Family

Despite some difficulty in England, we managed to get back to Dublin without any problems.  It was the Cork leg of the trip that was tiring.  When we sat into the train for our 3 hour trip to Cork (about the same distance as Brussels Paris which takes a mere hour and forty minutes on the Thalys – no one tell me Cork is less important than Paris) the first words to pass the Princess’s lips were “when will we get to Cork?”  Did any of our children nap on the journey?  That would be a no.  Did the woman from Killarney who chose to sit across from us regret her choice of seat?  That would be a yes.

We got there though.  To find that Tesco’s in Wilton is open 24 hours and that Roches Stores is being taken over by Debenhams.  We might as well have gone to England. Ireland is working hard to replicate the UK effect where every town has exactly the same shops.  Soon we won’t have “main streets” we’ll have “high streets”.  I can tell you, romantic Ireland’s dead and gone alright.  Nevertheless, it is lovely to be home and the Princess is ecstatic to be among adoring relatives.  For a variety of reasons she sees less of her maternal relations than I would like and I am delighted at how immediately she seemed at home and how quickly she started prowling around the house and treating its inhabitants with the careless affection she reserves for her nearest and dearest.  We are powerless to stop her roaming the house at will and her extraordinary prudence is our only comfort as, being the house of two adults, it is a death trap for small children.  This morning I found the electric hedge trimmer sitting patiently underneath the dressing table in her room.  The boys are poised to crawl and the plethora of dangerous, shiny objects just out of reach may yet give them the incentive they need or they may continue to settle for doing 70s disco dancing (hand movements only, of course) with my father.  No, really, “it’s fun to stay at the YMCA”.

If you saw a family getting on your plane with two very spotty small boys, would you be pleased? Tomorrow we are flying to Dublin and, to ensure maximum alarm, we are then getting the train to Cork. I have prepared little labels for the boys’ tops saying “yes we look hideous, but no, we’re not infectious”.

Meanwhile, the Princess has been wheeling a small trolley round the house for the past week saying “Bun, water, tea, cwips?” Our last trip was with Virgin airlines and they offer muffins and Pringle’s crisps and this has made a lasting impression on our heroine. I do not think that Aer Lingus offers Pringle’s crisps. Yesterday Mr. Waffle arrived home from work with a box of Pringle’s stashed in his coat pocket. This evening I came home to find a wailing Princess “Daddy won’t give me cwips”. Our eagle eyed daughter had seen them nestling in the top shelf of the cupboard. She was given two on the understanding that the rest are to be saved for tomorrow’s plane journey. I really can’t wait.

And, on a separate matter, I see Mr. Waffle was entirely right about yesterday’s post.  It is hard to be married to a man who is never wrong.

My father might fairly be described as disliking change. He is entertaining, charming, brilliant etc. etc. but he does not like change. He is also prudent; my mother is going to purchase a paddling pool for our forthcoming trip to Cork and lots of salt. Why salt? My father insists that it should be added to the water so that should the children fall they will float like in the Dead Sea. That’s one big paddling pool they’re thinking about purchasing.

It’s not really that my father doesn’t like socialising or even doesn’t like his family but there are many of us and we will bring much change in our wake and much phone ringing and much car borrowing. My father does not like the phone. The Princess doesn’t like it much either, when asked to talk to her doting relatives, she says with a toss of her head “I’m like Cork Grandad, I don’t like the phone”. Further, his role as family genius is being undermined although the Princess likes to prop it up by saying whenever we are at a loss for information “We’ll ask Cork Grandad, he’ll know”. “I really don’t think he will know who gave you the purple trousers, sweetheart, that’s not the kind of everything he knows”. The other night, however, my sister called and asked me something I didn’t know. “Ring Daddy” I said (yeah, I know, he hates the phone but it’s my job to torture him, you’re always a teenager to your parents). “No” she said “ask Mr. Waffle”. “He won’t know”. “Yes, he will” she insisted “I’ve noticed he knows everything”. Changing my tune somewhat I said “What, just now?”. “Well,” she said defensively, “he doesn’t talk much”. I related this to Mr. Waffle and he muttered rebelliously “I’m not let”. Indeed. I digress.

So as we prepare to descend en masse on my poor parents in Cork, I feel a particular twinge of sympathy for my father. This email from my brother makes me feel even more nervous on his behalf. “Will be back in Cork when ye are there……..the house will be packed…..what will Daddy think of a full house with you, me, husband, 2 babies, 1 toddler [all three pox ridden, Daniel having finally succumbed today] and possibly 3 eastern European cleaners* to top it all off……..should be interesting”.

*I should perhaps explain that the result of the Celtic tiger is that my parents can no longer find local cleaners and they have 3 Latvians who come in for an hour together and go through the house like a dose of salts. Though they are forbidden to move any of the seven peaked caps and reading glasses which sit patiently at any spot where my father is likely to alight and want to read.

My employment barrister friend says that the law library is full of young barristers trying to give themselves additional gravitas by employing the tics of older colleagues.  Then, as time goes on, they keep up the tics out of habit.  She thinks it’s quite likely that some particular tics have been knocking around since the 19^th century.

I look at my (currently still poxy, since you ask) girl and I can see that she uses my turn of phrase. When I say “would you like to do whatever” she doesn’t say “yes” she says “I would”.  Mr. Waffle maintains that this is an Irish thing in general as there is no word for yes or no in the Irish language, Irish people tend to answer questions by repeating the verb.  But this is mere quibbling.  She also has the same hand gestures as me when she’s talking. This isn’t a genetic inheritance, it’s a hanging around with me inheritance, like the barristers in the law library.  Meanwhile, I can hear myself turning into my mother.  And I suppose that my mother is like her mother, my Nana.  And I can’t tell you how pleased this realisation has made me because my Nana was fabulous and I adored her.