belgianwaffle

Belgium

Help, they’ve got us surrounded!


Posted in: Belgium, Ireland

A couple of weeks ago Mr. Waffle got stuck behind a group of fishermen protesting about the price of oil.  It took him an hour and a half to get into work.  When he got in, he sent me this email:

From: Mr. Waffle
Sent: 04 June 2008 10:56
To: His loving spouse

Subject: FW: Demonstration, Wednesday 4 June, rue de la x – avoid the area
Importance: High

Note the useful timing of this message.

______________________________________________
From:   The Secretary who sneers at everyone

Sent:   Wednesday, June 04, 2008 9:39 AM
To:     Everyone

Subject:   Demonstration, Wednesday 4 June, rue de la x  – avoid the area
Importance:     High

Demonstration, Wednesday 4 June, rue de la X

The Belgian police have warned us of a potentially large demonstration by fishermen tomorrow morning. They are expected to gather around 10am.  Major delays and traffic disruption are anticipated. Staff are advised to avoid the area unless absolutely necessary.

This isn’t strictly relevant as it wasn’t really a blockade but last weekend we went to this must-see before you leave Belgium attraction and it was almost impossible to get in. “Fortress mini-Europe” said my witty husband. Jon Bon Jovi was playing nearby and all the car parking places appeared to have been reserved for him and his fans in tents.  You had to admire their perseverance as they sat there at 9.30 in the morning.   One assumes that Jon was still in bed.  And not in a tent either.

Then, this Wednesday, Brussels was fenced in by tractors.  There were half a dozen blocking traffic on my way into work. There were hardly any cars in the city and it was very pleasant for me on my bicycle.  I spoke to one of the farmers and he told me that he was up at 4.00 this morning to drive his tractor to Brussels.  The Belgian police wouldn’t let them drive on the motorway so it was a long old trek.  I assume that he has to drive back as well [though perhaps he could strike a deal with the hauliers who were blocking traffic on the city’s main traffic artery].   I asked, with what I hope was endearing faux naïveté (note to self, does this work, if you’re nearly 40?), what they were protesting about and he said the price of fuel.   I pointed out, very bravely I thought, after all he had been up since well before dawn, that food prices have soared recently which was surely compensating him for this loss but he was having none of it.  I am not entirely sure what he and his colleagues are hoping to achieve.  Though I gather that the Commission has folded and given something to the fishermen (I suppose that having rampaging fishermen outside your door focuses the mind of the average fonctionnaire), so, who knows, maybe they’ll get something too?  Though, as the Princess pointed out to me, they were inconveniencing everyone and what did they expect her to do for them?

Finally, today and yesterday traffic was held up to allow the 27 European heads of state and government and their courtiers and acolytes to whiz in from the airport with their police motorcycle outriders.

There will be much less of this in Dublin.  I understand that there traffic never moves regardless of whether there is a demonstration or not.

Sodden


Posted in: Belgium, Mr. Waffle, Work
On the way into work this morning, I slipped on a paving stone and fell into a puddle.  When I got into the office I had to wave a fan heater at my bottom for quite some time before getting somewhat dry.  This is not a dignified start to the day.  However, my loving husband cycled to work and got soaked.  He emailed me:

Luckily I have my football gear, so am now in T-shirt (a bit old and shapeless), white socks and runners (as well as work trousers). I can’t tell you how classy I look. Still, it’s great having your own office to dry wet clothes

When will the summer be back?

 

Meeting of the logistics planning committee deferred


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Middle Child

Last night we had an emergency meeting of the crime and security committee instead as we were, alas, burgled.

I got a phone call at work in the late afternoon.  Our childminder said and I quote “something has happened at the house.”  Of course, I instantly thought that something had happened to one of the children and had gone from imagining them in hospital to seeing their lifeless bodies stretched out before me by the time she explained that there had been a burglary.  In this context, the news came as something of a relief.

