Travel

Travel and Culture

3 June, 2024
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Reading etc., Travel, Twins

Mr. Waffle went to La Rochelle on a work soccer trip. I begged him not to have a heart attack; he did not and a good time was had by all etc.

Daniel went on a post-exam trip to Sardinia with his fellow students. Hats off to the Airbnb owner who thought it was a good idea to have 14 students in his villa. It took them 45 minutes to walk from the villa to the beach and an hour to walk to the nearest shop. They were car free by necessity. Notwithstanding these significant difficulties, a good time was, almost miraculously, had by all.

At home, rather more prosaically, I went to the RHA annual exhibition. Not too bad. My favourite rotating exhibit is below.

But I liked quite a number of things. It compared favourably with the TUD graduate show (as it ought, I suppose) which I did not hugely enjoy. In previous years there were more paintings, I love a painting. Though I did enjoy talking to the young game designers who, very patiently, talked me through their video games. And I liked the large lego characters so it wasn’t a complete washout.

I also liked the view.

I was at the Hugh Lane gallery recently (where a lot of stuff is in storage as they are about to do a job on the roof) where you can have the impressionists pretty much to yourself which is enjoyable. Hugh Lane who led the campaign for the gallery of modern art – and donated many of its pictures – had a great eye. He loved Mancini though who has not really stood the test of time – I don’t mind him but he’s not exactly a name to conjure with. Lane’s own portrait by Mancini is slightly (presumably unintentionally) hilarious.

I went to hear Olivia Laing talk about her work in a tent (Dublin Literary Festival). The Princess gave me one of Olivia Laing’s books for Christmas and I have not yet read it: on the strength of the talk, I will throw myself into it in due course. I read an interview with Olivia Laing where she said that her mother always says to her “Why don’t you ever tell Irish people that your mother is Irish?” I was quite disappointed that she didn’t follow that advice as we would have loved that in the tent.

I went to a talk in the library about servants in the big house. More interesting than I expected. More Irish people rising up the ranks than I expected; I thought all of the upper servants were imported from England but apparently not. Another day, I tried to go to a consultation in the library but when I got there it was closed and I was directed to another branch. I was filled with rage and fired off an indignant email. Oh God. It wasn’t too bad but I probably would have worded it differently if I knew there had been a death in the service.

Mr. Waffle and I went to the Maritime museum in Dun Laoghaire on a rainy Sunday. It is very much a rainy Sunday activity. However, you see below the highlight, a rotating lighthouse light taken from a real lighthouse (in Howth across the bay) when it was decommissioned. It sits on 14 litres of mercury which feels like a disaster waiting to happen but so far so good.

As part of our going commitment to the art of film, Mr. Waffle and I went to “Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga”. A terrible mistake. Some people liked it, I gather. We were not among their number.

Mr. Waffle and I went back to Altamont House. Still lovely. The house is closed but I am now solidly of an age to enjoy gardens. I recommend.

For reasons I won’t bore you with ( you thought there was no editorial function? Think again) Mr. Waffle and I went in to Halford’s in Carlow town to buy a bike rack on the way back. Staff were very pleasant but had no knowledge of bike racks. I really am afraid that disaster will befall me in England as I try to bring home the Princess’s college bike.

My friend had free tickets for Bloom (a garden festival in the Phoenix Park) and asked me whether I would like to go. I had been once before and not enjoyed it much but going with a friend just made it a much better adventure. Had a great time.

Gutted that I have to go back to work tomorrow after the bank holiday weekend. It seems so wrong.

Last, but by no means least, our local film maker is making another documentary which meant that he could not chair the residents’ committee AGM so Mr. Waffle was, slightly to his chagrin, in the chair. The film maker was filming it as part of his film – who is going to buy this documentary we ask ourselves? However, I guess he knows what he’s at as he’s had loads of things in the cinema and on the TV so this could be Mr. Waffle’s ticket to fame. Mr. Waffle is unconvinced.

A Weekend Away

1 June, 2024
Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

In early May we went to London. I feel, in a very tempting fate way, that we have mastered our formula for London visits.

Friday 10 May

We flew out of Dublin about midday (very civilised) and were in our hotel in Soho by about 3. I love the Elizabeth line, the existence of which was brought to our attention by the London relatives. It is a short five minute walk from our hotel (Hazlitt’s where I have now decided that we will stay every time we go to London or until we can no longer afford it).

