belgianwaffle

Middle Child

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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A Successful Campaign of Indoctrination


Posted in: Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

Herself cycles in London; middle child cycles in Dublin; even youngest child is prepared to give it a go occasionally. I feel I have secured them for the cycling revolution.

I was surprised and delighted to discover that the middle child – with no prompting from me – has, this summer, begun to cycle longer distances with friends for fun. To Maynooth (about 30kms away); to Greystones (also about 30kms away); and back! I feel an inner sense of achievement, I can tell you.

Nine Lives


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

I’ve got a bit out of the habit of blogging recently. This is a shame because it is the only way I remember anything.

So, baby steps here, let me tell you about the (relatively brief) trauma of June 16. The cat went out the front door about 7 in the evening. Sometimes she likes to sit on the front step and survey her kingdom. She usually starts to meow to get back in about an hour later. On this evening, about 10.30, there was still no sign of her. Mr. Waffle and I walked up and down the road calling her name (does she know her name? I doubt it). I kept an eye out for a corpse in the middle of the (very quiet) road. I thought death was the only thing that would stop her coming back to enjoy the comforts of home.

Mr. Waffle goes to bed at 10.45 and feeds the cat then. From about 10.15 she sits on the corner of the rug keeping a weather eye on his movements. This prolonged absence so near feeding time was very unlike her. I put out a message on the road group chat and people started hunting for her in their gardens. Could she have dragged herself off to die somewhere of natural causes? Like all of us, she’s not getting any younger; 17 this year. I began to wonder how I would tell the children of the death of their beloved cat. My own cat died while I was teaching English in Italy and my mother felt it would upset me to know so I was kept in ignorance. When I went to visit my friend in Switzerland (train from Rome very exciting) who had seen everyone at home more recently than me, I asked her how everyone was and all was well until I came to the cat. “The cat is dead Anne,” said she baldly. So, you know, a moment I didn’t want to repeat for my children.

At 10.44, one minute before feeding time and about 10 minutes after my anxious alert to the neighbours, there was a meowing at the front door. She was back! It took a lot out of us. She seems fine, thanks for asking.

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We Love to See It


Posted in: Middle Child, Twins, Youngest Child

My beloved youngest child returns from his Erasmus term abroad tomorrow (he’s been gone since the start of February, so long). I asked my beloved middle child who seems to have enjoyed being the only child in the house whether the return of a much beloved brother on Wednesday was a source of joy. “What, Wednesday, already?” yelped middle child. Apparently not counting the days.

It’s a Social Whirl


Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

It was my birthday in March. Herself was home (day after her poor great Uncle’s funeral) which was great. We were to go for breakfast together but alas, a logistical issue with an application arose for her and we spent much of the morning trying (unsuccessfully) to resolve this before heading off for breakfast at 11 and then on to the airport after a short walk. While, obviously, it was delightful to have her here, it’s hard to say that taking your daughter to the airport so that she can return to the land of her exile is a complete highlight but, as she pointed out, she was due back at Easter so I would probably survive.

My family delivered on my birthday with a number of subscriptions including cheese (sister) and flowers (middle child). Very thrilling. Even youngest child remembered and sent a card (dates wouldn’t be his strong point). This only scratches the surface of the excellent presents received from all parties. How I love my birthday.

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To recover from dispatching the exile, I went in to Bewley’s for a restorative cup of tea and the waitress recognised me from previous adventures and basically asked why I wasn’t at work. “It’s my birthday, I’m off!” I said. She gave me free tea. God, I was thrilled.

Mr. Waffle also has a birthday in March so the Dublin contingent went out to dinner to celebrate. I don’t know that he really enjoys his birthday as much as he should. I think he feels he’s too old for this but I will never be too old.

It was sobering though to go to a friend’s 60th birthday drinks. That is old. Because Ireland is small a former colleague was there who turned out to be the birthday boy’s sister in-law’s daughter’s husband. Try to keep up.

I have been out for dinner a number of times with my tennis buddies moving on from the more challenging on court engagement to an arena where I truly shine. Speaking of tennis, on Palm Sunday I went to an early mass in a church where there are a number of regular crazy people in the congregation and the environment can be a little exciting but it had an early and speedy mass which I needed to get to a tennis match at 10.

To my surprise in the pew along from me there were some very clean cut enthusiastic Americans (mid-Westerners, so wholesome) responding clearly and crisply throughout (not a feature of the Irish congregation which is given to the holy mumble) and I felt that they might have gone astray in this city so I talked to them afterwards and it turned out their son was studying in Dublin and they had come to visit him. “It’s actually my first time…” began the son. “At mass since you came to Dublin?” I inquired based on knowledge of other people of his age. He was shocked. “No, in this church, I usually go to the pro-Cathedral.”

I scooted on to tennis and told my opponent about the encounter. “You go to mass??” said she. “Yes,” I said, a bit defensively. Apparently, I am not a beacon for the faith. “I’m amazed,” said she, “it’s just that I thought you were a Protestant.” Honestly, with my name I could never be; it looks like sectarianism may be on the way out. Or maybe she just thought I looked like I would be good at crafts (I am not good at crafts).

On that self-same day, I then had breakfast out with my husband, went to my bookclub for the afternoon and returned to welcome my sister to our home like the gracious hostess, I am. A bit too much perhaps.

Is this why I’m losing my mind? I went to Carlingford with Mr. Waffle a couple of weeks ago and I said to him, “Can we go to that place I like?” “What place, a walk, a sight, a cafe?” he asked. “You know, you know,” I said. “I do not,” said he. I rummaged deep in the recesses of my brain and said, “You know… Mornington Grove”. There was a long pause and then he said, “Do you mean Strandfield?” Truly, that was impressive work.

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