belgianwaffle

Twins

A Mixed Report

6 Comments
Posted in: Twins, Youngest Child

Youngest child is back in the bosom of his family after 5 long months doing an Erasmus term in Liège in Belgium. His family has hardly seen him since his return since he has been extremely busy picking up the threads of his social life.

He wanted to go to Belgium on his Erasmus trip as he was born there and felt he ought to know it a bit better. His university had links to Liège so that’s where he went.

He did not love it. His accommodation was on the new (1980s) campus in the forest. It only had a couple of faculties (the main campus remains in the city) and no shops or restaurants and a very irregular bus ride to the city which was a 20 minute drive away on the motorway. There was no train which really surprised me. The Belgian students all lived in the city or at home and had no interest in getting to know someone who had joined their course in the middle of third year. His only social outlet was the other Erasmus students (many of them also stuck in the accommodation in the forest campus) and these were, perhaps, more friendships of convenience, like the guy who had a car. Belgian universities don’t have extensive clubs and societies like Irish universities so there was no chance for him to find like minded students. So not a total triumph.

However, I feel it did him good. To be fair to him, he organised himself to go to all the Flemish cities. He also went to Brussels, Maastricht and Luxembourg. He went to Budapest for the Hungarian election (something I don’t think he would have done from Dublin – budget airline and hostel accommodation but he really enjoyed it). He has a whole new found appreciation for the people who do laundry and make dinner at home. It’s not like he wasn’t grateful before but now he appreciates home comforts. His French has really improved and he had to do exams in 4 or 5 subjects in French as well as a couple in English and, mercifully, he does not have to return to resit anything.

Overall, I would say it has been good for him but it would be great if it could have enjoyed it more. Mr. Waffle was chatting to one of the neighbours on the road and it turned out that she had done her Erasmus year in Liège about 20 years ago and loved it, so it is possible. Though she stayed in the city which I’d say was a help.

Still youngest child is thinking about what he might do after college next year and he said he might try to get an internship in Brussels which is not something I think he would have thought of before. So, a win, I guess. I’m not sure that is entirely his view though.

I Despair

2 Comments
Posted in: Middle Child, Twins

You will recall that middle child is on crutches and has to wear a boot following an incident last Monday. Today we deposited our precious child at the airport to go to Paris for a bit. The journey passed off peacefully and the wheelchair assistance at both ends all worked fine. So far, so good.

Unwisely, however, I did not supervise the booking of accommodation. When I rang this evening to check that all was well, I was told that the flat is “6ème étage sans ascenseur”. This is a Paris classic, the maid’s room under the roof, 6th floor and no lift and just not suitable for someone on crutches. To add insult to injury, the bed is on a mezzanine. So you get up to the 6th floor and then you have to hop up the ladder to the bed. It is true that in the booking process I was asked to explain what a mezzanine was but I thought that my description would steer my beloved child away from the mezzanine option. More fool me.

By our mistakes we learn. Keep your fingers crossed that that ankle improves rapidly.

Trying

6 Comments
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins

After a lot of humming and hawing, middle child decided that it was time to get away for a working summer holiday and yesterday booked tickets and accommodation to depart tomorrow.

Last night as I was at my bookclub sitting in the back garden; enjoying the cheeseboard; and chatting merrily in a sort of end of term way, my phone began ringing off the hook. It was middle child injured in a park on the opposite side of the city but sounding reasonably cheerful, if immobile. My immediate reaction was to say, “Ring your father!” but then I remembered we are a one car family and I had the one car (serves me right for not cycling). Off I went to the rescue.

On the drive home, Mr. Waffle rang me to remind me that we had a double mattress in the boot and it would need to be removed to accommodate both the injured warrior and the injured warrior’s bicycle. Why did we have a mattress in the boot? Well, you may recall that I spent months swapping the content of the box room (the former fastness of youngest child) and the double room on the return (the Princess’s old room). I did this on the basis that she will probably never live at home again (sniff) and the youngest child should have the larger bedroom. For obvious reasons she was not pleased. He said he didn’t care beforehand and he was remarkably consistent afterwards. “How do you like your new bedroom?” I asked perkily. “Fine,” he said with zero enthusiasm, “but the mattress is really uncomfortable.” So we bought a new mattress and put the old one in the car to take to the dump. But then Mr. Waffle discovered that Dublin City Council are doing a mattress collection and all we had to do was email them and they would collect it from the front of the house. Great news. We await confirmation of our date but, in the meanwhile, the mattress is living in the boot.

I came home and dislodged the mattress. Meanwhile the texts from the park were becoming increasingly alarming: “I really can’t move at all.”; “Maybe I need to see a doctor?” I said to Mr. Waffle “Perhaps you should come too.” When we got to the park, Mr. Waffle went in to find the afflicted child and I looked for parking. Then Mr. Waffle called me to collect them. Mr. Waffle and I are not good at communicating directions of any kind to each other and it took some time to locate them. I heard Mr. Waffle say tetchily to the victim, “Your mother and I lack a common language for communicating directions.” I felt somehow that I was being blamed. One of us spent formative teen years orienteering and it wasn’t me. When we eventually found each other, the poor old victim was looking a bit miserable. A faithful friend had stayed with the victim to the end and I could tell that, eyeing the parents, she felt more support might be needed but we thanked her and sent her off into the night about which I felt a little guilty but we were in no position to offer anyone a lift home.

