My mother-in-law was 80 on March 1. She has been unwell for a number of years suffering from dementia. When she was well, she was a delight. I found her lovely company. She was clever, interesting and kind. She gave very good advice but only, and this is crucial, when asked for it. She had a fund of phrases which I always found very calming though, possibly not very practical. When something went wrong, she would often say serenely, “We live in an imperfect world.” She was fascinated by small children and, of course, particularly her own grandchildren. She was always telling us about Piaget (she trained as a psychologist) and I learnt a surprising amount about child development from her given that I was pretty much always exhausted when the insights were being shared. She and my father-in-law rented houses in Kerry every year when the children were small and all the family went. Those holidays were a godsend and the children loved them and loved being with their cousins. I wish she were still well and could enjoy her birthday; we all really miss the person she was. Alas, we live in an imperfect world.
Family
Culture Clash*
I am the child of two academics. Mr. Waffle is the child of hippies. I believe in my heart of hearts that everything is a competition. Mr. Waffle thinks nothing is a competition. In fact, “It’s not a competition” is one of his favourite phrases and he once applied it to an Olympic race. To be clear, the Olympics are a competition.
I am a pushy parent. Mr. Waffle is a “relax and let the child develop; let the child explore and learn without direction; let the child discover what he/she likes” parent. Do you think my children would be able to speak French now, if I let him have his way? I think not. However, I am forced to confess that he and his brother and sister are very accomplished. Mr. Waffle’s brother is a superb piano player having developed an interest in the piano and never having been forced to play a scale (I mean, he did play scales, obviously, but by himself out of interest). Mr. Waffle didn’t like piano and gave up and nobody cared. What kind of a world is this?
We bought Michael a guitar over lock down and he played a bit when we got it but then stopped. He’d had some lessons in school pre-Covid and expressed an interest so we got it for him as a possible lock down hobby but it just didn’t seem to take. Over the last couple of months though he’s picked it up again without pressure from anyone (my parenting method means I can only have so many irons in the fire and guitar playing is not one of them). I hear him strumming in his room the whole time and he has got immeasurably better without anyone forcing him to practice or making him do lessons.
Point to Mr. Waffle. You will recall that everything is a competition.
*If you are reminded of “This Be the Verse“, please keep your views to yourself.
Alas
My 92 year old aunt had a fall and is in hospital but she seems alright – nothing broken – but still, sub-optimal. I am gracing Cork with my presence today so that I can visit her in hospital. I am assured hospital visits are now allowed. If not, I will be very irate when I get there.
Updated to add: I got in. She was pleased to see me. She seemed pretty well. I left her with the Guardian and she was pleased.
Happy Birthday to Me
I am 53 today. I have had a very satisfactory birthday. My loving family delivered on the present front. I got amazing home made cards from the boys; I spoke to herself in far off England. I got lots of flowers, cards and good wishes. I had birthday cake. Mr. Waffle and I went to Glendalough and it did not rain on us.
Honestly an excellent birthday.
Unfortunately, as I tramped around the mountains on my delightful day off not one but two of my staff texted me to say that they had tested positive for Covid. As I had them in my office several times over the course of the last few days, I fear the worst. I feel fine so far though and I am double vaccinated and boosted. Let’s hope for the best.
Anois Teacht an Earraigh
It’s been a busy month. It would have been my mother’s 86th birthday on the 1st of February; the feast of St. Brigid (and from next year we’re going to get an extra bank holiday to celebrate it as well – a Covid dividend apparently). She was very fond of this poem and often quoted from it. Apparently we do all turn into our mothers.
At mass a small child was running around the church. I recognised her mother and realised that she was the last baby baptised before the pandemic started (I mean I think that the church was still baptising away, but the pre-baptism meeting with the outreach team was halted for the duration of the pandemic). It has been a long haul. Particularly for the parents of young children I would imagine.
Life is gradually getting back to normal. From tomorrow, we can stop wearing masks in most places. The other night Mr. Waffle went out for a drink with his friends; “just like a real boy,” said Daniel who in his sister’s absence is bidding fair to become our most sarcastic resident. It is not, however, that he never met his friends in the pub before but that it has been a couple of years since he has done so and the boys have just forgotten what it was like before.
