Michael tested negative for Covid about 11 this morning and was let out of captivity. I was surprised to see him turn up in his school uniform in the kitchen at 11.30. “I’m going in,” said he. Only 8 days of school left including today so, I suppose he felt it might be a good idea with the Leaving Cert coming up. I drove him in. “Can you give me a late note?” he asked. “I don’t think you’ll need it, we’ve already told them you’ll be out sick today,” I said. “Oh right, I didn’t know because I’ve never been late,” he said. “Never?” I asked. “Not since I’ve started secondary school and been in charge of getting in myself,” he clarified. That’s an impressive record, unfortunately, he appears to have fallen at almost the last possible hurdle. This didn’t come from my side.
Michael
Uh Oh Redux
I had a busy, busy day yesterday. I began by making breakfast for my husband (in isolation) and packing lunches for my children. I left my misfortunate husband a couple of sandwiches for lunch and went out. He’s still positive, thanks for asking.
I was going for my first swim of the season with a friend. She is an all year round swimmer. I am not. Although I did swim in October and now in May, so I suppose that’s something? After our invigorating swim we had a lovely lunch and I was delighted with myself until we got back to her house and I realised that I had managed to lose my headphones. I cycled on home, picked up the car and drove back to Howth to look for them (not handy) but did not find them. Alas. They were a present and a little bit pricey. Double alas. All this driving around in traffic made me late to take Daniel to his match (near the airport on a Wednesday night, the GAA, I love it).
When I got home from dropping Dan, I made dinner, dropped Mr Waffle up a tray and sat down with Michael while leaving food for Dan warming in the oven. I hadn’t seen much of Michael that evening and he looked a bit flushed. “Are you ok?” I asked. “I’ve had a headache all day,” he said. I instructed him to go upstairs and give himself a Covid test after dinner and rushed back out to the airport to pick up Dan (they won, a win). Michael texted me his test result. He has finally succumbed. How very 2022 of us.
Toujours La Politesse
We have a lovely young man who comes in once a week and speaks to the children in French.
One evening I got a text from him profusely apologising for disturbing me but wondering whether he had left his headphones at our place. He had looked everywhere else. He had, in fact, left them here and I texted him to tell him so. If it wouldn’t disturb me, he would come and get them the following day. I said that he could come that evening if he liked as we were still up. He was v grateful. Next thing I got a text, he didn’t want to ring the bell, in case he disturbed us but he was outside the door.
I love the reluctance to disturb and the infinite politeness of this young man. I try to teach my children to be like this but I sometimes wonder is it overkill in this brave new world. Perhaps not. How reassuring.
A Sobering Thought
Michael is planning to study history in college and he went for a chat with a neighbour who is a history lecturer. Mr. Waffle ran into the neighbour and thanked him for his time and asked what his own 18 year old daughter is thinking of doing. “She doesn’t know,” said her father, “She’s probably going to take a year off. This generation are all going to live until they’re 90 and work until they’re 70, so they might as well have some fun now.”
In other news, Mr Waffle has got my cold. He’s sick as a dog.
Was It For This?*
Your correspondent has had a busy 24 hours. Last night Mr. Waffle and I went to see Bruce Springsteen. I can’t honestly say that standing in a field for about four hours was the finishing touch I needed to recuperate fully from my cold but Bruce does do a good concert. I thought that there might be some kind of…intermission, I mean he is 73 but no, he kept going for three hours solid. He jumped. I was honestly concerned that one of the elderly gents on stage would have a heart attack. Or perhaps someone in the stadium. Just so you know, Bruce Springsteen fans are mainly bald family men in their 50s and 60s. Some of them bring their children to concerts which lowers the age profile. Some of them bring their wives which slightly improves the gender balance. All attendees were taller than me.
Honestly, the environment was, entirely wholesome, family fun. I did enjoy it – what a show – but I was quite surprised by how many songs the Boss has written since the mid-80s when I was last paying attention.
We cycled to and from the venue and I was delighted with myself and slightly smug (doubtless I will burn for this) as we sailed by traffic chaos on the way in and on the way home. I was a bit worried about our bikes but the fans were all round polite pillars of society, so I really needn’t have been. All was well, not so much as a light missing on our return to where the bikes were locked to Sheffield stands right beside the venue. This was not a crowd that goes in for utility cycling much I’d say, so bike parking was readily available.
