Hodge

Update – Religious

29 June, 2025
Posted in: Family, Hodge, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

I went to see the comedian David O’Doherty. I would recommend. Quite funny. He is the product of what used to be called in Ireland a “mixed marriage”. In other words, his mother’s a Protestant and his father’s a Catholic. This is not really an expression in common currency any longer but I had explained it previously to the children as I sometimes humorously refer to myself and Mr. Waffle as having a mixed marriage (I’m from Cork, he’s from Dublin, I know, I’m hilarious). Anyway it transpired that the children thought I was joking about the expression and did not believe it was actually a thing which led one of them to say to a college classmate who said he had a Protestant mother and Catholic father – “Ah mixed marriage” to which the friend put jazz hands in the air and said, “That’s me.” My mortified child then said, “What, that’s actually a real thing?” Truly the past is another country.

Anyhow David O’Doherty covered this extensively in his gig including the line that his mother played tennis (or possibly hockey) for Ireland, “It’s not as impressive as it sounds, all the Protestants got a go then.” Got a good laugh for him.

I know I am going back a bit here but we had a two hour mass for the Easter Saturday vigil and I am still not the better of it. For the first time that I ever remember there were actual baptisms during the mass. There were real converts; three of them. I was astounded. One of these was a Spanish man called Jesus and I am really baffled by this development. I mean how did a Spaniard called Jesus not get brought up Catholic almost by default? A mystery. The service contains this line, “This is our faith and we are proud to profess it.” Honestly, I’d never really thought about this line one way or another before but it was surprisingly moving in the context of the converts. I guess it’s a bit like when you see how pleased people are to become Irish citizens at the citizenship ceremonies and you think, “Maybe it is kind of good to be Irish.”

As we entered the church at the start of what was going to be the longest mass any of us had ever attended (giving the Orthodox Catholics a run for their money), the trainee deacon fell upon us like the wolf on the fold and said he needed someone to do a reading. On the one hand, this is a very reading rich service, on the other hand it is the highlight of the liturgical year and you’d think someone would already have been selected. Herself nobly volunteered to fill the gap. She was told to go and find Joan who was organising. She could not find Joan; one of the choir said, “Tch, Joan, she’s very disorganised.” Not words to inspire confidence. We never did find Joan and herself went off to join the other readers with some trepidation.

We ended up sitting behind a pillar which was annoying as I did not get to see herself reading to the unusually full church but I did get to hear her so there’s that. Afterwards she said that there had been a very nice Mauritian woman who had explained everything to her and stayed with her throughout. We went up to thank this heroine and it turned out that she was one of the nurses from Mr. Waffle’s mother’s nursing home so that was nice.

On Easter Sunday we had Mr. Waffle’s sister and her husband and daughter for lunch which was broadly successful though we had far too much food. My husband’s family have bird like appetites. For the occasion, I was wearing a dress which I got in Cos; a shop much loved by middle aged women. It’s the home of the shapeless garment and like the rest of my tribe, I love it. My lovely green dress is sort of a-line in shape and my heartless family promptly nicknamed it “the sail”. As I was rushing from one room to the next on Easter Sunday morning, it caught on the door handle, “Sail caught in the rigging?” asked one of the family wags instantly. I truly have a lot to put up with.

Our cat’s water and food bowl live in the utility room. Keeping us all on our toes, they move about the room. The water bowl is always full of water and I have overturned it more times than I can say. In rushing around on Easter Sunday morning, needless to say, I kicked it over soaking myself and the floor. As I cursed in the utility room, I heard sniggering in the kitchen. “What?” I said grumpily. “Your nemesis is a bowl of water on the floor.”

We push on through further religious services. We had the feast of the Holy Trinity. The priest repeated what he described as an old joke but it was new to me. Stay with me here. Back in the day, the bishop would come and examine you on your catechism before you were cleared to make your confirmation. In retrospect, I am unsure that anyone was barred from the ceremony on the basis of ignorance but our primary teachers had us drilled in the Bishop Lucey catechism. My strong memory is that the catechism was written by Bishop Lucey and I distinctly remember a yellow and brown book but the internet seems unaware of this. Maybe the force of his grace’s personality was such that I believed that he had drafted the catechism although he had not. Anyway, we learnt it off by heart, he examined us with much less thoroughness than our teachers had led us to expect and that was that. Ok the joke is coming now: A bishop went into a school to examine the confirmation candidates and he asked one boy what the Holy Trinity was. The child, having learnt off the answer responded at great speed. The bishop was unable to follow his answer and said politely, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” The child replied smartly, “You’re not supposed to understand, it’s a mystery.” I enjoyed; you may feel that it was not worth the build up.