Mr. Waffle and I went to the cinema for the first time since the pandemic started (if you don’t count the time we went to see the Met live streamed and I really don’t). We saw Belfast. It got rave reviews and I did quite enjoy it but it wasn’t as fantastic as everyone said. I asked my friend from Belfast (who grew up six minutes walk away from Kenneth Branagh’s street) what he thought and he said he felt that broadly it was quite realistic – though no one is buying that after a Presbyterian funeral the mourners were invited to do a bit of singing and dancing. My friend did comment that he felt Branagh really wanted it to be a musical but lacked the nerve to follow through on that ambition – you can see how a musical about the start of the Troubles might be.. challenging. Once you’ve heard that it’s hard to shake that insight. I was surprised how much a working-class Protestant childhood in Belfast in the 60s was like a middle-class Catholic childhood in Cork in the 70s. They even had the same Christmas tree as us. And also, a favourite song of my father’s – from some film I think – “Do not forsake me oh my darling” was featured on the soundtrack. I don’t think I’ve heard it since he died.
February is rugby season and Dan has been to see see the Irish team lose to France with his uncle a couple of weeks ago (did you see anyone you knew at the match? yes another uncle from the other side of the family – Ireland is tiny) and win against Italy today. Neither entirely satisfactory – the first for obvious reasons and the second because it was a massacre. Oh well. I remember two years ago when lock down started during the six nations – I am not a massive rugby fan but I am so glad to see it back. Poor Daniel has been injured again in GAA (no matches or training for a week says the physio), at least it isn’t rugby, I suppose, where his never give up attitude could be quite terrifying.
We had friends round to dinner. We went to an exhibition (on the Treaty in Dublin Castle – a bit dull but worthy and, you know, an exhibition).
My sister and I went on a food tasting tour in Cork. Not bad but it started at 10.30 and the first bite of food did not pass our lips until 11.45. Can I tell you how much I regretted skipping breakfast so that I would have room for all the food I was going to taste? Anyway, the best tip was always book a food tour when you go to a new city as, by definition, it will be run by people who love food and will be able to give you great restaurant tips for your stay. I give you this for free.
The tour guide described how he met Prince Albert of Monaco when he (the tour guide) was doing some yacht racing and Prince Albert asked him where he was from. Our guide said Ireland and Prince Albert said, “My mother was Irish.” “I know,” said the guide. I quite liked the modest assumption of Albert that we might not know who his mother was. She was American, of course, but we can be flexible when it suits us. She stayed in the Imperial Hotel when she came to Cork, if you’re interested. It’s also where I got my first morsel of food when on the food tour and where my granny and Aunt Cecilia used to meet for afternoon tea on a Saturday. A historic spot.
In other, it’s all over bar the shouting, news herself had some school friends visit her in England and then we came across to see her. God, it lashed rain. Due to a booking mishap we had to move accommodation during the two days we were there and we traipsed miserably about with our sodden bag rolling behind us.
However, notwithstanding the appalling climactic conditions, we had a lovely time overall. The Princess showed us around, found good places for us to eat and introduced us to her English friends (lovely, articulate, polite young people who were nice to her brothers – gold star). We went to a museum. I went to evensong where two of her friends sang (one of them is -gasp – Tiktok famous) and it was absolutely beautiful.
I said to her, “I see everyone’s wearing those pearls on their eyes now that you had a couple of years ago. ” Very fashion forward though I still think a bit daft looking. “Where did you get them?” I asked because they were definitely not available in the make up shops then. “From the wedding stationery bit of Eason’s,” she said. Maybe she’ll make a fortune yet as some kind of futurologist.
After our visit to herself in college, we went to London for a couple of days. Did you know that you can pay for transport in London with your contactless bank card? Hands down the most impressive transport innovation of my lifetime. Delighted.
We travelled by boat,
we went to the London Eye,
the Tower of London, Covent Garden, the British Museum (briefly to check out a complaint written in cuneiform which Daniel had seen on the internet), Hodge’s statue,
Leadenhall market (adjacent to Gracechurch street where, enthusiasts will remember Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner lived, Michael who spent the week reading Pride and Prejudice was resolutely unimpressed but I, a true fan, was charmed),
and Mr. Waffle’s sister’s family for dinner and an exciting chance to inspect their new house purchased last year.
