only visited us once after. I tried to find out from my father why we didn’t see her. I felt that perhaps there had been some kind of row. My father was not illuminating on this matter but he did say that she made an excellent lamb stew, “As old Mr. Browne used to say, you’d ate your fingers after.” Mr. Browne was apparently a neighbour’s father. I found myself harnessing the power of the internet to try to find her last year. I got an address from Council records where she had bought out the ground rent from a house. I sent a letter but never got a reply. When I went to write my Christmas cards this year, I thought I’d try sending one. I looked her up and found her straight away on RIP.ie. She died in a nursing home on August 4 this year. I feel sad that I hadn’t made more of an effort to find her years ago. I might do a post on her – one for another day.

My brother tackled me about the Christmas list herself had sent him. “Honestly,” said he, “would ‘Eichmann in Jerusalem’ really be a Christmas read for you?” I guess not.

It was nice to be in Cork at Christmas. I went in to the Crawford. I gave the Share collectors a few quid having put in some time in that role myself many years ago. I went into the market. Of course it was full of spiced beef. There was a butcher standing at a dedicated stall that only had spiced beef. I paused and looked, “You see,” I said to the young man, “I didn’t know I’d be in Cork before Christmas and I’ve already bought my spiced beef in Dublin.” “Nightmare,” he said succinctly. Under his sympathetic gaze I bought another kilo of spiced beef. I’ll be eating it until next Christmas.

I came back to Dublin on Tuesday afternoon. The Government announced that the country would be locked down again from the 26th so very glad I got to Cork. Like a fool, I managed to lose my train ticket. The woman on the desk was very eager to help and suggested I buy a replacement online as it was €20 cheaper. But my phone’s browser was not the latest version and it refused to let me book and I only had five minutes to get on the train. Nevertheless she was very reluctant to sell me the more expensive ticket and insisted on hunting down a refund form in case the lost ticket turned up. I made the train with moments to spare. It was very traumatic. The whole adventure cost me €140. I could have flown more cheaply. Never mind, I was very glad to have got down.

Christmasish Content

Our local lovely, lovely Christmas market went ahead. We thought it might be cancelled but it was not. We put up our Christmas tree and further decorations. My sister came to visit us- briefly for Covid compliance reasons.

Last weekend we went for a walk up to the Hell Fire Club. Possibly our most successful walk ever. Necessary ingredients: I told everyone that we would be doing it on the Tuesday before to acclimatise them to the idea; it is a short walk and only half an hour’s drive from our house; we left the house at ten and were back by lunchtime; the weather was delightful. Not all of these are replicable.

Yesterday we watched “A Muppet Christmas Carol” as is traditional at this time of year. There was some reluctance from herself: “It’s so long for the adventures of a felt frog” she said. It was good all the same. Michael Caine’s best work.

Today my father went in to hospital. The GP thinks he might have pneumonia. He’s in a bed [I mean not on a trolley in A&E which is always the fear] but he’s going to be all alone there on Christmas day which is a bit miserable. I think the hospitals will let you in if someone is at death’s door but not otherwise. So not the best news on Christmas Eve but, I suppose, good news in one way that they won’t let anyone in. I’m very glad I went down earlier in the week. I hope they will be able to help a bit in hospital with IV antibiotics. It’s just grim and, no two ways about it, it’s a rotten time of year for it in a difficult year.

In late incoming Christmas news:

My friend in Brussels tells me that there is a meeting tomorrow because of Brexit urgency. God love them. Her brother-in-law sent them a surprise ham for Christmas and now it is stuck in Kent. If it arrives, he advises her to dispose of it carefully. As she said herself, “We feel so topical.”

My doctor friend in America sent me a picture of herself and her husband (also a doctor) getting the Covid jab and it filled my heart with joy. The end is nigh, in a good way.

A former boss now retired sent me a hilarious message about going to Kilkenny to tend her aged sister. To fully appreciate this you have to realise that the narrator is a woman of unimpeachable respectability in her late 60s:

I have been running the gauntlet of Garda checkpoints every fortnight to visit [my sister] and get her groceries. A Garda pulled me over and said my tax was out of date. She said she had no option but to seize the car. It was towed away and I was taken off in the back of a squad car. Luckily I had my mask on! I had to pay the tax and a ransom and umpteen taxi fares to get the car back. Now I have a criminal record. See what happens to those who do good works.