We went for a wander around the city and, as a special treat to Mr. Waffle, went to the London Transport museum. They had this enormously annoying wheeze where you pay for admission and then you can go “anytime you like” for the next 12 months. I mean, this is not great for a visitor. £25 each to get in but more interesting than you might think. But still.

After that heady excitement, we met Mr. Waffle’s sister and her husband for dinner in this old fashioned but charming restaurant called Rules. Apparently, it’s where Edward VII and Lillie Langtry hung out. And, ideally, also very close to our hotel.

We missed the aurora borealis though. A neighbour posted a picture to the group chat.

Saturday, 11 May

I was slightly worried about Michael being home alone. Daniel was off to the darkness into light walk in the Phoenix Park (a 3.30 am start) and then straight on to Donegal for a weekend away with friends. Spoiler alert: Michael was unphased and quite enjoyed being home alone, I mean, really, don’t we all?

After a sustaining breakfast, Mr. Waffle and I took ourselves to the Sargent exhibition in the Tate Britain which was the (ostensible) reason for our trip. I really loved it and would have recommended it to you except that I think it may now be over.

While we were there we had a more general look around which I really enjoyed but Mr. Waffle was wilting slightly.

We texted Mr. Waffle’s sister for advice on where to go next and she suggested that we get the boat to the Oxo Tower. Boat services are a bit irregular on a Saturday but we were leading a charmed life and one just pulled up shortly after we arrived. It was a lovely trip and I found myself reflecting how much more alive the Thames feels than the Liffey – more like a real artery.

We then strolled along the South Bank in the glorious weather – not too hot, not too cold – and went up to the top of the Oxo Tower where we had slightly overpriced cold meat but never mind the width, feel the quality. What a view. We got to sit outside and look out over the river. I don’t have a good photo of that but I do have this from round the back.

Then, feeling extremely daring, we took the bus back to Soho. You know how unnerving it is to try to take buses as a tourist. Anyhow success attended our efforts and I got to sit upstairs which is delightful anywhere.

We recovered for a bit before going out for dinner in the opera house in Covent Garden. This is another of my sister-in-law’s top tips. Great food -loads of restaurants – and a beautiful view.

Sunday May 12

We got up and had breakfast out; Soho abounds in breakfast opportunities. Then we went to mass at 11. Check out from the hotel was at 12 but what mass would last more than 45 minutes? And does St. Patrick’s in Soho (a five minute walk from our hotel) strike you as the kind of place where they would have a long mass? Well, it turns out – as my ultra Catholic friend told me – that it is well known in traditional Catholic circles; that, my friends, means a long mass. The church was beautifully restored, the congregation were very young, multinational and chic and I felt quite elderly (whereas in Dublin I’m generally the youngest person in the church). There were two charming young women giving out hymn books at the door. Mercifully Ascenscion Thursday is celebrated on the day in England (in Ireland it moves to the following Sunday) so it was not a special mass. Nonetheless, everything that could be sung, was sung, we had a good, but long (quelle surprise), sermon, and it was hard to get out of the church without shaking the priest’s hand which led to a press of people like at a wedding when everyone is congratulating the bride and groom. Mr. Waffle slunk out at 12 (before communion) to check us out of the hotel. I stayed to the bitter end which was after 12.30. Even my ultra Catholic friend said, “How did they make a normal mass last 90 minutes?”, he also said, “You always get the best masses.” Depends on your criteria, I guess. Needless to say, the priest said mass with his back to the congregation and sprinkled water on us and made free with the incense. I lit a candle for herself who was beginning her exams, I can only hope that it is a particularly effective candle. A highlight of the service for me was when an elderly, slightly odd soul in a mechanised wheelchair to which were attached many plastic bags, came zooming up the aisle and had to be chased by one of the nice young women and stopped from reaching the altar.

Happily the hotel seemed unconcerned by our late check out and we left our luggage there and went to visit the Handel Hendrix house, yet another recommendation from my sister-in-law and it does what it says on the tin: it’s where both Handel and Jimi Hendrix lived when they were in London. Fun and nearby. What’s not to love? Though I inadvertently took away their bracelet to open the lockers and Mr. Waffle ran back with it through the toasty streets of London while I waited by the window of the Liberty shop. Look, I had a blister.

Then we took ourselves off to the airport where we had a bite to eat in the Perfectionist restaurant (really pretty good). I enquired of Michael how things were at home.

Him: I’m fine. Studying John Stuart Mill.

Me: Enjoy JSM.

Him:He’s absolutely tearing up the idea of first past the post and advocating for (what we now know of as) the dutch model of all country STV, it’s very enjoyable.