It was all excellent though slightly exhausting. I was never happier to splurge on a taxi than when I had walked from Bloomsbury to the Tower of London. What was truly wonderful was having the London relatives on tap for advice on what to do and – possibly more importantly – where to eat near the various attractions. It was like having an expert guide with full knowledge of you and your family’s needs. In fact, actually, that was exactly what it was. It was the best trip I’ve had in a very long time (even pre-Covid). Still, I was possibly influenced by the fact that it was very, very nice to be abroad for the first time since summer 2019*.
I was a little unnerved when we got home and Michael said that it was good to be back somewhere the Russians were less likely to think of as a target. Does he not realise his sister is living in England? Oh the poor Ukrainians.
And in final it is over, surely it’s over, news, I’ve decided to take a bit of time off work. I am flattened. My mother died in June 2019, my father died in December 2020, work has been tough in the pandemic, herself has left home and her brothers will be finishing school next year and moving on to a new part of their lives. I feel a bit like it’s now or never. So I will be removing myself from the labour market from June 2022 until October 2023. I have no major plans, I will not be travelling the world or writing my novel. I might rejoin the tennis club; that’s about the height of it. Funnily enough one of my bookclub friends is also taking some time out. I am very conscious that I am lucky to be able to do this.
Let me know your own post pandemic plans.
*Updated to add: my sister points out that I was in the Netherlands last autumn. Mr. Waffle points out that we were also in England in the autumn. Oops.
Are We Back?
In a move which makes me seriously fear for my sanity and which reminds me of the slightly irregular hours my mother used to favour, I found myself cleaning the door of the oven at 2.30 in the morning. I saw a video about how you could take out the inner glass door and I realised that I could get rid of that streak on the oven door which has been bothering me since last summer. I dismantled the thing. I cleaned it. After several false starts and some dark muttering I reassembled it. I am extraordinarily pleased with myself. But also a bit concerned for my sanity.
In other sanity limiting news, I just can’t seem to let my brother get rid of my parents’ books. Not just special books but any books. Books they never read, books they didn’t like, paperback detectives, books inherited from my grandparents (Daily Mail almanac 1913 anyone?). I think I am going to have to give them house room. But where? To demonstrate the extent of my difficulties, these are the bookshelves in two of the bedrooms in my parents’ house.
Third row from the top there you can see the Cork Historical and Archaeological Society’s annual publication collected for years. Am I ever going to read these volumes? No, I am not. Am I going to let my brother throw them out? Are you joking me?
In other middle aged developments we thought we had fixed our drain problems through the application of rods lent by the neighbours (did you know drain rods were a thing, it explains where Dyno-rod got their odd name anyhow). This morning when Mr. Waffle and I were out at breakfast, Daniel texted the family group chat: “Why does the whole house smell of sewage?” Why indeed. As I cower in here writing this, Mr. Waffle is out in the back garden with the neighbour’s rods and a scented candle is working extra hard in the kitchen. I’m inclined to call in the professionals at this point – Dyno-rod perhaps? – but he seems very determined to give it another go. Cross your fingers for me and my house with a definite aroma of sewage (more drains than sewage to be fair but I appreciate it’s a point of detail).
We got our water cut off during the week (query could this have triggered our drain problem?) and the electric shower failed to revive. For two hideous days until a plumber could be got out to fix the issue (2 minutes of your time sir, €50 of our money) we showered in the temporary downstairs shower in the utility room. I cannot speak of the vileness involved in our efforts to maintain hygiene standards in a cruel world.
Daniel has a sore knee and went to the physio who has given him loads of exercises to do which I hear him dutifully performing in his bedroom. When I was a teenager, I had an old fashioned typewriter in my room. My father said that when I used it, it sounded like an elephant tap dancing on the ceiling. Daniel does not sound like an elephant tap dancing but he does sound like someone giving his all to the plank and various other unpleasant lunges and stretches. In other noises off news, Daniel has started calling Michael “Shuttle brother” because of his habit of flitting up and down to the bathroom on the return at bedtime. I find this quite hilarious though I cannot say why. I think you would have to hear the lightening footsteps of fleet of foot Michael at bedtime.
I took this photo the other morning as I was leaving for work. Everyone now living in the house had departed on a bicycle. Why are there still three in the shed? I mean, why?
And finally, the Government basically lifted all restrictions last night except for mask wearing inside until end February. So that’s it then? I really hope so. Meanwhile though my sister-in-law in London has Covid. Alas.