The victim’s poor ankle was swollen like a balloon and we felt that perhaps we should go to accident and emergency in the local hospital. Then we realised that three of us wouldn’t fit in the car with the bike. In retrospect, I feel we should have interrogated that assumption a bit further but as I said, we were tetchy. So I said grumpily, “You guys go in the car, I can cycle no problem” not for a second thinking that I would be left to cycle 3kms in the dark on a bike with a crossbar which was much too big for me. But my remarks were taken at face value and I found myself wobbling down the road in that lofty vehicle high dudgeon (not my joke, I suppose really high nelly here). It was ok but anytime I had to get on and off which was with surprising frequency, I kind of got my leg stuck in the basket at the back while swinging it over the crossbar so it could hardly be called elegant progress. I went through a park where someone was giving his XL bully dogs a run without muzzles or leads, one of them frolicking alongside me was some kind of enormous Doberman cross and I was nervous especially since I knew I wasn’t going to get up a head of speed on the bike but it just frolicked and left me to my cycling.

When I got home I hopped on my own normal sized bike and went to A&E. I foolishly thought it might be quiet on a Monday night in July. It was not. It was absolutely heaving and very miserable. We stayed until about 1 in the morning and did not even get to see the triage nurse let alone a doctor so I took an executive decision that we would go home and go to the private health clinic in the morning when it opened. I was a bit worried that the ankle might be broken and moving would make it worse but on the other hand, the child was exhausted and in pain and at the rate we were going, likely to be there all night. We went home.

After the misfortunate child (literally) crawled into bed, we put ice on the ankle and doled out powerful painkillers (the victim had some in stock having been prescribed them earlier by the dentist for impacted wisdom teeth, it hasn’t been a great time healthwise) and hoped for the best.

The swelling had gone down a bit in the morning but the ankle was still very sore so I took the morning off work (usually Mr. Waffle does this kind of thing but he had a conference in the morning and I, miraculously, had no meetings) and drove the afflicted child to the clinic. I was not delighted to be charged €75 almost before I got in the door. What am I paying an enormous sum in health insurance for, if I have to fork out in the clinic? This is not a question for Americans who seem to enjoy their own weirdly painful regime which is maybe even worse? On the plus side, a greater contrast to the hellish scenes of A&E the night before would be hard to imagine. The patient was seen immediately, x-rayed immediately, diagnosed immediately and the seats where we barely had to sit and wait were leather and not wipe clean plastic. Great news – no break! Less great news – a bad sprain, a torn ligament, crutches and a boot. The doctor looked slightly askance at the painkillers the dentist had prescribed and said that he would prescribe something less strong. I mean he didn’t know that the dentist looked at those wisdom teeth and said, “Wow, wow, wow!”

Anyway was this a child who was going to be going on a plane at 8 the following morning? It was not. When we got home we changed the flight booking. It was hard (expense, on hold to aer lingus – twice, you know the drill). But we did it. The question of accommodation we punted to another day and I went off into work on my bike to spend an afternoon catching up and Mr. Waffle promised to drop home over the afternoon to see how the sufferer was.

When I got home from work that evening like a damp, exhausted rag and told Mr. Waffle of my adventures he, very tactlessly, said, “But wasn’t this supposed to be a working holiday, is there any point going at all in a boot and crutches?” A fair point but an unwelcome one.

“And how is the sufferer?” you ask. Much improved after a day in bed and, as I write, at a friend’s house watching the world cup match.

How have the last 24 hours been for you?

A Question of Taste


Posted in: Middle Child, Siblings, Twins

My brother of whom I am fond when he is not driving me crazy has firm views on what size a television should be and his view is that it should be the size of one wall of your house. This is not a view I share.

Before we moved to this house he very kindly bought me a present of a television. I didn’t want a television, I thought my normal sized non-slimline TV was fine. In our old, small house, the new television loomed in the downstairs room where we basically did everything; I did not love it. When we moved to this house which is mercifully bigger, the new TV looked a lot better and I am now pretty pleased with it and would not part with it. It is about 15 years old but it has worked faithfully for us all these years with no problems of any kind. “What a successful present!” you say.

However, my brother is unhappy. Television technology has advanced and this TV which he kindly bought all those years ago is now too small he feels. It is a 32 inch screen (I’ve just measured it for you, you measure diagonally apparently). It drives my brother bananas and I would be lying if I didn’t say that this was, perhaps, not the least of its attractions. In his own house he has an enormous television which feels like it’s following you around the room. We enjoy regular free and frank exchanges of views on television sizes. I honestly thought that he was the odd one however some alarming evidence that there may be something in what he says has come my way recently.

Middle child had some friends around and reported to me the very unwelcome news that they said, “Why is your TV so old and small?” SMALL? What is this craziness? One of the offending children looked around the room and said, “It’s because they spent all their money on lamps.” Who doesn’t like mood lighting and despise the harsh central light? 20 year olds apparently. So long as my brother never finds out, we’re alright, I suppose. Might I ask, what size is your own television?

