I wouldn’t be a big fan of boxing as a sport but even I was aware that Katie Taylor, Irish boxing champion was having her final bout in Croke Park last night. The papers were full of it. By all accounts, as well as being a great boxer she is a very inspiring and worthy person. She did some kind of warm up session in Dublin City University (extensively covered) and did her weigh in in Trinity College (ditto). The French embassy cultural newsletter to which I am a subscriber told me about her French opponent. The neighbourhood whatsapp group gave a blow by blow account of her prowess last night (she won). The fight was on in every pub in the city. But I have to say, most surprising of all was mass this morning where we prayed for her to have a good retirement during the prayers of the faithful. Everyone’s jumping on her bandwagon.
Dublin
Queen of Cafés
I met middle child and Mr. Waffle for lunch today in a café where I have been going for many, many years. I used to work near there and go there a fair bit but I work in a different part of town now and go much less frequently. Middle child had never been there – as Mr. Waffle said, they have anti-student prices – but enjoyed it. Both of my lunching partners were surprised to see one of the waitresses surge out from behind the counter and embrace me saying, “We haven’t seen you in ages.” I was a little surprised myself but gratified. “I have been here 19 years today and I remember you coming in when I started working here,” she said. When it came to time to leave she whispered to me, “Open your bag; we made extra scones today and I will give four to you”.
I remember once years ago at a slightly low point they gave me free cake. I tell you, loyalty has its privileges.
Long in the Tooth
I have returned from holidays – more’s the pity – and a full update on my trip will follow. Something for you to look forward to.
As now seems inevitable whenever I go away for any period of time, I chipped a tooth. I made an appointment with the dentist for shortly after our return. I am in the daring process of changing dentists. The whole thing has taken years. For a long time, I have suspected that my former dentist was very interventionist, he was certainly very expensive. Other friends who were with the same dentist had drifted away. His predecessor in title was a Cork man whose parents were doctors who had been a couple of years ahead of my father in college and who had been recommended to me by my friend whose father was my dentist when I was growing up.
When the recommended dentist retired, he sold the practice to new guy and I just stayed while feeling increasingly dissatisfied. Anyway the final straw on the new (about 5 years) dentist came at Christmas when he gave herself a standard filling and her face swelled up like a balloon. Look, he made a mistake, who hasn’t? But he didn’t say anything. When she went to the pharmacist for pain relief, the pharmacist thought she had had an extraction.
So I cast my bread upon the waters in the neighbourhood group chat and we have all moved to a local dental surgery which, at the very least has the merit of being nearby.
I was whizzing down there for my 9 o’clock appointment the other morning when my mobile rang. “Two minutes,” I said to the receptionist. I was honestly there about two minutes past nine but the dentist and nurse were standing in reception looking reproving. It turned out that the dentist was French. She was from Lille. She said, demonstrating very little faith in Irish people, “You wouldn’t know it.” “Au contraire,” said I, responding in French, “I have been there many times; I used to live in Brussels.” She smiled. She said to her dental nurse, “This is the first Irish person I have understood when speaking French.” I mean, a bit damned with faint praise, but she seemed warmer than she had been in reception. “I’m so glad that you understood my Belgian accent,” I abased myself. “Honestly there are worse accents, you could be from Marseille,” she said smiling. It was all going so well. As I was trying to think of other Lille facts with which to ingratiate myself with her, it came to me, “Wasn’t the guy from the south in Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis from Marseille?” This is a very funny films set near Lille. Well, I can tell you, the people of Lille do not like it. “People all over France quote lines from that film at me. It is terrible and not representative of the people of the North. Do you like Leap Year?” she asked me tartly. Of course I don’t like Leap Year it’s a dreadful film if you’re Irish. Anyway my chance to bond with the dentist ended abruptly. And I checked, the guy who comes north in Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis isn’t even from Marseilles.
But look she fixed my tooth and she said to me severely that I must wear my gum shield thing at night and she was so scary that I have been doing so since.
Meanwhile, I got a text message from old dentist telling me I have an appointment next week and to text yes to confirm or ring the practice number otherwise. He always answers that phone. I screwed my courage to the sticking point, rang and, unbelievably, got the voicemail which never happens. I left a message saying, “Thanks for everything but I’m changing dentists” and with one bound, our heroine was free.
I met a friend for lunch during the week and was telling him about my dental adventures including my regularly chipping teeth and he said, “Don’t you get the feeling that people aren’t really designed to last past 50 and everything just keeps going wrong from then on?” An unwelcome reflection. In fact, since he and his wife are the first of our friends to have a child get engaged, he is a regular source of reflection on my own mortality, so there is no need for him to add to it.