I am pleased that he has chosen to study something which fills his heart with joy.

High Dudgeon in the High Mournes

11 March, 2024
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Last Friday morning, we all went off to vote in the referendum. Actually two referenda. It was the boys’ first time voting and Michael was interviewed for an exit poll. No greater happiness. The people of Ireland voted a very resounding “No” to both propositions put before them so that was that.

Mr. Waffle and I drove north afterwards to the beginning of a long weekend of excitement. We drove first to the Mourne mountains. The plan was to do the Slieve Binnian loop. A beautiful circular walk in the high Mournes. I was charmed by the scenery and very excited to see the views from the top.

Mr. Waffle was complaining a bit about the cold but I was full of enthusiasm. I thought he would be better after lunch so we stopped at what, I would have to concede, was a bit of a drafty hollow beside the Mourne wall.

I hopped up after our sandwich and began climbing again, Mr. Waffle called after me feebly. The zip on his coat had broken. God, I was filled with rage. We had to go back and we didn’t even get to the top of Slieve Binnion, let alone finish our loop. Mr. Waffle tried to placate me but my mood was not helped by the fact that he was clearly delighted to get down from the freezing, inhospitable terrain. Furthest point of the expeditionary force marked below.

Mr. Waffle began making conciliatory noises about going for another walk but I was in no mood for a walk in the woods as I told him bitterly. We drove into Newcastle and bought Mr. Waffle a new coat (last of the big spenders) and agreed a plan to walk the Antrim coast the next day.

I began to feel more cheerful and when we were upgraded in our accommodation, the reliably lovely Newforge House, I felt the tide had definitely turned. We had a delicious dinner and a fantastic breakfast.

It’s a 90 minute drive up to Antrim from Moira where our guest house was but I was sustained by the prospect of my lovely walk. We arrived and were charged a positively rapacious £10 to park at the Giant’s Causeway. We then planned to get the wee (everything in Antrim is wee) bus to Dunseverick and walk back to the Giant’s causeway. Smarter tourists would have parked in Dunseverick for free and done the walk the other way round but we will draw a veil. Having forked out our £10 we got out of the car and discovered that my husband, the genius, a man who clearly does not value his marriage, had forgotten his new coat that he had bought the previous day for the very purpose of going on this walk. I have no words. However, I managed with the greatest difficulty, to pull up his zip because I am a genius.

We hopped on the bus (great service, we had it to ourselves) and the bus driver advised getting off at the stop after Dunseverick as it was only half a mile further and a lovely walk. It was a lovely walk but here is what is important: it’s half a mile further on the straight road the bus travels, it’s a lot further along the coast road.

The views were lovely.

It took us about two hours to get to where we had originally planned to start our walk (Dunseverick) which was a further two hours to the Giant’s Causeway where our car was, very expensively, parked. It was about 1.30 at this stage and had we packed sandwiches? Gentle reader, we had not. Mr. Waffle had forgotten his hat and gloves and was, Napoleon like, clutching his zip which was beginning to come apart. Conditions were not exactly optimal. We pressed on for a little while but then wiser counsels prevailed and we traipsed back to Dunseverick where we ignominiously got the bus back to the Giant’s Causeway.

I was keen to go to the Bothy for our lunch, a spot where we had been the first summer of Covid when we stayed in Antrim. We drove there from the Giant’s Causeway and discovered it had been literally behind us when we were dropped off by the bus but we hadn’t turned around at all. I feel had we known we might have pursued other options but water under the bridge. Very disappointingly , the food at the Bothy was not what it was in summer 2020. Alas. Although the waitress did say to me, “Is the wee Earl Grey for yourself?” which I enjoyed.

Then we headed back to Moira where I dropped off Mr. Waffle to watch a rugby match and returned to luxuriate in the hotel. We lost the match in the worst way possible, I understand, but Mr. Waffle took it on the chin.

After dinner that evening in the drawing room we talked to the other guests and, as was almost inevitable, found we lived very close to one couple and, in fact, my friend’s 18 year old daughter does an occasional turn as a babysitter for them.