I Understand that the Alternative is Worse


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Twins

I was buying candles in a shop and the young man serving me said, “Why so many candles?” “I like to have them in stock, you never know when you’ll need them,” I replied. “I like the cut of your jib,” he said. “Oh,” I said delighted, “my children say that no one says that any more.” He said, not at all understanding my point, “I know, I found a list of phrases only old people use and I’m trying to bring them back into use.” Great, thanks.

I was out for dinner last night with two friends from college and I was telling them about this and they confirmed that nobody uses “cut of his jib” anymore. I asked whether anyone ever said “You’d drive a horse from his oats” anymore. One of them hadn’t even heard the expression and the other said she hadn’t heard it in years. I’m trying to bring it back here.

And we talked about the people we know who are retiring or retired and how they are finding it; many people are going back to college it seems; some are setting themselves up as consultants and some are living it up on their loot. I told them about my friend the banker who was forced to go to a pre-retirement seminar. The organisers said that everyone was over-provisioned for retirement (Mr. Waffle counsels that the organisers were speaking to a room full of bankers) as people see the bit at the start when everyone is travelling and so on (very expensive) and the bit at the end where people are getting care or in nursing homes or in and out of hospital (also very expensive) but tend to overlook the middle bit where people are just pottering around, not travelling extensively but not sick either and this is apparently the longest bit and cheap. They called it go-go, slow-go and no-go. The conference organisers also offered the sage advice that 60 is the new 50; 70 is the new 60; but 80 still 80. We appear to have reached a stage where we all found this interesting.

And the people we know who have not retired are at the top of their professions. I mean, one of them told me that her friend from school is now the principal in her old school. Every week brings more shocks of this nature as my generation is basically in charge of everything now (unless retired obvs). A friend from Brussels nearly fell off his chair when an ex of a mutual friend of ours (from 30 years ago now, everyone has moved on) turned up to give a keynote at a very important event as she herself is now a very important person. He recovered sufficiently to text me the news.

I am in the process of changing dentist. A long and fraught operation that I don’t want to speak of. The new dentist wanted to x-ray my teeth; they love an x-ray. In my experience, if you are a woman regardless of age (until now, she said darkly), the dentist will ask whether you are pregnant before giving you an x-ray. Did the new dentist ask? He did not. Furthermore, on inspecting the x-rays he said my teeth showed lots of evidence of “a life well-lived”. Not the compliment it might be on, say, your deathbed. I see shoals ahead on the tooth front.

I was chatting to my boss at work (I love her, so gratifying) about my extensive holiday plans (more anon) and she said, “Is your husband able to take that much time off work as well or is he retired?” My love dimmed a little. No, he’s not retired, how could youthful me have a husband who’s retired?

I have an app (BeReal) that prompts me to take a photo every day with the front camera and the back camera. I like it but it comes with messaging that I find dispiriting. On being presented with a photo of me looking, to my own eyes, perfectly normal, it will say comfortingly, “It’s ok, not to be ok.” Clearly, everyone else on the platform is so perky that my elderly visage causes the app serious alarm. Meta: it just pinged me now and I took a photo of this. It looked at my face and said anxiously, “How ya feelin’?”

Earlier today myself and middle child went swimming and we saw a seal. Mild thrill.

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There he is.

And we had ice cream.

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“What has this to do with today’s theme?” you ask. Well, the tide was very low and whereas normally in the spot where we swim you can launch yourself from the steps into the water, today you had to pick your way across rocks with water at ankle height. A bit uncomfortable but fine, or so I thought until a woman (and here’s the kicker) who looked about my own age came surging up to me and insistently offered her hand to me to help me get in. I refused but in the end I yielded and, very annoyingly, it was helpful.

And just this week I got a congratulatory message from the Health service telling me I am now eligible for the free bowel screening programme. Can’t wait.

Noticing any intimations of mortality yourself?

One for Sorrow


Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

A magpie got into the utility room. When I returned from my tennis this morning, all of the utility room windows were covered with towels and the back door was open. Mr. Waffle (himself returned from his run where he had a 5k personal best, who even are we any more?) was trying to help the bird to leave the house and the towels were to discourage it from banging itself against the windows, a process which was unlikely to yield positive results. Our two children at home had already cravenly fled the coop (bird pun intended) leaving Mr. Waffle and the cat to tackle the problem as best they might (hard to say that the cat was really a help as such).

I went upstairs to have a shower and when I came down I went into the utility room confident that I could resolve the issue but what I would say is that a magpie is a large and slightly intimidating bird in a small space. I hotfooted it back to the kitchen and closed the door behind me. I pointed out to Mr. Waffle that, historically, the issue of birds in the house fell to his lot. “Why?” he said plaintively. “It’s bigger than all of us, probably the patriarchy,” I said and then proceeded to flee the house like my craven offspring.

This rather bitter message arrived in the family group chat some time later:

Mr. Magpie has left. Thanks to all who stayed to help.

In case anyone was unclear, he added: That was sarcasm.

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