Alarming
In early June, Mr. Waffle and I went into town for a middle aged adventure but when we got there Grafton street (the main pedestrianised shopping street) and the surrounding streets and the Powerscourt Centre (nice shopping centre in an 18th century building) were all closed. I was baffled and asked one of the many guards crawling around the area what was going on. Some EU Presidency thing I thought. I suppose the Guard was a bit sick of answering questions but he snapped back, “Someone’s been stabbed and killed.” What an alarming development. The internet rapidly informed me that a young man had been stabbed to death in a fight the night before. I always think my children will be safe in town but I didn’t like the sound of this. What can I do? Nothing but hope they will be sensible and safe, I suppose.
Mayo for Sam
Mr. Waffle and I decided to go for a nice walk in Portrane today. The weather is a bit cooler and very pleasant. We began with breakfast in Avoca in Malahide Castle. How great was my indignation when I discovered that they stop serving breakfast at 11.30? Pretty great as by the time we got there it was 12.10. I had a steak sandwich for breakfast. Not a form of breakfast that has been hugely popular since the 19th century. I am a city person and breakfast should be served until at least 2 on a Sunday; everyone knows that and these suburban outlets need to pull up their socks.
On the way to our walk we bought strawberries and new Queens potatoes from a bored teenager at the side of the road. The best strawberries I have tasted all summer by some distance. Our walk was, as hoped, nice.
I forget what lovely beaches there are in north County Dublin – I don’t really think of Dublin as a very beachy place but it is. This beach compared favourably to those in the west of Ireland. High praise.
Apparently it is also a place where the rules on horse access to the beach are not fully observed. That horse poo did not smell like it had been there since May.
I went for a swim which was very nice but I was a bit nervous because a number of jellyfish corpses were visible on the strand. I didn’t see any in the sea but I couldn’t quite relax. With global warming the presence of jellyfish is becoming pretty common but it’s still a bit alarming to me. Herself says that it has led to mosquitos in London. She knows because she’s allergic and her leg swelled up like a balloon when she got bitten; even the pharmacist was impressed and gave her a course of penicillin.
Possibly related, I was the only person in the water which felt…peculiar? Did everyone else know something I did not? Was it the jellyfish? Was it the horse poo? It’s a blue flag beach and the local authorities had a sign up saying they tested the water most recently on July 13 and it was excellent. Let’s see whether I survive the night.
We hightailed it home after our walk as the All-Ireland Gaelic football final was on (the winner gets the Sam Maguire cup, hence the title of this post) and we didn’t want to get caught in match traffic. We actually made it home in time to watch the end of the match. Mayo were playing Kerry in the final. Mayo have not won the All-Ireland for 75 years and Kerry seem to win it all the time. Everyone in the country was supporting Mayo except people from Kerry. The consensus was that this Kerry team would win no bother.
The excitement of the All-Ireland final hit the European stage earlier. For Ireland’s EU Presidency Each Member State of the EU (26 excluding Ireland) is paired with an Irish county (also currently 26, if you don’t count the new Dublin divisions and somehow no one ever does) and the Netherlands got Mayo which led to this exchange in the European Parliament. I applaud the Dutch enthusiasm.
Mayo wear green and red and Kerry wear green and gold. During the World Cup there were memes doing the rounds featuring those colours (apologies to English people who may find these images upsetting). The World Cup was all really about Gaelic Athletic Association rivalries some people may be surprised to hear.
The story of the reason for Mayo’s 75 year drought which I must emphasise is completely untrue and known to be untrue by everyone is that the team which won the All-Ireland for Mayo in 1951 were returning home and a funeral cortege was ahead of them. The team were disrespectful and the parish priest put a curse on them and said that Mayo would not win again until all of the members of that team died. This is not traditionally a catholic priest power, in case you’re wondering. Anyway, Mayo have not won since though they have been to the final. One poor old gent survives from the 1951 team apparently.
Do you want to know who won now? I bet you do. It was Mayo.
Arts etc
Mr. Waffle and I went for a couple of tea time talks in the Tenement Museum in Henrietta Street. One on Dublin street traders and one on the markets in the city centre. Both a bit worthy but maybe not completely fascinating throughout.
We saw Project Hail Mary in the cinema. Mr. Waffle loved it. I thought it was grand. We also saw The Devil wears Prada 2. I loved it. Mr. Waffle thought it was grand. One thing did get my goat though. I have covered in the past how much I dislike Niall Williams’s books. Everyone else loves them but I find them a bit Oirish. Anyway, Kenneth Branagh who plays Miranda Priestly’s husband is waiting for her in a hotel room at a crucial point in the film and when she comes in he casts aside the book he was reading. “What was that?” you ask. “This is Happiness” by Niall Williams.