Mr. Waffle and I went home and found the childminder nervously waiting outside the door with the three children.  We went in.  The house was in disarray.  All the clothes had been thrown out of drawers in the, futile, hope of finding some valuables.  My brother and sister have frequently mocked me for my lack of investment in modern technology (no i-pod, ancient stereo, 9 year old television, cheap DVD player, PC purchased second hand in 2001) but it came into its own yesterday as nothing was taken.  The thieves did, however, take some of my jewellery.  They were discerning thieves.  They took the only items of any significant value in the jewellery box: a ring that my parents had given me for my thirtieth birthday and my grandmother’s engagement ring.  I was particularly upset about my grandmother’s ring.  She always wore it and I clearly remember her wearing it.  It always reminds me of her and I adored my Nana and, in due course, I wanted to pass it on to my daughter.  I lost it once before.  I wore it to mass when I was about 17 (outside my gloves – some kind of bizarre fashion statement) and it fell off (inevitably).  But I found it walking all the way between my parents’ house and the church with my head down.  This time, I think it’s gone forever.

Mr. Waffle wouldn’t let me touch anything until the police came so that they could dust for fingerprints.  I was keen to pick up my underwear (some of which, frankly, had seen better days) off the floor, the bed and the radiator but nothing could be touched until the police came.  To be fair they came quite speedily.  To be unfair, they were deeply uninterested in our run of the mill burglary.  They almost laughed when Mr. Waffle asked about fingerprints.  “If we had to send fingerprints for all burglaries to the lab, they’d never get anything done.”  They gave no indication that they were going to search for the culprits or that there was the remotest chance that they might be found.  They gave us an incident number and told them to fax in details of what we had lost and they would send us a statement for the insurance.  I was unimpressed.  The children, however, were delighted to have the police in the house and Daniel insisted on kissing them before they went on their way.

When our neighbours came home, it turned out that they had been burgled as well.  All the women’s jewellery was gone but nothing else.  Our lovely Italian neighbour lost a gold necklace that her grandmother had left her.  The Belgians downstairs, who seemed to know the form, asked us for the incident number so that they could fax the police with their details.  We had a locksmith in to look at all of our doors (whom Daniel also kissed) and that was it really.  Though, startlingly our electricity also went leaving us dealing with neighbours, locksmiths, excited children and the fuse box in one slightly cranky package.

Of course, if the thieves could only have waited 6 weeks we would have been gone or, if the weather had been less fine, the children would have been at home instead of in the park.  No use crying over spilt milk, I suppose.

I remember when I was the same age as the Princess, my parents were burgled while we were all asleep in our beds. The burglars took most of my mother’s jewellery including her engagement ring which she had on her beside table, my great-uncle’s gold watch and, bizarrely, my father’s alarm clock (which meant we all overslept).  Very excitingly, there was a thumbprint over my bed which the guards dutifully dusted (or whatever it is they do).  They never did find the culprits or our stuff.  For years afterwards, my mother used to look in the window of a suspect jewellery shop in town where, the guards told her, stolen jewellery often turned up.

My sister, who wasn’t even born at the time of the robbery, remembers my mother staring intently in the window whenever we went to town.  I think, aside from her engagement ring, what my mother resented most was the intrusion.  The thieves had even had the temerity to make themselves a snack in the kitchen (it was a big house, but still you might have imagined that they would be a bit nervous).

I asked Mr. Waffle whether he thought the thieves might feel bad seeing all our plastic toys and our children’s pictures but he thought not.  In my head when I imagined them going through our drawers, I imagined young north Africans which shows that I am a useless liberal as prejudices I didn’t even know I had float to the surface at the slightest provocation.   Mr. Waffle comforted me by pointing out that it was probably a young man and, further, all the young men around here were north African.  However, a colleague tells me that there is a gang of Romanian women who are notorious for jewellery thefts where they take all the best stuff.  Do you think somebody should tell the police what the dogs in the street* appear to know?

*Just to clarify, no insult to my colleague intended here but you know what I mean.

Mr. Waffle’s quotes of the week


Posted in: Belgium, Mr. Waffle

It’s like paying an alcoholic in the pub.
Handing over the Princess’s pocket money to her in the supermarket.

Belgium is where northern and southern Europe meet: half of it is food is fuel, yes? half of it is food is a way of life.
On observing his wife’s shock on the discovery that you can buy bread from bread dispensing machines in Flanders.

Probably only morally handicapped.
Commenting on the Emirates diplomatic car (with driver) which always parks in the handicapped slot in the supermarket car park.