Last Sunday was Corpus Christi except the priest called it the festival of the body and blood of Christ and I was genuinely sitting there thinking, “What is this? I’ve never heard of this in my life.” Which just proves how ancient I am. Also does not reflect well on my general intelligence levels. I got there in the end. Slightly related, would you like to see a medal from the Eucharistic congress in Dublin in 1932 which I found in my jewellery box earlier today; I have literally no idea where on earth it came from. A mystery as the young man said to the bishop.

A final religious news item: I found my father’s (I think it must be but how did it get here?) missal in the great shelf reoganisation. I expressed some surprise. “Look your grandad’s missal,” said I to middle child. “Oh,” light dawning over rugged country, “I’ve never heard the word missal before, is that why the leaflet in mass is called the missalette?”

A Full Programme of Activities

21 April, 2024
Posted in: Dublin, Hodge, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Twins, Youngest Child

I haven’t been on since before Easter. I am sure that levels of concern were high but, fear not, I am back with a detailed and fascinating report.

Holy Saturday, March 30

Herself was back from England for Easter. She pointed out that next door’s daughter was not back from Scotland and that I should rejoice. Herself has got her finals at the start of May and this is making her tense. We did watch “Irish Wish” together during the week which is an insult to the people of Ireland but great fun for spotting the locations, all of which we knew, and mocking the premise. Thrillingly, one of my brother-in-law’s rich friends who has retired and yet is full of energy (he climbed Everest for example) is one of the extras. A very rewarding view. And I cannot recommend highly enough this review of it by Patrick Freyne which is the funniest thing I have read in some time.

We went into town and bought a present for her American friends. She had wrangled money from college to fly to America and meet the subject of her dissertation. Not too shabby. A friend was kindly putting her up in New York as the grant money was not infinite.

We went to Easter mass that evening. I love when the church is in darkness and the congregation are all given candles to light. However, it was an hour and 40 minutes. What are we? Orthodox? As one of the kids said: You know you’re in trouble when they’re on the 7th reading and the next thing is the opening prayer.

Easter Sunday, March 31

We had Mr. Waffle’s siblings and families around for lunch. He cooked. It went pretty well I think and it was great to see everyone. Almost relaxing as Mr. Waffle cooked. I am sorry I forgot to take a picture of our table set for 12 as I was able to deploy a great deal (though by no means all) of my mother’s good ware of which I have now taken ownership. I am putting it in the dishwasher willy-nilly. So far so good.

Monday, 1 April

My sister-in-law was keen that we should all do a walk in Glendalough which her mother’s walking group had said that her mother really enjoyed. We all went except my poor nephew who is doing the Leaving Cert and felt he needed to study. His surprise replacement was his extremely sprightly 85 year old grandfather who had flown in that morning from Palermo (he’s Sicilian). As he trotted up the reasonably steep path beside me, I asked what time he had got up at to catch the flight. He would have had to get up at 4 had he not already risen at midnight to watch some Italian win a tennis match in America or possibly Australia. He tells me he’s writing a book about Irish saints and holy people featuring, inter alia, Blessed Thaddeus McCarthy (a Cork gentleman about whom I know very little) and he will send me the pages to review. He is indefatigable. Both he and my 6 year old niece (the youngest of the party) completed the – slightly curtailed for the capacity of the group – walk without any difficulty. My brother-in-law had got directions from my mother-in-law’s friend and while he was slightly scathing about the “turn right at the big tree” nature of the directions, they turned out to be quite effective.

The weather was a bit drizzly (certainly nothing like the 30 degree weather they had been enjoying in Palermo) but it held off. Given that the walk was short (4-5kms), the views were pretty good.

We all thought fond thoughts about my lovely mother-in-law who enjoyed the walk so much. And it only started to absolutely pour rain as we arrived in the pub for lunch. A definite win.

Saturday April 6

Nothing else happened during the week except that a friend of Michael’s said he would like one of the typewriters I have been collecting from Cork.

Look, in the end, I gave it away but kept all my exercises from the typing course I did in the summer of 1987 when I learnt to touch type – honestly a great investment. To everyone’s relief, including possibly yours, I have just thrown out the sample typed up letters, articles and menus with the errors circled.

Having lost my waterproof trousers during the week – I must have put them down somewhere in their handy bag – I decided it was time to invest in new waterproof gear. I had heard much about “Rains” gear so I invested a spectacular amount. I can attest that it is, so far, waterproof (my old gear let in water at the elbows and knees) but I do not accept that it is fashionable. On the basis that waterproof gear just isn’t.

