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Archives for February 2026

Burying the Lede


Posted in: Siblings

I went for lunch with my brother for his birthday. He was just back from his skiing holiday so I asked how it went. Himself and a bunch of guys from school plus one random Dubliner had gone together. A great time was had by all. Loads of snow. His friend W (with whom he shared a room in their accommodation) had insisted on a fancy hotel and my brother dwelt for some time on the waste of this when they would only be using it for sleeping. He’s not a big believer in a luxury hotel.

He hurt his knee on the last day (taken out by one of the more inexperienced skiers in the group who the other lads had taken on a black run, no one but himself to blame – though when he clarified that the injury was acquired by the guy skiing into him when getting off the chair lift I was v mildly sympathetic). Anyway you will be pleased to hear that it is much better now.

We chatted some more. We consumed lunch. Then he said, “You know your friend J from school?” Obviously I do. “Well her brother was on the trip.” “He was in the resort with his family and you saw him?” I asked. “No, he was on the trip with us, he was the year ahead of me in school and one of the guys in my year was friends with him.” I exclaimed over the amazing coincidence. “Did you talk about me and J at all?” “No,” said he. Fine. Pause. “I asked him whether he’d ever been over to Vermont (where she lives) to ski with her?” Fine.

We left the restaurant to walk back to our offices. He was limp free so my knee sympathy had entirely expired. “How did you find sharing a room with W anyway?” I asked just before we went our separate ways (I am a grown-up I no longer share rooms with my friends when we go away and I like it). “Oh well, it wasn’t for long, he got wiped out on the first day, broke his collar bone, went to the hospital and had two pins put in. I thought he’d stay on but he went home.” Was he stretchered down the mountain? He was. As he was being trussed up, my brother, the Job’s comforter, remembered an article I had read him from the local paper when I visited him in France a couple of years ago. This article was about a skier who had an accident on the slopes and was being skied back to safety by someone pushing a stretcher; as he was being taken down the mountain a skier took out the guy pushing the stretcher and the stretcher went flying down the mountain where it was finally stopped by some trees but having started with a simple broken leg the skier had much more serious injuries after this. And obviously trussed up like a chicken there was absolutely nothing he could do in his stretcher to halt its breakneck progress. Some people might have thought this wasn’t a great story to tell a friend about to be taken down the mountain to hospital in the exact same way but not my brother. I suppose they have been friends for well over 40 years so this won’t be the end of it but surely W was sorely tried.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that maybe a great time was not had by absolutely everyone.

Gloom, Gloomier, Gloomiest


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

Last night herself called about 9pm from her job in the City in London where she was waiting for some data to come in – a regular 10.30 finish genuinely seems normal, she is resigned but she is not loving it; middle child was lying on the sofa suffering from a really bad dose of food poisoning (origins a mystery); and youngest child rang from his Erasmus destination to say that he is still stuck in the middle of nowhere and the speedy bus service he was promised remains illusory as the buses are all on strike. And it’s still raining.

Plumbing the Depths


Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

The washing machine broke a week ago last Tuesday. Bosch said it would take a week to send out a repairman. How could we last a week? We rang the plumber who said he could come the next day. He came. He said it would need a Bosch technician to repair it. He looked at our kitchen taps. A deeply unsatisfactory situation arose when the last plumber (now no longer on our books) came to look at the water pressure, broke the hot tap and replaced it with one that, ok, worked, but did not match the cold tap. A delightfully eclectic look. The new plumber said he could re-affix the old tap. Could he? Reader he could not. He said he would take it away with him and see if he could replace some element. He then replaced the non matching tap. For this, not entirely perfect, service he charged us €135.

I rang Bosch. They confirmed what was on the website, a technician could only be with us the following Tuesday. We washed by hand. Mr. Waffle, the youngest child and I went off for the bank holiday weekend (you will recall our new bank holiday on February 1 in honour of St. Bridget, a post-Covid reward for the people of Ireland) to set him up in university abroad where he will be spending a term under the Erasmus scheme. We left poor old middle child to fend without a dishwasher.

I must say, when we came back the house was spick and span but middle child had chosen to have six people around to dinner while we were away. That’s a lot of washing up to do by hand. The task was not rendered any easier by the replaced tap coming off (before it didn’t look great but at least it worked). Enterprising middle child had a pliers by the sink which was being used to turn on and off the hot tap. Again, I question our €135 expenditure on this.

The Bosch repair man came on Tuesday morning. He replaced a broken part and charged us €103 (labour and call out) plus €9 (parts). It works, I rejoice. This weekend Mr. Waffle and I are going to the plumbing shop to buy an entirely new kitchen tap set up. I can’t wait. You come here for the fascinating domestic logistics, I’m sure.

I am 102


Posted in: Travel, Work

I was having a cup of tea with some much younger colleagues the other day and one of them said, “Look at this lovely old music book my grandparents brought me at the weekend.” I had a look at the photo, “Oh Moore’s Melodies, how nice,” I said. “Who?” said the young people. “The Last Rose of Summer, Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms, The harp that once through Tara’s Hall?” I asked in growing alarm. Nothing. They hadn’t heard of Percy French either (for reasons I cannot explain – possibly because my mother used to sing both a bit – Thomas Moore’s work and Percy French’s sit in the same cabinet inside my head). I regarded the group aghast. A philosophical young man at the table pointed out it was horses for courses and said, “Anne, Wu Tang…?” “Clan,” I said proudly but given that they were formed in 1992, that is not quite the achievement it might have been. Had he chosen to mention any band at all formed after the children were born, it would have been a different story.

Anyway, my horror was as nothing compared to the security guard’s at the airport the weekend before last. As I went through the scanner she said to me, pointing at her younger colleague, “He’s never heard of John Wayne, tell him that’s crazy.” I obliged but I could tell that he thought we were crazy. Truly, it’s like being the elves going into the West.

No Favours Received etc.

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Posted in: Princess, Reading etc.

I listen to a podcast called “As the Season Turns” which I enjoy in a mild way. It comes out on the first of every month and talks about what will happen over the month (nature wise not events). It’s sponsored by Ffern perfume and as I listened over the years I became more and more curious and eventually signed myself up to the “Ffern ledger” (I am alarmingly susceptible to advertising). I had to wait to get on the ledger, mind. Notions: queuing to buy something. But I did get on and eventually I was able to get my own barrel aged, small batch, whatever you’re having yourself, perfume made in Somerset. It comes with various small items and, unboxing, as I believe the expression is, is a joy. There’s also a short film every quarter. I don’t how much they pay the likes of Ruth Wilson and Bill Nighy for the slightly twee English material but there must be money in flogging stuff to me and my ilk.

I quite like the perfumes (they come quarterly on the 21st of the month) but to me they are heavy very adult scents like my mother used to wear. The first time I wore one, Herself said, “Is that your Ffern perfume – it smells very young!”. I guess everything is cyclical (insert your own joke here about the turning of the seasons).

It’s a Jungle Out There

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Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess

Mr Waffle had a work triumph and we had a weekday outing to Howth to celebrate.

We had lunch and a walk. A classic combination. After lunch, I got a 99 and we went for a stroll on the pier. There weren’t any people around.

On the exposed pier, the seagulls saw me and my ice cream and started flapping around trying to take it from me. In the absence of other punters I was (if you’ll forgive me) a sitting duck. I scuttled along anxiously guarding my ice cream but a seagull came diving in from behind and took a big mouthful. They’re big animals, you know. In what I have to say was not my finest hour, I threw the ice cream on the ground and abandoning the others I dashed off the pier shouting at the seagulls “Take it you bastards”.