This afternoon we went for a cycle in the park.

This evening we streamed Christmas mass on the television. The children were really good and even got dressed up for it but it was all a bit odd. But better than nothing.

Tomorrow herself is doing a Christmas breakfast and we are going to the cousins for Christmas dinner. I rejoice. I asked herself what I should wear. “Maybe that green dress that I like?” I said. She asked, “The ‘female politician goes for centrist vote’ look?” Yes, that’s the one.

Notwithstanding everything, I hope everyone has a lovely Christmas, it’s been a long, long year. Back with more quality content in 2021.

Cristesmæsse*

12 December, 2020 2 Comments
Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Ireland, Siblings, Work

Work has been very, very busy this past week. One night I found myself cycling home in the small hours of the morning – I could have got a taxi but I didn’t fancy it – and Grafton Street was all lit up and quite deserted and it was absolutely beautiful in a way that this photo doesn’t quite convey.

One night I had to go back to the office building about 8 in the evening and with Covid and everything else, the building was empty and dark except for the emergency lights. When I stepped into the downstairs reception in the dark (doubtless a health and safety hazard) I was overwhelmed by the smell of pine and sure enough, by the light of my phone, I saw a real Christmas tree in reception which was lovely and a lot of effort for the few of us who are left in the building.

My sister bought me a box of 24 jams and chutneys in small jars as a very welcome advent present. I deployed the raspberry jam today to make an apple and jam toasted sandwich for herself who was flying out to her applied maths class. She ate it in the car and she said to me, “You know, this is delicious.” This filled me with joy because, cooking is not one of my core skills and my children are rarely enthused by my offerings. Also, I used my mother’s toasted sandwich maker which she bought in France about 40 years ago and which she would love to see still in regular use.

We’re still sticking cloves in oranges. Note fancy patterns.

I bought gold and silver aerosol spray paint last week. This week I deployed it in the shed. Delighted with myself. I sprayed everything. Behold two pine cones which I stuck on top of the Aga. The corner of instagram I inhabit shows amazing Aga decorated for Christmas content but, I am unconvinced. If you deck your Aga or around it in foliage, it will soon be desiccated foliage. I am pleased with my minimalist solution.

I have taken the Christmas ware out of the press in the utility room and brought it into service.

Presents are flooding in. Gratifying. I moved spare school books from under a table to create room for the presents. I went to put them in the press in the hall only to find it full to the brim of Junior Cycle school books and past exam papers (some still pristine in their cellophane wrappers). As the children are all past Junior Cycle now, I decided to give them away on freecycle. I wanted to give them all to one person rather than have a stream of people coming to the house so, to discourage time wasters, I stipulated that whoever took them would have to take them all. That was a week ago and nobody has messaged me. I appear to have significantly over-estimated the potential popularity of Irish language Junior Cycle materials.

Yesterday was the centenary of the burning of Cork by the Black and Tans. I can’t help thinking about my Cork city relatives and how shocked and angry they must have been. My granny died when I was 12 and I don’t ever remember her mentioning it. I must ask my father and my aunt what she thought.

I finished my online Christmas shopping today. The relief. It meant spending much of the day sitting at the computer on a weekend which feels a bit too like work for comfort but it is done. Christmas cards tomorrow, if I’m feeling strong. And the Christmas tree. Online bookclub Kris Kindle tonight. One of those presents from under the table will be opened anyhow.

For those of you here for Gategate updates, all has gone silent. Alarming.

*Herself has got really into old English recently. This is the old English for Christmas she tells me. Apparently there are only 30,000 lines of old English extant and she is planning to read them. As a jumping off point she has bought herself a book from which she keeps quoting. I am irresistibly reminded of the elves in the Lord of the Rings films. Apparently I’m a philistine.

Further Christmas Things

8 December, 2020 5 Comments
Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

I ordered a present from an online shop which had been recommended to me. The owner’s name seemed familiar. I thought that she and her husband may have sat beside us at an arty Christmas extravaganza a number of years ago. This was just as well as I managed to put in the wrong email address on my order. I emailed the helpdesk and said that I thought we’d met. I got this lovely email back:

Hi Anne,Thanks for getting in touch and for ordering with us. I hope X loves her [present]! That was such a great night in Henrietta street. Would you believe we only just moved into our school house 2 months ago [they had been talking about doing up an old school and moving in in 2018]. We had so many delays and I still don’t have my terrazzo tiling down but hopefully in the New Year. Wishing you a fabulous Christmas! I’ll send your tracking number to this address.

