The food was beautifully cooked and presented and the prices very reasonable – though cash only, no cards. The waiters were attentive though clearly new to the job. So far, they have only been open for lunch once and, with return to school looming, I fear it may be Christmas before they are back in business.
Menu below:
Me: That was very generous of you.
Her: A step on the Jungian tree of self-actualisation.
Me: What?
Her: Grandma told me about it.
No more sleepovers at Grandma’s.
Daniel: Who’s Beethoven?
Me: He’s a famous composer. You know, Ode to Joy (I hum a few bars).
Daniel: Oh yes. Did he do the Harry Potter music as well?
Michael: If I have to choose between a museum and a walk, do you know what I choose?
Me: What do you choose?
Him: A museum.
Me [mildly pleased]: Really, why?
Him: There’s at least a chance that there will be a shop in a museum.
Mr. Waffle and I celebrated our 12th anniversary on July 28th. This post is a little late. Your point?
Let me tell you a story about our first Christmas together. We had only met in November and I didn’t want to make a large investment in Christmas presents. I am not sure why I was so concerned because, in retrospect, we were probably singly and jointly as rich as or richer than we have been at any point since [do you think my training in legal drafting has come out a bit in this sentence?]. So, I said, “I think we should put a limit on the amount we spend on Christmas presents and not go overboard.” I cannot remember what the limit was but I imagine of the order of 20 quid or the equivalent in Belgian francs. Did you know that Belgium brought us together? Well, it did.
Anyhow, I’m not sure whether he thought it was weird or not [it is the kind of thing his mother would do] but he agreed. When it came to time to exchange Christmas presents, he pulled out a framed picture of W.B. Yeats’s poem “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven“. I discovered that he had taught himself calligraphy as a teenager. He had written out the poem and framed it. It was a really beautiful and personal present. It is still hanging up in our house. I think I got him a CD.
Reader, is it any wonder I married him?
We had the American priest again on Sunday. So impassioned and enthusiastic was his delivery that the boys, briefly, paid attention. “Who among us,” he asked [rhetorically, I imagine], “can say that we truly don’t care what others think of us?” Michael instantly sat up straight in his seat and put his hand in the air.