We also saw Disclosure Day. I thought it was grand. Mr. Waffle loathed it and kept pointing out plot holes on the newsroom aspect. Since this is a film about aliens on earth, I think there were areas where a greater suspension of disbelief was required. Anyhow, wouldn’t recommend. Mr. Waffle asked afterwards why Josh O’Connor (English) and Emily Blunt (also English) were given American accents but Colin Firth still had his English accent. Middle child and I explained to him that baddies are all English
We went to Altamount Gardens and Huntington castle in Carlow for a day out. Strong on peacocks. Grand. But not worth the €130 fine and 3 penalty points I got for speeding on the way home. And while I approve strongly of fines for speeding in the abstract, it was hard for me to rejoice in the concrete.
I went to a library talk on Dublin art and Hugh Lane. Fine but no substitute for the Hugh Lane Gallery which is closed for endless renovations. I also went to a talk on Hugh Lane and his own art collection and the role of women in supporting the Hugh Lane modern art gallery which was slow to get off the ground due to Dubliners’ dubiety about the whole project. These impressionists are alright for the French but I’m not sure whether we want them here kind of thing. Interesting.
I saw the Blake exhibition in the National Gallery a couple of times and dutifully went to several talks. I think I can take or leave Blake. He was, God love him, a bit of a tortured soul. On one of these trips I met a friend of Mr Waffle’s from school and his somewhat (but not that much) younger wife. I enquired about their children, starting secondary school kind of age – and she said, “And by the way, I’m pregnant.” Sooner them than us.
Herself was in New York and sent me this message.
Come on, she’s hilarious.
I went to the RHA annual exhibition which I found dull and another exhibition which I quite enjoyed. Here are some photos from the latter.
Mr. Waffle and I went to visit the James Joyce tower (museum of things Joyce and manned by enthusiastic Joyceans) and cycled around the salubrious precincts of Killiney and Dalkey and walked Dun Laoghaire pier. A grand day out.
We went to see the Messiah outdoors in Fishamble street (on the site where it was first performed) at lunch time but the timing was not entirely compatible with lunch and work. Still pleasant in its own way.
We have been looking at auctions a lot. It’s our age. I enjoyed the Morgan O’Driscoll Irish Art pre-sale investigation in the RDS; I enjoyed the Howth castle inspection rather less, especially as it cost me €20 to get in and the Irish art one was free. Increasingly, I find us looking in at items consigned for auction at the weekend. Where will this end? Ominous.
The 1926 census has been published online and there is great excitement. I still haven’t found my relatives – a mystery – but everyone else in Ireland has found theirs. The street whatsapp group was hopping with news of who lived here in 1926 on the day it was released. There was an excellent exhibition in Dublin castle, alas, now closed. The EU Presidency means that the castle is out of bounds for the rest of the year.
We went to see “The Good Luck Club” an Anu production about the Irish Sweepstakes. Their productions are always site specific and this one was in the National Archives. It was part of the Archive’s census centenary programme. But the play wasn’t about the census at all. It didn’t totally work for me but it got the usual rave reviews and was good in parts. Am I still going to go to whatever they offer for the theatre festival in the autumn? You betcha. General booking opens later this month and my fingers are already hovering over the keyboard.
We went to a talk on the sculptor Albert Power. If you’re Irish, you’ve seen his work around but he is a bit neglected as sculpture is a medium about which the Irish nation is, at best, ambivalent. Interesting.
We saw Sinéad Culbert the comedian. Her husband is Dutch. There’s a lot of humour to be wrung from Hiberno-Dutch relations.
I saw Tana French, whom I love, speak about her new book which I read but sadly did not love. The sooner she moves on from the Irish western rut she’s in, the better, as far as I’m concerned.
This isn’t exactly culture but where else to put it? Friends very kindly took us to a terrifyingly expensive dinner in Chapter 1 (possibly two Michelin stars, definitely one, great if your bank balance is feeling strong). When we waddled out of the restaurant later, Mr. Waffle’s bike lights and kickstand had been stolen. Great highs, great lows.
During the very hot spell we went to see “The Whiteheaded Boy” by Lennox Robinson in the Abbey. Lennox Robinson was a funny Cork dramatist who died in the late 1950s. This play was funny in places but overall only alright. A big part of the plot is about breach of promise. For my money, it’s hard to update that to the 1980s but that is what they attempted. The end was surprising, I will give them that. Due to the climactic conditions, Mr. Waffle, with some trepidation, wore his shorts to the national theatre. He works in a conservative profession and was not delighted to see a number of colleagues in the foyer when we arrived. He ran into one of them again shortly afterwards and she said tartly, “I see you are dressed on this occasion.”
How is your own cultural life going?