Sticking to my new year’s resolution, Mr. Waffle and I went to the cinema. We saw “Io Capitano” which is a fictionalised account of two 16 year old boys making their way from Dakar to Sicily as illegal migrants. It is harrowing though I must say beautifully shot and acted. It does not make you feel good about being a European.

Sunday 7 April

I feel very well equipped to write a book called something like “Gentle excursions for the middle aged about an hour’s drive from Dublin”. Mr. Waffle and I made what could be called a research trip.

The paper on Saturday had a list of under-appreciated beauty spots. The article said words to the effect of “Yeah, Glendalough is terrific but it’s full of tourists – try Fore”. Having visited Fore, I would say that Glendalough is safe enough.

Not that Fore is bad. The article recommended that we begin our adventures in the local cafe which has information on Fore and its attractions. We told the lady in the cafe we had come to her on a recommendation from the Irish Times and she was touchingly delighted. Mr. Waffle wrote to her with a copy of the article after we got home and she wrote back to him thanking him for the article and sending him a picture of Fore Abbey. That gentle interaction which almost seems from a former age is a good example of the quiet charms of Fore.

There’s a former hermit’s tower. You get the keys to go in from the local pub.

There is an old church in ruins and beside it the hermit’s hangout which is an older structure on to which the local bigwigs – the Nugents- added a Victorian nave.

It’s surprisingly atmospheric inside. And obviously, you have it to yourself as you are the only one who has the keys from the pub.

Patrick Begley who died in 1616 was the last hermit in occupation.

From the ruined church there’s a good view of the ruined abbey – Henry VIII has a lot to answer for:

We dropped the keys back to pub and went to explore the abbey.

And zero effort wasrequired to get photos without anyone else in them. We pretty much had the place to ourselves until a family arrived with a number of children to climb the walls. I’ve been that soldier.

We then went for a short circular walk back to the town. A bit flat but that’s the midlands for you. Basically perfectly pleasant until the heavens opened but it stopped again shortly. The only true thing that is in Irish Wish is when the love interest says , “Don’t like the weather in Ireland? Wait five minutes.”

At each of the village there are stone gates. These are all that remain of the walls that once surrounded the town. It’s part of the Irish walled towns network but I think this is really pushing it.

Anyway when we got back to the village we had a drink in the pub before going on to explore Tullynally castle, ancestral home of the Packenhams. It’s huge and, God, really ugly. I don’t know what Francis Johnston who was employed to gothify it was thinking.

Distance lending enchantment to the view or arguably, to paraphrase a line my mother used to enjoy quoting – “where every prospect pleases and only man is vile”.

The castle was closed on Sundays but the gardens were open to the public and huge. Though it lashed rain prior to our arrival, the rain stopped when we emerged from the cafe and we spent a good hour walking around the grounds. Lovely.

Monday 8 April

I had a baptism preparation meeting. Will I ever get out of this? My children are in college. My fellow sufferer said that when she went to her baptism prep meeting with her first baby (now in her teens) the prep team were in their 80s. We’re doomed. Anyway there were three lovely couples. All fine but I raced away afterwards as I was hosting bookclub that evening. It was a slightly exhausting but nonetheless satisfactory evening.

Wednesday 10 April

Herself came back from America some time before the crack of dawn. Her time there was full of incident: her friend got sick; there was a huge storm; there was an earthquake; and then there was the eclipse and the plague of locusts. Only one of these is made up. Notwithstanding the various natural phenomena she had a terrific time and is keen to go back. I am horrified at the prospect. It’s a lot further away than England. But she loved, loved, loved New York.

She brought us all back presents. I got a tea towel and I was delighted. If you had told me when I was 20 etc. It was from some trendy spot in Brooklyn where all the stuff was made locally or in Kyrgyzstan. Surprising.

Thursday 11 April

Herself was due to turn 21 on the 12th so we went out to dinner for her birthday. One of her siblings had tickets for a ball on the Friday so we went on the Thursday. We were all making our way there from our diverse locations.

Mr. Waffle was there first. I got this message from herself as I was leaving the office.

Followed quickly by this one.

I texted Mr. Waffle an update and he replied sadly, “Sometimes I wonder if my family is German at all”. Still once we got there a good time was had by all.

Friday 12 April

Herself turned 21. I was surprised how big a milestone it felt even now when 18 is the age limit for everything. Though herself pointed out, having been in America the previous week, this is emphatically not the case everywhere.