It’s a wonderful shop run by delightful people. Have a look. Although sometimes everyone knowing everyone in Ireland can be trying, at times it is absolutely lovely.

I have made sugary orange slices to dip in chocolate and am delighted with myself. I realised this evening that I may well eat them all myself. I don’t care.

Today Mr. Waffle picked up the essential annual Christmas publication for Corkonians at home and abroad.

I am beside myself with excitement. Obviously, he’s also laid in the RTE guide so that we can record dozens of films which we will never actually watch; a cherished tradition.

It’s funny how the TV seems so wholesome now whereas when I was a child it was basically the work of Satan and rationed all year round except at Christmas when a certain amount of decadence set in.

Christmas Update

6 December, 2020 3 Comments
Posted in: Belgium, Boys, Cork, Daniel, Family, Ireland, Michael, Princess

So in normal years, I resist Christmas until the weekend after December 8 at the absolute earliest. This is not a normal year. I saw Heather had a post about Christmas songs and I was delighted. Here is a post about Christmas songs from me. I wouldn’t say my favourite Christmas songs as there are so many but here’s a list of some Christmas songs, anyway.

Hark the Herald Angels Sing

I really feel that you can’t beat a good carol. This is a good carol. Mind you, so is Angels we have Heard on High. Excellent work all round by the angels.

I’ve gone all out this year on outdoor lights. Even two months ago, I would have called outdoor lights tacky. No longer, people. Herself and myself drove off to a place just off the M50 which was basically a series of sheds filled with Christmas tat one of which, disturbingly, smelt strongly of urine. Nevertheless, we had a great time and bought loads of Christmas lights.

We had a street light turning on last night and had socially distanced mulled wine and mince pies outside. Very satisfactory. Herself says that I have turned into Sorcha O’Carroll Kelly who is locked in mortal combat with her neighbours over Christmas lights. I reject this characterisation. However, I can tell you that Dublin is mad for outdoor Christmas lights this year and there is a reason why we had to go to a shed off the M50 to get some.

Handel’s Messiah

Long, there’s no two ways about it, but very Christmassy. I have turned on Christmas FM which has a questionable playlist. However, I have recently become aware of Christmas FM carols and classical (or Christmas for the middle aged) and only this morning it graced us with For unto us a child is born from the Messiah. Pleasing. They are also going with Lieutenant Kije by Prokoviev on regular repeat which is, I presume, a bit longer than the bit they’re offering on the radio but I like the extract I’m getting.

We are working on our Christmas orange decorations.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas

I think I only heard this for the first time a couple of years ago but I like it. In other Christmas news, my sister-in-law has asked us around to their house for Christmas dinner. I am delighted. It will be festive; my sister-in-law is an excellent cook; the children will love to see their cousins; and I hope it will feel more like a normal Christmas. I am so looking forward to it. Sad that the relatives in London won’t make it back this year though.

I am fond of O Come All Ye Faithful and am shoe-horning it in here even if it doesn’t quite fit given that everyone is basically staying away this year. Sigh. We’ve never done a Christmas round robin newsletter before but Mr. Waffle is actively contemplating it this year. Stay tuned for more details.

O Little Town of Bethlehem

When my father got his triple bypass in December 1985, we thought he might be in hospital for Christmas. My mother was up in Dublin at the hospital with him and my brother, my sister and I went in to my aunt’s house next door to record a Christmas mix tape for him. My sister played the piano, my brother and aunt played the recorder and I sang. I don’t think I have ever laughed so much in my life. The recorder is not an instrument that forgives hysterical laughter either. My father was home for Christmas, so we didn’t need the tape after all which was just as well.

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

When I was small I had a Christmas record that featured this song. When you opened up the album there was a pop-up Christmas scene inside with Santa, Mrs. Claus and the reindeer. I thought it was the most wonderful thing imaginable. My friend and I spent hours trying to write down the full lyrics to this song listening to it over and over again. That was before the internet, kids. I have the record in Dublin now along with a Perry Como Christmas special LP (which I think actually belonged to my friend but which our family somehow ended up with) and I’ve been listening to both of them on the record player and they really remind me of Christmas in Cork in the 1970s. Sometimes on Christmas Eve, I’d go out for a drive with my father to see all the Christmas trees lit up in people’s windows and it was thrilling.