When we got home about 11 (Bruce is 73, he played for three hours, what more do you want?) Daniel, who had gone to the beach with friends, still wasn’t home. In fairness to him he’s pretty good to answer when you call so my inevitable panic was of short duration. He was coming home – he and his friends had had dinner in town. I waited up. There was mild drama. One of his friends had got the bus in the wrong direction and ended up in Crumlin when she wanted to go to Clontarf (these places are far apart). She texted the group and said her father was furious and had told her to get home by herself. She had missed the last bus. I was outraged and dithering about what to do but mercifully her father relented. All this took time though so I was late to bed and not at my bright and beautiful best next morning when I got up at 8.
“Why 8?” you ask. I was going to a coronation brunch. I am not proud but a friend of mine offered and off I went. Leaving poor Mr. Waffle cleaning up cat vomit from the kitchen floor, I went to my monarchial extravaganza. I mean look it’s free pageantry kindly paid for by the old oppressor. As you may have guessed, I am a little ambivalent. But, I have to say, I really enjoyed it. I thought the ceremony was great – surprisingly moving – and the music terrific. Who knew there were so many functionaries in Britain who could speak so well to an audience of thousands in the church and lots more on TV? Man of the match had to go to the young chorister who had the first words in the whole ceremony and delivered them as clearly and collectedly as if he’d been practicing every day of his life. Perhaps he was, I wouldn’t put it past the British to have someone who is trained from birth.
I could have done with more focus on women’s dresses but still very enjoyable. And brunch was superb. We didn’t crack open champagne at the moment of coronation because 1) it felt a bit like mass and drinking in mass feels so odd and 2) it was probably a bridge too far.
I suppose, it’s a big thing that has happened in my lifetime. I remember my father talking about when the old King died (George V to you) and we do have a relationship with the neighbouring island with their big events, willy nilly, being a bit ours too. I well remember when Charles and Diana got married we went over to my mother’s friend’s house and watched it on TV. And, I might add, my mother’s friends were an Irish speaking family. Am I protesting too much? I guess, as they say, relationship status: it’s complicated.
When I got home, my brother was packing up to leave having stayed for a few days. Michael said wickedly, “We should tell Uncle Dan where you were.” I would suffer unmerciful slagging, if my brother heard about this, so I managed to persuade Michael not to tell (what will be the end of this?). “But it is here, on the internet,” you protest. To my lasting chagrin, my brother does not read my blog. “I must,” he says weakly, but he never does. Bitter? Moi?
And how was your own coronation experience, if you partook? Did anyone make the quiche? And how about Penny Mordaunt’s scene stealing sword gig?
*The title comes from this poem by WB Yeats and is general shorthand for doing something which is perhaps not totally worthy of the Republic. Has wide application.
The relevant stanza is:
Was it for this the wild geese spread/The grey wing upon every tide;/For this that all that blood was shed,/For this Edward Fitzgerald died,/And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,/All that delirium of the brave?/Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,/It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Debacle
Daniel is always hungry. He regards our house as a food desert. He is constantly concerned about what he calls “food insecurity”. He is quite the foodie and very good at cooking for himself but it takes time and he is usually starving in the process.
Last Friday, school finished at 10 and he and Michael were the only sixth years who went in. I have thoughts. They did a mock English paper under their teacher’s supervision. When it was over and they were going home, their teacher gave them a tray each of sandwiches and pastries which were left over from an event and insisted that they take them despite considerable reluctance on their part. The boys brought them home on their bikes with great difficulty.
Mr. Waffle misunderstood the importance of the sandwiches and threw them in the bin. Daniel went into the kitchen for a sandwich and he is still furious a week later and has told everyone he knows about our sins (despite my repeated efforts to wash my hands of this and throw Mr. Waffle under the bus, there is a view that somehow, Svengali like, I made him do it and it is my fault). Nobody wanted the 20 pastries but I managed to give them away on Olio. Herself says it is only a short step to putting up left over bowls of soup (which I used to mock). I suppose that is true but I am still pleased with myself.