belgianwaffle

Travel is Broadening etc.

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Posted in: Travel, Work

I went to Cyprus for work. You know, work, so didn’t see much of Cyprus. I travelled with a colleague who was in a wheelchair and I am delighted to report that people are very nice to you if you are travelling in a wheelchair. Your pushing companion also gets to skip the queue.

I was staying in a hotel near the beach. Breakfast felt like I was on holidays.

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I mean come on.

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Was I delighted to be whisked away by minibus at the crack of dawn to the conference centre with windowless rooms? I am only human, I was not.

But we did get a tour of Nicosia in the evening where we saw the monument to liberation from the British (enjoyable).

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We also saw the archeological museum which was interesting.

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Not satisfied with my baking in Cyprus opportunities in May, I also went to a conference in Lisbon last month. Toasty, but I was last in Lisbon before I was married and I had forgotten how beautiful it is. I would definitely like to go back again on my own dime.

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Obligatory tram photo.

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On my return flight to Dublin on Saturday morning I was sitting on the aisle side with an American in the middle and an older woman from Cork at the window. I knew she was from Cork because I heard her telling the American man so. We waited a long time on the tarmac to get off (I missed the session in Dalkey book festival I had been scheduled to attend that afternoon, alas). The American and the Cork woman began to talk about politics and I started to feel sorry for him so I staged an intervention. “I heard you saying you were from Cork earlier,” I said to her. No further intervention was needed. We established the following over the body of the misfortunate American: she lived around the corner from my parents; she remembered them from when my brother had been a primary school pupil in the school where she taught (we verified his identity from the photo I have of him in his plum velvet communion suit which pops up whenever he calls me, I’m hilarious, it was the 70s); her son is married to a (very good) hockey player who was in my sister’s class in school; she lives next door to the mother of a friend of Mr. Waffle’s from college; and she plays bridge with my best friend from school’s mother. This is possibly the best illustration of why, fond as I am of Cork, I quite like the anonymity of the big city. I felt quite sorry for the poor American.

Anyway, been anywhere nice for work yourself?

Small World or Surprisingly Heartwarming

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Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Work

One of my younger colleagues was run over by a bike recently. As she described it, no one was really at fault (some poor bus stop positioning). The cyclist was injured, she was injured. She actually had to go to A&E to check nothing was broken. But in the end, all was well though she was a bit battered and bruised. As a cyclist, I always feel responsible for the actions of all cyclists so I was pleased to hear that the cyclist was very nice and no hard feelings on either side.

Actually she and the cyclist stayed in touch to check on each’s recovery and the other day over coffee she showed the rest of the team their whatsapp correspondence. Looking at the profile picture another young colleague said, “Wait a minute, I know him, he is really nice he’s in my dance class!”

Atmosphere

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Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

Last October I was cycling up Capel Street when I saw a line of men walking towards me. They stretched right across the road so I got off my bike and went to the side of the road. A young woman started filming them and one of the men took her phone and threw it on the ground. It was all pretty intimidating. I learned later that they were Schalke 04 fans. When they’d passed I saw that the Guards were following them in a van. I can’t say that I found it very reassuring.

One for Sorrow

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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

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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

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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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