On Sunday, it was my birthday. 55! Shock, awe, surprise etc. It was also Mother’s Day. I was inclined to be unhappy about this confluence of events. When we went to mass, it turned out that it was also Laetare Sunday. In my view, these should be three separate events each of which allows me to break my Lenten fast. Herself says that Mother’s Day is always Laetare Sunday – shocking, if true. Mass in Moira was less well attended than I remember it being last time I was there. There was the confusion I am familiar with from our own church in Dublin when the scheduled reader isn’t there and the priest casts an anxious eye over the congregation. A man came to his rescue. Initially I thought that the reader was local but as he proceeded, I began to notice a bit of Poland peeping through the Northern Ireland overlay. Which was just as well as he mangled a number of words which I would have expected an Irish adult to be able to manage. One of the readings referred to Nebuchadnezzar and when the reader came to it

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, he just skipped it altogether. Look, fair enough.

To my chagrin, at no point did the priest wish us a happy mother’s day. Disappointing. The weather was not conducive to further outdoor adventures so we drove back to Dublin. In Dublin, there was great excitement. For me, anyhow. I got flowers.

And an elaborate afternoon tea where Daniel had made the bread and scones.

I received many presents. I spoke to herself on the phone. All in all, very satisfactory.

Though initially I was unhappy about Mother’s Day on my birthday, ultimately, it was a win. Usually by the time Mother’s Day rolls around it is a somewhat lacklustre celebration as my loving family are exhausted by the efforts for my birthday. Mr. Waffle tells me that my birthday and Mother’s Day will not coincide again until 2083, which is a shame.

I trust your own Mother’s Day was satisfactory, if you celebrate.

36 Views of the Mountains of Mourne

17 February, 2024
Posted in: Family, Middle Child, Travel, Twins

Me: I’m thinking about summer holiday options. Where might we go this year?

Many voices: Not that Estonian island you keep talking about.

Me: What about Japan? Not this year, but next year maybe?

Daniel: What’s wrong with like…Newry?

Christmas round up

31 December, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Princess, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Christmas Eve, Sunday, December 24

Christmas Day fell on a Monday. I went to regular Sunday mass on the 24th in the morning. In the tussle between the (lovely) newish choir mistress and the (severe) retired choir mistress, the latter won out with traditional numbers including “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”. A perennial Advent favourite.

I zoomed home to watch “A Muppet Christmas Carol” with Michael and anyone else who was interested. As I say, year after year, an amazing Christmas film and Michael Caine’s best work.

My sister, in exile from Cork (the builders are in her house), was up with her partner’s parents in Dublin for Christmas. This was a source of some bitterness. It was her first Christmas ever out of Cork and it was not a concept that had a great deal of allure for her. However, we were all glad to see her and exchanged Christmas presents. Hers, as ever, much better than ours.

We had her to dinner and I got to deploy my Christmas ware; colour me delighted.

Due to an unfortunate miscommunication with chef (Mr. Waffle), dinner was roast beef and not chicken so the mountain of Christmas stuffing I had made the day before was not deployed. Never mind I have been working my way determinedly though it ever since. Stuffing for breakfast anyone?

I am pleased to announce that the Christmas pudding went up in very satisfactory flames (part of a Lismore Christmas hamper which I recommend). In fact in a development which I can only describe as unusual, everyone got a flaming little piece as it took quite a while to go out. Tasted grand too.

Our Christmas crackers came with a guessing game which nearly killed my sister as she collapsed in paroxysms of laughter at my utter inability to guess the name affixed to my forehead.

She then came with us to midnight mass (9pm, confusingly). Those of you who have been counting will realise that it was my second mass of the day which, honestly, felt like a lot. Herself and Mr. Waffle guessed what poets would be covered in the sermon. They got points for Patrick Kavanagh and John Betjeman but no Seamus Heaney. Hymns were broadly good (severe older choir mistress holding out) but we had “Love is Christmas” for communion which definitely came from the younger choir mistress (who is a saint and very talented but whose musical taste, sadly, does not chime with mine). “Because there are so few Christmas hymns,” I whispered to herself bitterly. “Don’t be churlish,” said she. Fair, but honestly, mass went on for so long that it felt like midnight and didn’t I deserve a “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” having been to two masses? Apparently not.

Christmas Day, Monday, December 25

We didn’t get up until 11 – recommended – and then exchanged presents which were broadly a success, I think, though hard to know whether Santa really did deliver for the children. I was pretty pleased anyhow.