Let us pray for all sects whose miracles occur about this time.
Commenting on the Irish Times’s series on the changing face of faith in Ireland (shall we say that the Irish Times wouldn’t, traditionally, have been a great fan of monolithic catholic Ireland which has recently been interred with romantic Ireland).

The advantages of knowing your neighbours or yet more reasons not to leave


Posted in: Belgium

The remote control for the garage has been broken for ages.  It’s a pain to get it fixed and we just haven’t had the time, so, for months now, when we approach the garage, we have the following dialogue.

Me: The garage door is…
Them (in unison): broken.
Me: So Mama is going to get out of the car and go and open it from the inside.  What do I not want while I’m gone?
Them (in unison): Waah, waah.

When our Italian neighbours came round at the weekend we were talking about this and S said that he had a colleague who fixed all the remotes and things in his office and he would ask, if the colleague could fix it.  We gratefully accepted his offer and, last night, back he came with the remote control fixed.  Fantastic.  We asked whether the colleague would like anything – bottle of wine… and S said not to worry as he had already given him a bottle of Italian wine.  Tell me blog readers what would be a nice thing to get for lovely, lovely neighbours who are rich and have everything?  Also, remember that she is an art historian and their apartment is beautifully decorated.  Am struggling here.  Do you think that they would like a picture from the Princess of us happily using the repaired remote control?

I’ve been keeping a secret


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess

No, for the umpteenth time, I am not pregnant.

The Christmas before last I said to my husband that we had to decide whether we were going to move back to Ireland or stay in Belgium because, if we were going to stay in Belgium, we had to buy a house. A three bedroomed, second floor flat is not ideal for bringing up three small children. We decided that we would move to Dublin in September 2008. Now, obviously, it didn’t make much sense to tell anyone about this decision in December 2006, so I have been not telling employers, employees and children for a long time. It’s exhausting.

Last week, Mr. Waffle told his employers. On Friday we told the Princess that we are moving back (some of you may consider that this is a radical solution to our difficulties with L). On Monday we told our childminder and our babysitter. And today I formally told my employer and colleagues and now I am telling you.

Mr. Waffle and the Princess are in Dublin this week. In an excess of efficiency they have visited her new school (an Irish language school – please don’t ask). After hearing her father and the headmaster converse in Irish for ten minutes, she ran from the room telling her grandmother that this was “pointless and useless”. I can tell it’s going to go well. What do you think? She’s also got her school uniform, this is more pleasing. It has a tie. There will be photos.
I am very sad to be leaving this great job and my lovely colleagues. I am very sad to be leaving Belgium and my friends here. On balance though, I think we are doing the right thing. We are very fortunate in both having lovely families with whom we get on very well. We want to see more of them and so do our children. I want my children to be Irish not Belgian (though I see that the Princess is testing this enthusiasm by already adopting the nastiest of Dublin accents, she said to me on the phone this afternoon “Oi don’t want to talk to you, Oi don’t loike the phone”). One of the best things about going back was how our friends in Dubin reacted; they all seem to be genuinely delighted. Despite all its shortcomings (and oh they are many), I do like Dublin and I know I will enjoy living there.

For obvious reasons, the move has been very much in my mind since Christmas but I didn’t want to blog about it ar eagla na heagla (see how I’m taking to this Irish thing?) but I have been taking notes and now I’m putting them here. Because I can.

8 January

Ask my mother what she did with all our furniture when we moved from a large detatched Georgian House to a much smaller semi-detatched Edwardian one. Answer: Moved it all and got rid of none. My mother points out that result has been 20 odd years tripping over pieces of furniture and an attic which strikes terror into her heart. On the plus side, she says I can now have the Nelson sideboard, if I want it. Point out that I have more than enough furniture of my own for my tiny house.

9 January

Prepare first spreadsheet.

January 10

Asked the garage whether they would sell us a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side. They were reluctant. They said that it would be expensive and we would have to wait a year. In inimitable Belgian fashion, 6 (yes 6) people behind the reception desk ignored me for some considerable time but finally, to their evident regret, had to relent and pay me some attention.