Saint Nicolas Patron des Écoliers

I wouldn’t say that this is an absolute favourite tune but it does remind me of living in Belgium when the children were small and whereas many of the nursery rhymes and songs they learnt in French have been forgotten this one remains fondly remembered. Today, you cry, is December 6, did St Nicolas come? He did.

Another Christmas number the children are keen on is Walking in the Air because of the Snowman and every number from the Muppet Christmas Carol which Michael and I watch every Christmas Eve.

All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name

Along with Gaudete this is a new hymn I learnt in the parish church when we moved here in 2008. Our church has a great musical tradition and it will be very strange and sad not to have a Christmas carol service this Christmas Eve. In general, the choir mistress and I do not have musical tastes in common but I like these ones and Joy to the World and the Carol of the Bells which are staples in the carol service every year.

There’s usually a slightly chilly and damp Christmas market as well where I pick up poinsettias. Again, not a 2020 event.

I have asked the children to find an online midnight mass with hymns which we can go to on Christmas Eve in the house. It’s not really the same.

On a podcast the other day, I heard someone say “We miss each other”. And it’s true, I’m missing not just friends and family but other people and the normal everyday interactions which have largely disappeared this year.

Silent Night

A classic which can be very beautiful and also quite appalling. I am thinking sadly of all the Nativity plays which won’t be happening this year.

I feel very disorganised on the present front this year. Normally, I take a day off work and buy everything in a slightly exhausting but broadly enjoyable trawl through the shops. This year, it’s basically online only which, for me, removes all the spontaneity and excitement. And also, should be done by now but is not so I am feeling regular waves of mild panic. I am half thinking of taking a day off work to sit at the computer and order but my boss, in a Scrooge-like move, has asked us not to take unnecessary days off in the run up to Christmas as we are quite spectacularly busy. He’s right, we are spectacularly busy. Define unnecessary.

Needless to say, not a solitary Christmas card has yet been sent.

Driving Home for Christmas

I’m not quite sure whether we will get to Cork this year. My sister is a bit worried that our descent en masse from Covid ridden Dublin could take out both her and a number of elderly relatives. I’m not sure what to do. I suppose that we will decide closer to the time but I will be slightly heartbroken if I don’t get down to Cork over the Christmas holidays.

We usually have Christmas drinks on the Sunday afternoon before Christmas. Preparation and hosting can make me a bit tense to be honest but I love it in retrospect. Not this year and I miss it. My friend Michael who has a lovely voice and is a born performer often sings O Holy Night in several languages which is a hard act to follow.

Fairytale of New York

I love this song. There’s something about the bitter-sweet nature of it that means that you can hear it a lot over Christmas but it never loses its magic. I’m aware that the lyrics are a bit difficult but I still love it. It somehow feels very appropriate for Christmas 2020.

It’s beginning to look a lot like…

20 November, 2020
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Family, Ireland, Michael, Princess

Normally I am very against Christmas starting much before December 15 and certainly not in November, however, this year is different. I have bought my Christmas teas and I am liking them. This week I took delivery of a Christmas jumper for herself. She really likes it. “I might get one too,” I said with, possibly, excess enthusiasm. “Don’t do that,” she said, “because then I would have to burn this one.” My tentative proposal for family Christmas jumpers have been definitively nixed. Perhaps for the best.

In other news, Michael’s classmates had to give presentations on a topic of interest to them and one boy did his grandmother who died a couple of years ago and almost everyone was in tears. I love this for a bunch of 15/16 year olds.

Alas, the boys are tired of cinema night and want a break this weekend. Is next weekend, when I get to choose, too early for a Christmas film? Suggestions on family Christmas films welcome.

And finally, I was talking to my father and, inspired by a podcast I was listening to on aviation, I asked him when was his first flight. “1936, when I was 11,” said he. There was some kind of air show in the field where they subsequently built Cork airport and, in exchange for a fee, I suspect, people were taken up for a short flight over Cork. He enjoyed it very much, thanks for asking and even after 84 years he continues to sound pretty enthusiastic about the experience although he did temper his enthusiasm by saying that had he known then what he now knows about plane safety in the 30s, he might have been slightly more wary.