We have sown new grass in the back garden. It is growing very slowly. There are still large bands of brown earth. As I looked up the garden from the kitchen, I commented to Mr. Waffle, “It’s definitely greener over there at the end of the garden.” “Famously,” said he.
Mr. Waffle
Nice, Polite Boys
I was in Cork alone (!) recently. As I sat in to my seat on the train back to Dublin with my newspaper in my sweaty little paw, I was distressed to see that every other seat in the carriage was reserved for school boys. As it happened, 13 year old school boys from my husband’s old school. I felt that my quiet reading would be disturbed.
But I had nothing to fear. Mr. Waffle had always assured me that his old school was full of nerds but I didn’t really believe him until the moment I saw the young men pull out their chess boards and timers and start playing while singing Ave Maria. Unless Ave Maria is sitting high in the charts at the moment, I find this detail particularly baffling.
Pedantic not Sexist
Michael: A woman can’t be a schoolmaster.
Me: But Michael, your own teacher is a woman.
Michael: No, a woman can’t be a schoolmaster.
Me: Of course she can.
Mr. Waffle: Can a woman be a schoolmistress, Michael?
Michael: Yes, of course.
Further Birthdays
March is full of excitement. Mr. Waffle’s birthday falls on the 19th. On the 16th I was scheduled to pick up the large copy map I had got him from the framers. The night before, I said casually, “I might drive to work tomorrow, the forecast is for rain.” Note my cunning.
When I arose from my slumbers, Mr. Waffle proudly informed me that he had taken the car to the garage to get that wonky light fixed. “You don’t mind cycling, do you?” “Not at all,” I said untruthfully as I contemplated the prospect of walking home from town in the rain with a large picture under my arm.
You’ll be pleased to hear that he really liked the map.
Bitter, Bitter, Bitter is the Lemon to the Fritter
It was my birthday on March 10 and on March 9, Mr. Waffle took me to a nice restaurant for dinner. It was filled with tables of older women and we and 4 or 5 other couples were in an alcove away from the main restaurant. I asked our waiter who the women were (IFUW was my initial thought). “They are,” he announced proudly, “the mothers of the rugby players.” Scotland were to play Ireland the following day. We looked dubious, this seemed unlikely. Seeing our expressions he added, “Possibly also the grandmothers.” It was later explained that these were the wives or rugby officials. Clearly an older cohort. And that was all fine and dandy until they got our their guitars (I kid you not) and started belting out 70s numbers (“Torn Between Two Lovers, “Leaving on a Jet Plane”) as well as, of course, “Flower of Scotland” and the ever unappealing “Ireland’s Call”.
Alas, fair maiden.
High Standards
Michael: What’s an ego?
Herself: Well, there’s an ego and a super ego.
My sister: A super ego?
Herself: It’s the rules of society that stop you jumping the queue or taking another person’s sandwich. A baby, for example, doesn’t have a super ego.
My sister (faintly): Oh.
On relating this to the Princess’s loving father, he said, “Oh yes, I remember explaining that to her in some context or other. It doesn’t sound like she added much to the original lesson.”