We went off across town for Christmas dinner with the cousins. They had also invited Mr. Waffle’s aunt and uncle, their daughter and her children. So we were a big crowd and a good time was had by all. I did feel for my sister-in-law when the uncle and aunt were ill and unable to come but their grandson came (much admired slightly older second cousin to my guys) and brought, surprise, his girlfriend, who, double surprise, we discovered five minutes before sitting down to eat, is a vegan. My poor sister-in-law began anxiously listing the things the vegan could not eat: not the meat, not the potatoes done in duck fat, not the sprouts with bacon, not the parsnips with parmesan…”Do you eat mushrooms?” she asked. Fortunately the vegan said yes and my sister-in-law whipped them up. The rest of us got to eat the amazing Christmas dinner. Santa had brought Michael “Poetry for Neanderthals” and it was great to see almost all the cousins playing from the sophisticated 21-year-old with his vegan girlfriend to the 15 year old hostess. Only the eight year old was a bit shy and stayed chatting with the grown ups.

Then we packed ourselves up and came home where the children did Mr. Waffle’s Christmas treasure hunt which they love. He thought it would be really hard but it took them about 20 minutes. More challenging material required for 2024. It slightly reminds me of a six-year old’s birthday party where you have all these games prepared but 10 minutes in they’ve passed the parcel, played musical chairs and musical statues and ten six-year-olds are looking up at you hoping that you have something prepared for the next hour and fifty minutes.

We had a three way video call with my sister in Dublin (who, ironically, was eating her Christmas dinner at her partner’s sister’s house, a ten minute walk from where we were having our own Christmas dinner but the logistics of meeting up were a bit beyond us), my brother in the Canaries and me. He seems to be having a good time. “Did you go to mass?” I asked him because I enjoy torturing him. “Yes, yes,” he said, “we had the loaves and the fishes.” “On Christmas Day?!” I asked. “Ah, is it the same everywhere?” he asked. “I mean you couldn’t even make a guess for today of all days? I despair,” I said. Just as well I went twice I guess.

It was my father’s third anniversary but I had thought about him on the solstice and that seems like a better day to remember him for a lot of reasons.

St. Stephen’s Day, Tuesday, December 26

Herself made her Christmas breakfast which was deferred from Christmas Day due to logistical challenges and very nice it was too.

Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk in the park. This made me think “Windows has caused a general protection fault.”

I had a quintessential Christmas snack. Yes, yes, that is spiced beef.

That evening, herself and Daniel went out to visit friends. When I was collecting herself she asked, “When are we going to Cork?” This is the reason why I repeat logistics ad nauseam though, in fairness to her, herself is not usually the one caught out. “Tomorrow morning,” said I. Surprise, disquiet etc. I collected Dan as well and he, at least was aware of our plans. I’d told him loads of times apparently. Sigh.

Wednesday, December 27

We left for east Cork at 9.30 in the morning. Our friends’ house there where we have stayed many times over the years and for which we are very grateful has a fatal winter flaw. The heating is very eco-friendly and, for reasons I do not understand, this means that the house takes hours to heat up. The teenage neighbour was supposed to go in the day before and fire up the heating for which service we were to pay her a tenner. Money which we would more than gladly have paid had she done the job, but alas, you just can’t get the staff.

We turned on the heat and went out to a local hotel for lunch. Golf course view but, you know, grand.

Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk on the beach leaving the children behind. Bracing.

There was a portable sauna (it’s far from etc.) and people left it to swim in the sea. Extraordinary. And people were out surfing as well.

When we came back to the house it was

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, alas, still baltic. We tried and failed to get the stove to work (it is a capricious beast, I emailed our friends – in Madrid for Christmas isn’t it well for them etc. – and got this reply “No special tips for the stove but follow instructions. And then do so again. It is like prayer. It will be warm by morning.”). I had neglected to bring a hat from Dublin so I spent the evening with a tea cosy on my head. This must represent some kind of new low but it was warm. I discovered in the morning that poor Michael, who is far thinner than me, had gone to bed with his jumper, coat and trousers on over his pyjamas. Yes, yes it was warm in the morning.

Thursday, December 28

We had a further walk on the beach for enthusiasts in the morning.

We drove up to Cork and had a nice lunch in the city. Then we went to my sister’s house where she needed to deploy us moving boxes and furniture in advance of the arrival of the electrician scheduled for early next month. The builders have done a lot of work and the house looks pretty good if absolutely filthy and covered with builders’ dust. We worked away and then the boys went back with my sister and her partner to their temporary accommodation to play Magic (if you don’t know, lucky old you) and Mr. Waffle, herself and myself went into town for a poke around. The Crawford Gallery was open, always a delight; I will be sad when it closes up for a couple of years of works – in 2024, I think.

I have been nominated family keeper of photo albums. When we were moving boxes we found another photo album. The first half of the album is devoted to pictures of my father and his mates sailing and climbing mountains.

