belgianwaffle

Archives for March 2013

Greta Garbo Moment or More First World Problems


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Work

I get my hair cut once every six months. It grows slowly. Today, I got it cut by this man. I would post a picture but you would die from the coolness of it. Also, all the pictures the Princess took before I went out are impossibly blurry and it just doesn’t look the same after playing tennis in a hat for an hour and a half (lost 6-0, 6-2, thanks for asking).

In a fit of rashness, I made the appointment for Friday at 5. This meant I had to cycle to work so that I would be able to scoot out of the office at 4.45 and be at the hairdresser’s for 5. I signalled to my loving family that I would need to cycle. Everyone wanted to know, why was I cycling to work and not going with them in the car. And then promptly forgot and wanted to know again. At work, Friday afternoon got busier and busier. I was going to be travelling for work on Sunday evening but would I be able to do then all the things that needed to be done for Monday? It was touch and go. Why, my boss wanted to know [from her car as she made good her escape to check out where the G8 will be staying – let the record show that she worked to midnight last night] was I scooting off so early? Because I want to get my hair cut. How many more people do I have to explain my movements to? All people entitled to ask and with only my best interests at heart but I wish there was a little bit of time when I wasn’t accountable to anyone and I could go and get my hair cut then.

The hairdresser put his heart and soul into it and I didn’t get out until 7 at which point poor Mr. Waffle who has a cold had already nobly fed the children and prepared dinner for the grown-ups. I ate it and then I went out to play my tennis match and left him to put them to bed. The guilt. When I got home, he was already tucked up in bed with a lemsip.

Etiquette Question


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

I was walking down O’Connell Street at lunchtime the other day. It was busy. A man in a tracksuit was yanking firmly on a bike which was attached to a pole by a spiral lock. The spiral lock was not yielding. Could he be stealing it in broad daylight? He didn’t match the bicycle which had a wicker basket. But who am I to judge what tracksuited possibly drugged people might cycle? Perhaps he had forgotten his key. And surely no one would steal a bike by pulling on it until the lock broke in the middle of the day on the main street of the capital? Nobody paid him and his lock pulling antics the slightest bit of notice.

I hovered anxiously looking at him. The lock held and he walked away. So did I, in some relief. What would you have done?

Faustian Pact


Posted in: Princess

The Princess is to be in another television programme.  Her class are to be filmed a couple of times and she was very excited.  I had to sign a release form for her.  I came home shortly afterwards and she said, “I read the release form.  They can do anything they like with my image.  They own everything I have no rights.”  “That’s right,” I said, “if you don’t want to, you don’t have to do it.” “Of course, I want to do it, I’m going to be on television!”

The actual experience of television was very boring. They had to do lots of re-takes. The crew brought out some worms to show the children (the programme is about gardening, I understand). This was a highlight and they were all fascinated. But this was not the correct reaction. All the girls had to scream; the boys did not have to scream. So they redid the worm introduction until the girls screamed loudly enough. “Which was very sexist,” said she. That’s my girl.

Births, Marriages, Deaths


Posted in: Cork, Ireland

I was in Cork recently for my mother’s birthday. I was collected from the station and promptly sent to mass with my mother for a local priest’s month’s mind.

I hadn’t even known that Fr. C was dead. At the mass (cast of thousands, well 10 priests on the altar) there was a long and interesting sermon about his life which in no respect chimed with what I knew of him. Until I was 11, every evening in term time, my parents would eat with Fr. C while my siblings and I were fed elsewhere. My parents therefore knew him very well and they were fond of him. I only met him occasionally and, as this was the 1970s when adults were not obliged to show interest in children unless they actually were interested (possibly a better system than that which currently applies where everyone has to be fascinated by children all the time), he paid me no great attention.

I was a bit surprised when he turned up on the altar at my wedding to concelebrate the mass with my father’s cousin (who was the priest we had asked to come). On the day, Mr. Waffle raised his eyebrow – who was that – and I shrugged whispering, “Family friend, rather dour.” And then Fr. C christened all my children for me. He was as gruff as ever and I can’t say that I ever had a conversation of any length with him but I came to expect his lined, frowning face at important religious rites. I was surprised to hear the priest at the month’s mind refer to him jovially as Canon Mike and a “charismatic priest”. I can tell you, he was never Canon Mike to me and the charisma, if any, was in trace quantities as far as I was concerned.

Still, I do feel that perhaps, from his now lofty perch in heaven (gruff, but holy, you know) he may just, unexpectedly, keep an eye out for my family here. I stopped and said a quick prayer at his grave on Sunday, just in case.

Damn You, Stephen Colbert


Posted in: Reading etc.

The boys were playing on the computer and the Princess and I were watching this video about bullying on my phone:

She found Stephen Colbert absolutely hilarious [can’t see it myself but I understand I’m in the minority]. The boys had wandered over from their video game at this point to see what was so funny. They all asked could we see any more videos. I know a lot of Colbert’s stuff can be a bit risqué so I flicked through the offerings on youtube and saw that he gave a commencement speech at Northwestern University. Surely that would be safe enough. It started off tamely. The children found it hysterical. Colbert referred to the students’ proud parents and grandparents. All was well, until about 8 minutes in. That was when he started talking about sex. The children wrested the phone from me, still laughing hysterically. And then, it moved back to safer waters; all was well. Another couple of alarming seconds followed at 11.53 but then back again to firmer ground. Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water, he hit a final great moment at 19.45.

What was the first question Michael asked his father when he came home from work that evening: “Daddy, what’s a brothel?”

Austerity, What Austerity?


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

Work on the new house is progressing. Mr. Waffle went to give them a cheque the other day and pronounced himself pleased. The electrics will be finished off when our electrician comes back from his skiing holiday in Val Thorens.