We had some correspondence with the children’s old school recently about going in to give a career talk. Mr. Waffle, whose Irish is much better than mine, nobly volunteered. I was copied in on the email correspondence. It was in English and I hadn’t noticed at all that it was originally written in Irish and seamlessly translated by Gmail until I came to the end of Mr. Waffle’s missive. It was google translated as “Bring a greeting” and I was stumped for a moment until I realised it was translated. I switched to Irish and saw that the Irish version featured “Beir bua” which, yes, is literally “bring a greeting” but translates as “best wishes”. Some work still needed.
Archives for April 2025
Testing Times
Herself is back in England after a week at home. She had to go back to deliver a paper at a conference this afternoon. She was tense. No update as yet.
Michael did his driving test today (no, alas, thanks for asking) and his exams start next week.
Daniel’s exams started at 5 this evening (not a conventional time, you will agree and one which leaves a lot of today to be got through).
And I, like a complete moron, signed up to do an economics course last autumn which I deeply regret. The written final exam is tomorrow morning (thoughts and prayers, please). I last performed under exam conditions in 2019 and I thought that I liked it better than assignments. I am seriously re-evaluating my conclusions in this regard.
Suffice it to say that everyone’s Easter was pretty much ruined with studying and prep.
Once I get this wretched exam out of the way, I will have thoughts on the Easter season more generally; something for you to look forward to.
Everyone has an Angle
I was at mass in a Capuchin church this morning. In the sermon the priest spoke about the late Pope. “Do you remember where you were when it was announced that he was Pope?” asked the priest. Nope, afraid not. The priest said, “I was in intensive care in Beaumont Hospital”. Well, that would be memorable. “I was working there as a chaplain.” It’s a rollercoaster.
He continued “When I heard the name the Pope had chosen, I thought it referred to St Francis Xavier [founder of the Jesuits – the Pope was a Jesuit] but it was actually a reference to our Francis [St. Francis of Assisi – famously a friend of the poor]. He was a Jesuit Pope with a Franciscan heart.” I’m not sure that would necessarily be the Jesuit take but who can say. It is possible that for those of you not familiar with religious orders the reference to the Capuchins may create some further confusion. For the relationship between the Franciscans and the Capuchins, I refer you here. To educate and inform, that’s me. My father’s first cousin was a Capuchin and he married myself and Mr. Waffle; I have a soft spot for them.
As a wishy-washy liberal Catholic, the late Pope was my guy and I am slightly nervous about who will come next. It’s funny, sometimes, I feel like I am the last practicing Catholic under 60 in Ireland and I can feel a bit self-conscious saying I go to mass in certain circles (this is a real turn around from my youth, I can tell you) but suddenly when the Pope died, everyone had an opinion and everyone knew all about it. I felt like I imagine the Olympic trampolining contestants feel: no one knew anything about your sport or even that it was an Olympic sport and you were trampolining away there in the shadows and suddenly, not only does anyone know all about your sport but they have views on the minutiae of it and how points are awarded and all the rules. That said, I was once at a table quiz years ago and one of the questions was, “Under what name is Jorge Bergoglio better known?” We were all stumped though I did say, “I know that name, it’s someone alright.” So I was a bit ahead of my team mates though my genius insight didn’t gain us a point obviously. Great was my humiliation when I discovered that it was my guy.
Whatever Works
When herself came home over Easter, she found her copy of a VERY LONG work on Spinoza on the floor beside her bed. She had to give a talk on Spinoza once (the reason for this eludes me) and this book was part of the spoils of that adventure, I think. She was a bit surprised that the book was on the floor as she felt she would not have left it there but she thought no more about it until she met my brother for lunch.
He occasionally stays with us in Dublin and sleeps in her room. It transpired that when he was here, he had been reading Spinoza. We were all a bit surprised; it just didn’t seem his kind of thing. She clarified. He had been using it as an aid to sleep. He was still at the early stages but he found it exceptionally soporific. He pointed out to herself that the preface indicates that it is good for the student, the lecturer, the casual reader and the in-depth scholar. It was, however, his freely expressed view that it was good for none of these people. Let us trust that the author can be philosophical about the additional off label use (as it were) to which his scholarly work is being put.
The Eye of the Beholder
I was at the Hugh Lane Gallery recently. Francis Bacon’s studio has been reconstructed in the Gallery; and has been a big attraction there for many years. It was brought piece by piece from his London attic and re-instated in the Hugh Lane. I am not a big Francis Bacon fan but it is interesting. I took a photo and sent it in to the family group chat captioning it “My worst nightmare”. A hilarious line reflecting on the artist’s studio and my own slight obsession with tidiness. Like many of these hilarious lines of mine, it went unread in the family group chat except by my saintly husband who, on first glance thought it was actually my parents’ attic in its glory days (it has now been tamed by my sister in a project stretching over many months). I have to say, actually, it does resemble the attic except there is marginally more floor space in the studio.
Too Much?
I have three apple trees. That’s a lot of apple trees. In the spring I cut off branches and bring the apple blossom into the house. This serves a double purpose: it’s pretty and those branches will not now produce apples of which I have more than enough in due course. The branches are hard to cut and once I’ve got them, I like to find a use for them. So, the mantelpiece in the dining room looks like this:
“What do you think?” I asked Mr. Waffle as he came into the room. “Aargh, Birnam Wood,” said he. I tell you what, he might yet regret being married to Lady Macbeth here.