The second half is devoted entirely to me – on my own, with various relatives etc. – as, needless to say, it should be. Here I am with my Granny, my father’s mother. Note cigarette, a classic touch. She actually gave them up when I was 3 or 4 so I never really remember her smoking. She’s wearing the diamond engagement ring that we found earlier in the year when we were cleaning out Aunty Pat’s upstairs. I’m wearing it now. Herself suggests I should sell as with the development of such excellent lab grown diamonds, I am losing thousands every day I fail to dispose of it. I will not be disposing of it.

That evening we all went out for dinner in Blackrock castle. Honestly, in the past I have been underwhelmed by the food available but it was actually quite nice, handy for the road back to East Cork and a lovely setting. Herself got us talking about what minor super powers we would like to have. She wanted to always be able to order the things she would most like on the menu in a restaurant or maybe to know what clothes would suit her best just from looking at them on the rack; Daniel wanted to be able to avoid sporting injuries; Michael wanted to always know when the bus would come (the commute to college is trying for him); Mr. Waffle wanted to always be able to sleep at night (that’s actually my super power, it’s grand but not as good as he thinks it is); I wanted to be able to always find something to watch on TV that would appeal to all the family; my sister’s partner had the best answer though, after a moment’s pause he said, “I want to be able to answer questions like these.” Meta.

Friday, December 29

The morning brought further obligatory walks on the beach and between that and packing up and cleaning up, it was nearly 11 before we got on the road to Dublin.

Unusually enough, we decided to stop on the way for lunch. The road is so good now that unless we start quite late as we did this time, it’s hardly worth stopping. On this occasion, timing suggested that Abbeyleix would be a good place to stop. There is a really lovely old pub there called Morrissey’s and my strong memory is that I have had a sandwich there in the past. However, although the pub was otherwise unchanged from my last visit 20 odd years ago, there was no food to be had. A cafe across the road turned us away as they were fully booked though annoyingly enough almost entirely empty when we went in (I don’t doubt that they were fully booked for lunch but it is galling to be turned away from a largely empty establishment). We ended up schlepping about a kilometre out of town to “the hotel”. The hotel does not do lunch but there was a kind of trailer thing in the yard with a heated enclosure. Beggars cannot be choosers but I would not call it a vintage lunch experience. We went back to Morrissey’s to warm up and sat beside the stove (installed when the pub was opened in 1775 and still, I can attest, delightfully toasty). I had forgotten just how nice a pub it is but the absence of food in Abbeyleix is definitely off-putting for the casual visitor.

The rest of our journey was accomplished without further incident. Herself read us aloud extracts from the Farmers Journal. She reads it a couple of times a year and is a big devotee. I’m sure her great-grandfather would be proud of her knowledge of mart prices but we’re all a bit puzzled by her enthusiasm.

I returned to a threatening email from the library. In fairness, it was my third overdue reminder. I had taken out David Copperfield but I was finding it hard going and had only got to page 50. Since the library abolished fines, Mr. Waffle has been wondering how they are going to deal with useless people like me who occasionally (not always, not always) return their books late. Well now, I know, unless I return David Copperfield pronto, they will suspend my account. I would have returned it on the morrow but, of course, Monday being a bank holiday, the library was closed on Saturday (I love the library service and use it all the time but like the rest of us, it has its idiosyncrasies that you have to get to know).

Saturday , December 30

I finished my Christmas jigsaw puzzle. Delighted with myself. Time well spent.

New Year’s Eve, Sunday, December 31

Herself went off to England by ferry at 8 in the morning (flights too dear) to go to a New Year’s Eve party in London. You have to admire her dedication. She’s back tomorrow (by plane, return flight is cheaper but at 9.40 from Gatwick, alas for her). Hurrah.

Today is the feast day of the Holy Family. The priest went all out in his sermon which went on forever and, slightly bafflingly, encompassed the role of the family in resolving the war in Gaza. A fifty minute mass and no singing. Alas. The second reading was from the reliably irritating St. Paul and included this paragraph, never my favourite:

Wives, give way to your husbands, as you should in the Lord. Husbands love your wives and treat them with gentleness. Children be obedient to your parents always, because that is what will please the Lord. Parents, never drive your children to resentment or you will make them feel frustrated.

I remember my parents particularly enjoying the “children be obedient to your parents” line and us countering about driving children to resentment before extracting money to spend in the penny sweet shop across the road from the church. What a long time ago that seems now.