January 11

Consider for the umpteenth time the amount of our stuff. My mother often says to my sister (to the latter’s intense irritation): Helen, you have too much of this world’s goods. She’s not the only one. Wonder what size is the attic in our house in Dublin. Curse myself for never even having looked in the attic when we bought the house. My sister says to me, “Mummy is delighted that you are coming home”. I am touched until she adds, “she says that maybe finally you will take all of your stuff out of her house”. My father-in-law is also anxious that we should remove all our stuff from his garage (barbecue and large outdoor heater – a wedding gift from the time when they were a sign that you were trendy rather than a sign that you are an eco-terrorist). My mother-in-law has, however, volunteered to mind our antique sewing machine until we have a house large enough to accommodate it. I suspect that my father-in-law is unaware of her kind offer.

14 January

After much humming and hawing decide to travel to Ireland for interview I am most unlikely to get on the basis that, if I did get it and the job came up in September my family would be able to eat every day rather than just every second day. This problem would mostly affect me and Mr. Waffle as the children prefer not to eat anyway.

18 January

Mr. Waffle hands in notice to the creche. The boys will be finishing there at the end of July. I will be a little sad to end our relations with our excellent creche.

21 January

Flight is delayed and arrive, Cinderella like, at friends’ house in Dublin at midnight. My friends are up awaiting my arrival with tea sympathy and advice. I love their house. It is a home from home as I used to live there. In fact, due to the many parties my husband and I held there, many people still think it is ours. Alas, it is not. I have stayed in the spare room many times and always enjoyed an excellent night’s sleep. On this occasion, I do not. Some vagary of their security system means that the overhead light flashes on every two hours and wakes me in considerable alarm. It is distressingly like being with small children.

Interview is, as expected entirely brutal. At the end, I ask about how many people they expect to appoint and they tell me that they give comprehensive feedback. I say I will look forward to that to general laughter from the board. I’d like to think that they were laughing with me but, I doubt it. [Didn’t get the job].

23 January

Princess and I go round to Glam Potter’s house and I reveal to her sum total of our likely income in Ireland for first two years. She is appalled. How will you survive? I am not comforted.

17 March

Having refused to think about or organise anything for the move in two months in the hope that, oh I don’t know, it would organise itself, I am jolted into action by a series of questions from my mother and brother who are visiting over the weekend. The heart surgeon rings from America and asks a series of hard questions as well. I am now worrying actively.

The Dutch Mama asked whom I had told about my plans to return. I explained that we was waiting until the end of April to tell our children, our employers and our employees about our plans and that I was slightly dreading this event. I was comforted her reply:

Dreading?

Sure it will be brilliant.

Employer: I’M LEAVING! (implicit, for something better, didn’t I always say you don’t pay me enough)

Employees: I’M LEAVING! (implicit, for something better, look at what an exciting international life I have)

Children: Guess what? Brilliant news. Mammy has got a great new job in Ireland, and we’re going to live in a house with a garden, and you can have a swing of your very own, and we’ll be able to see granny every single weekend. Won’t it be just great! And we’ll come back on lots of visits too. And we can invite your friends to come and play on your swing. And we’ve found you a lovely school.(I’d leave out the gaelscoil detail for now if I were you).

Life will be way easier for you in Ireland, and lots of fun.

25 April

Mr. Waffle has told work he’s leaving. I’ve told my boss informally and will hand in my notice next week. Tonight we decided to tell herself. At first, she was very excited but then as the implications sank in, she became distinctly apprehensive. “Why can’t we move to a house with a garden in Brussels; Brussels is my home”. This is true, she has never lived anywhere else and we have never given her any reason to believe that we would move somewhere else. That was, perhaps, foolish in retrospect. “Where will I go to school?” “In Dublin.” “What language will they speak in school?” If I had realised that I was going to be asked this quite so early in proceedings, I would have prepared a different answer from “Irish”*. She started to cry. She was scared, she wouldn’t understand and all her friends were here. This was the first time I really, really realised that we are definitely going and I felt like crying myself. I love Brussels. However, we perked her up as best we could and stressed the advantages which are many – well, otherwise, why wouldn’t we stay here? I am afraid for her. Mr. Waffle says, I can’t have it both ways, saying that she’ll be uprooted from all her friends one minute and agonising that she has no friends the next. Actually, he’s wrong, I can.

* There is a reason why we are sending her to an Irish language school and it’s largely and embarrassingly to do with the fact that Ireland isn’t quite the classless society it once was.