On 28th of July 2001, my husband and I got married. And now, eight years later, we have three children and, a real triumph this, are still happily married. Rejoice with me.
It is also the first anniversary of the day we left Belgium. I am surprised how little I miss it. Although I do miss some things as do the other members of the family. The other day the Princess asked whether I would be going to Brussels for work at any point. No. Why? “I miss the tarte au citron from the Pain Quotidien“.
Mr. Waffle decided to check whether there were any activities planned in Dublin for Belgian national day. Don’t laugh, Mr. Waffle and the children got free sweets and some rousing songs in the park on Norwegian national day and they’re not even Norwegian.
Of course, technically, we’re not Belgian either but, since all the children were born there, he thought that it would be nice to stay in touch. He rang the Embassy and the secretary (Flemish sounding) puzzled for a time over his query. Then, having discussed matters with the Ambassador, she came back and said that there would be activities with lots of fun for children also. A couple of days later this arrived in the post:
No it doesn’t say fun for children to me either but I was touched all the same and this evening we dressed ourselves up in our best clothes and pushed off to the Belgian Embassy. All of the excitement was in the back garden of the embassy which was huge and was, prudently, covered in army tents. After some initial unfortunate incidents (I saw the boys running wild on the grass and they nearly knocked over an eminent judge who didn’t look as though he enjoyed indulging young children – in marked contrast to all the other punters who were extraordinarily relaxed and kind) we headed down to the far end of the garden where there were some other families with young children. This was quite pleasant, the sun shone and, finally, after many years of effort, we met some Belgians.
There was beer and cheese but, alas, there were no chips. There were Leonidas chocolates. The children found out where they were coming from and attacked the caterers at source:
I suppose we’ll be back next year. Lucky old Belgians.
Brussels III
We lived in a beautiful flat which was luxurious for two when we arrived and rather cramped for five when we left. It was round the corner from my previous flat in Brussels. I often passed it with the children thinking that I never imagined when I lived there that I would some day be strolling past the building with my children. That is very inelegantly expressed but you know what I’m trying to say here; life is weird.
I started my blog in that flat so it is obviously of great significance – also very well documented.
I think we really have left Brussels for the last time. Our memories can be constantly refreshed by the truckload of coffee table books about Belgium of which we are now the proud owners. When you leave a country forever, your friends and your colleagues give you coffee table books. Even when it’s the third time you leave forever.
I’m quite relieved that I have nearly reached the end of my list as I am very depressed by the lack of comments. No, it’s not like I’m begging you, really.
Brussels II
I moved into a lovely bright flat on the second floor of an old maison de maître filled with my own things. It was delightful. I loved that flat. It had a balcony big enough to accommodate a table and six chairs and several pot plants in various stages of decay.
I met the man who would become Mr. Waffle.
In fact, everything was perfect, except for my job which was rather tedious.
I was relatively rich but even so, I was very struck by how cheap Brussels was compared to Dublin. The last time I had lived there, it had seemed terribly expensive compared to Ireland. The early stirrings of the celtic tiger, I suppose.
I was lured back to Ireland by a promotion and kissed goodbye to Brussels for what I thought was the last time (insert hollow laugh here).
Brussels 1
I arrived in Brussels in October 1993 and didn’t leave again until the summer of 1995. I lived in a lovely house in a distant suburb with two French women and a half-Belgian Norwegian. It is to this period that I ascribe any fluency which I now have in French. Parisiennes do not hesitate to correct you when you make a mistake; it’s part of their charm.  After a year in the lovely house, the owner wanted it back. So one of the French girls and I moved into another house together and then another flat. All delightful. Brussels is heaven for tenants with really wonderful places to rent. I always think of this as my “Vile Bodies” period. So many parties, so many people from all sorts of nooks and crannies of Europe. I was full of energy and joie de vivre; particularly surprising since I never seemed to get to bed before 2. This, I think, is the energy that nature intended me to use for night feeds for small children.
My mother had, meanwhile, been scanning the papers for jobs in Ireland for her daughter and, eventually, she found one and I was, with some regret, lured to Dublin.
In other news, would you say that this dialogue is positive?
Me: Grandma and ?
Daniel: Grandad.
Me: Nana and ?
Daniel: Cork Grandad.
Me: Uncle G and ?
Daniel: Aunty S.
Me: Mummy and ?
Daniel: Aunty Helen?
On Friday night I flew to Brussels. On Saturday afternoon, I drove our Belgian car (unsold, alas, and languishing in the garage of Mr. Waffle’s building for the past three months) to Cherbourg. Last night I got the ferry and had rather a bumpy crossing arriving in Rosslare at 3.30 this afternoon. Then I drove to Dublin. Now I am tired. That is all.