I really love this time of year but I realise that as I get older, it will always be tinged with a little melancholy. And perhaps, after all, this is a nice way to remember those who have died.

Anyhow, enough melancholy, onward and a very happy 2024 to you. Tell me, have you made any resolutions for the new year?

I’m Back

18 December, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Hodge, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Work, Youngest Child

For the first time in years, I didn’t post every day in November. I just forgot. It’s been busy back in the world of work.

Daniel’s shoulder is still causing problems. I’m not sure that he is entirely capable of managing his own medical affairs. One evening he had to call the doctor’s surgery – land line, this is relevant – about his shoulder. The surgery closes at 5.30 and at 5.27 he rang me (whatsapp free on the home wifi) to tell me he was out of credit. It was a race against time to top up his phone and inevitably when he rang at 5.31 he got the automated, “Did you expect us to pick up? You must be joking” message. Anyway he did manage to get through eventually and has been scheduled to be seen at a sports clinic where the next available appointment is July 2024. Fantastic.

Since I last wrote we have had riots in Dublin and a school stabbing so it hasn’t been the best of times for Dublin. On the night in question, I was out in Skerries in north County Dublin (subsequently revealed to be the best place to live in the world, honestly, nice and all but not entirely convinced) having dinner with a school friend. Poor old Michael texted me to check whether I was ok but, in fact, he was far closer to the action at home than I was in my North Dublin fastness. I subsequently heard that on the night of the riots various groups were trapped in their offices (my favourite, the Department of Education quiz night participants) and Trinity students had to stay overnight on campus.

We were flying to England to visit herself at the weekend and I was a bit worried about the boys and asked them not to go out in town while we were gone which felt like we were giving in to the rioters but there it was. Anyway, they were fine and there was no more rioting either. We had a good time in England except for the part of it we spent on trains. It had been suggested to us that flying to Birmingham would be a good way to travel. I cannot recommend Birmingham airport which is undergoing extensive renovations. I fell over comprehensively in a damp lift (water, I think) and lay on my back like a beetle waving its little legs in the air. All of the pre-recorded announcements had a hoover in the background. Unpleasant.

Nor can I recommend the train service which in my (admittedly limited) experience cancelled trains at short notice and had everyone squeezed on like sardines with no chance of getting to your reserved seat. However, Birmingham airport was redeemed by its lovely staff. Mr. Waffle lost his wedding ring and he just gave up. I, however, went back to security and a really kind man checked all of the security belts. He didn’t find it but gave me a form to fill in in case it turned up. Mr. Waffle had no faith in the form – to the extent that he just bought a new wedding ring – but he filled it in and they found the ring and sent it back to us. Very gratifying.

We had a nice time in England overall notwithstanding our transport trauma and it was very nice to see herself.

I have returned to tennis having finally got back in to the tennis club 18 months after I applied to rejoin. I was stiff all over after my first session. Let us hope things improve.

My sister is on the mend having been pretty unwell. I went to Cork to visit her to speed her recovery. I am not sure that it really helped but I had a pretty good time. It was nice to visit Cork at Christmas (all of December now apparently) and finally get to inspect this Marina market which I’ve been hearing so much (fine but, as my sister observed, probably not notiony enough for me). While I was in Cork, Dan’s team won the Championship. He was very pleased, notwithstanding his shoulder he’s been turning out a bit for training and matches (the physio thinks it’s ok, I hope it’s ok).

The Cork-Dublin train is Ireland’s best train line and when you travel you can shove your bike in the guard’s van. If, like an amateur, you get the Cork Dublin train that is not direct you have to stand on a chilly platform in Mallow, change trains and put up with this kind of bike storage.

Some of you have doubtless been wondering what was the source of the weird smell under the stairs which appeared around the time of my mother-in-law’s funeral. It went away but then Mr. Waffle disturbed the beast in its lair and it came back with renewed vigour but this time, Mr. Waffle managed to trace it to its source. It was a (mercifully wrapped) packet of cooked chicken pieces which had been purchased some months ago. They had lain forgotten in a rucksack in the interim waiting for their moment to shine.

A former colleague’s father died and I spent the days before the funeral humming and hawing about whether I ought to go. It was in rural Kilkenny which is just far enough out of Dublin that I would have to take a day off to attend but not so far that nobody could reasonably expect you to attend. I was definitely going, then I was definitely not going but in the end, I went. Having taken the day off work to go to the funeral, you might have thought I would arrive on time, you would be wrong. As with every funeral I have ever been to, I was glad I went afterwards; there was actually a big crowd of former colleagues there and we had a grand old chat. The burial was in the church yard which in my experience is quite unusual as most funerals seem to involve a trek to some graveyard in the back end of nowhere. And then there were sandwiches and tea (of course) in the adjacent church hall. A more elaborate lunch was being served in the town afterwards but the tea and sandwiches in the hall were great as they allowed me to sympathise in the warmth, and, you know, a cup of tea, not to be sneezed at.

I went to the Kildare Village outlet shopping centre on the way home. I despise it and all it stands for (the fake American vibe, the car dependency, the absence of the diversity you get in an actual city etc) but I also really like it. A difficult time for me. I see they have bike parking. A luxurious Sheffield stand it is not, but it is something, in fairness.

In one of the shops I attempted to buy something for €20. The shop assistant refused to take my money and said that I had to buy two things. Did I leave in a huff? I did not. I, somewhat reluctantly, picked up something else. What a wheeze.

We had Saint Nicolas in Dublin. He sent chocolate to herself in England. His feeling for weights and measures is not what it might be. Herself was, on the whole, pleased to get a kilo of chocolate delivered.

I had my Ukrainian lesson on December 6 and we talked about St. Nicolas in Ukraine. They have him, he comes on December 6 and he brings satsumas. On December 6, when my teacher was growing up (she’s about the same age as me so this would have been in the 70s), the classrooms all smelled of oranges as people illicitly peeled their satsumas under the desks. When I was growing up in Cork in the 70s we used to get a tray of satsumas for Christmas. The excitement in seeing them come into the house, the joy in eating satsumas whenever you wanted. In retrospect, I am very puzzled by this. It’s not like satsumas were not available all year round and I can’t imagine that my mother (very much officer in charge of food in our house) would have objected to us eating as many as we wanted at any time of year, unlike other Christmas treats which were rationed for obvious reasons. I have verified this with people my own age; the big tray of satsumas for Christmas seems to have been a treat for everyone in Ireland in the 70s. Baffling.

I’ve been Christmas lunching with work to beat the band. Exhausting but not unpleasant. I have had not one but two book club Christmas events (two bookclubs). One in my friend’s beautiful house in the suburbs where she had a magnificently decorated 12 foot tree in her drawing room (replacing the grand piano which normally sits there – question to self, where on earth did she put the grand piano?). Her son took a picture of us all in front of the tree and everyone looked amazing except me and I’m right in the middle. Sigh. Even my children felt the need to reassure me that I don’t really look like that. Eyes closed, mouth half open. My other bookclub met in the Westbury hotel for afternoon tea yesterday. Lovely and Christmassy and I kept my mouth closed for all the photos. Sadly, I looked a bit like Rudolf as I was dying with a cold and probably shouldn’t have gone and definitely should not have cycled home in the rain. I was so miserable last night, awake all night that I stayed home from work today. My new boss is lovely and, as I said to Mr. Waffle, “Since I started only about six weeks ago, I have taken every kind of leave, bereavement leave, holiday leave, leave to go to a funeral and now sick leave. He’ll think I’m incapable of putting in a full week.” I have looked at my work email over the course of the day but only in the most desultory way. All I need now is to tell him I’m applying for adoptive leave. I am not applying for adoptive leave.

I have had my hair cut – finally – first time in about 18 months, honestly, well overdue. I am delighted but I was truly unnerved to see how like my brother I looked in the hairdresser’s mirror with my hair cut short. Herself wants to know why I look so glum in all the selfies. Look, I feel foolish photographing myself, there was a time when this was not unusual, right?

Here I am looking slightly cheerier with herself.

Crocheted Christmas tree – an idea whose time has come?

My sister-in-law sent me this very pleasing picture of Hodge, Samuel Johnson’s cat in London.

We have got the best Christmas tree ever this year. I am delighted. I held off until this weekend just gone in the face of some opposition. We had to go to a new place because our regular vendor was out of trees in the size we wanted. What a blessing in disguise; a definitely superior tree was found after some tense moments that I would prefer not to speak about.

Everyone was there to decorate it (herself back from staying in a foundation in Munich where her friend is studying and which appears to be the most amazing place the Princess has ever stayed , I have rarely seen her so enthusiastic about anything and she’s polishing up her German again on foot of the visit so pleasing). And we had Christmas music playing in the background. I was beside myself with joy. Except for dying from my cold. It doesn’t really photograph well but you will have to take my word for it that the tree is magnifico.

More news as we get it.