She asked, “Where is my birthday post?” I was touched that she would want one and it will follow just as soon as I do posts on her siblings whose birthdays were on September 27. This is a demanding hobby, I can tell you. Anyway, the summary is that she’s great. Honestly, she really is.

I asked whether she wanted anything special for dinner and she asked for spaghetti Amatriciana. To my absolute astonishment we got guanciale from the Italian wholesaler down the road and it was pretty good although I significantly underestimated how long it would take and we ate at 9 so possibly anything would have tasted good by then.

Saturday 13 April

Mr. Waffle, like all Dubliners, hates Temple Bar but I have a soft spot for it. We went in there for a nice breakfast. Then we took in a photographic exhibition that Mr. Waffle had read about in the the Guardian (somehow better than the Irish Times, doubtless a post-colonial hang up). The exhibition was mostly photos of the Troubles but some from the South as well. The photographer was a Japanese guy who made his name in Vietnam as a war photographer. He moved to Ireland in the late 60s with his wife and children. Worth a visit.

When we emerged, we heard the sound of singing. I realised that it was the Messiah anniversary performance. The Messiah was first performed on Fishamble Street. The concert hall where it was held is long gone but every year there is an outdoor performance on the street nearby. So delightful. Even if we only stayed until the rain started, unlike the Lord Mayor who looked gloomily resigned to staying put for the duration. Is Temple Bar not pretty good notwithstanding all the pubs and tourists?

My sister arrived in the afternoon with presents for everyone. In particular herself who always does very well from my sister and brother (she met him earlier in the week for lunch and I gather it was a satisfactory engagement from her perspective, he hasn’t said) at birthdays and indeed other times.

My sister also brought four photo albums from the attic for me. There were photos of the burning of Cork that my Uncle Dan took in 1920. This is a great photo of my father at school in South Pasadena in the late 1920s/early 30s before the family decamped back to Ireland. My father is fifth from the right. If any of the others are still alive they would be 99 or so, so I suppose all dead now. But you never know. There are loads of photos from when my grandparents and my father and aunt lived in California.

I actually recognised lots of the pictures of my great aunts and uncles but by no means all. Labelling is very inadequate. For example there are many pictures from the 20s of people in Paris or Milan or whatever. The locations are instantly recognisable Paris (Eiffel Tower), Milan (cathedral) but the people are often a mystery. Labelling a picture Eiffel Tower is USELESS. Tell us who the people are. There are many, many more like this in Ireland. This tiny cyclist is a classic. I think it could be my father from his cycling tour around Ireland with a friend when they finished school in 1943. But honestly it could be anyone.

But were you wondering where it was? I bet you were, well not to worry because someone has gone to the trouble of clarifying that. Look at this and imagine the sound of audibly gnashing teeth. I enjoyed the several attempts to spell tunnel also but let he who is without sin etc..

As well as all her presents, my sister had made bets on a range of horses in the Grand National for all of us. The excitement. My mother used to do this when we were children but I hadn’t watched it in years. And then Daniel’s horse won! I don’t think this has ever happened in all the years we watched with my parents. Herself got a horse called Mr. Impossible who provided all the entertainment. He managed to unseat his rider relatively early on but not before he had provided endless enjoyment to those watching (except herself). The newspapers described him as “quirky”. This is fair. Apparently, recently as Leopardstown, he refused to start at all. A horse with a mind of his own.

Sunday April 14

Herself went back to England at the crack of dawn. Her father took her to the airport and it was bright and finally felt like spring – it feels like it has been grey and rainy since the end of last summer. It’s always sad when she goes.

I took myself to a worthy talk on the latest exhibition in the Gallery “Turning Heads” which is head studies by Dutch painters – Van Dyck, Rubens, Rembrandt etc. Though technically is Rubens Belgian as from Antwerp? I suppose not as there was no Belgium then (welcome to the inside of my head). Fine but perhaps I was not in the mood for it.

Monday April 15

Still at it with the new year’s resolution – we went to “The Teachers’ Room“. This is a German film about a school where there are accusations of theft and everything that can go wrong does go wrong in the investigation and Mr. Waffle kept muttering about fair procedures. Good but definitely worthy.

Wednesday April 17

I took a half day from work and we went to see “Philadelphia Here I come” where Michael, she said proudly, had one of the lead roles. It’s set in rural Ireland in the 50s/60s and it’s about a young man who’s emigrating. One actor plays his outer voice (Michael) and another guy plays his inner voice. I thought Michael was excellent. I’d never seen the play before and I found it really, really sad. Mr. Waffle said to cheer up as Michael was not in fact emigrating to Philadelphia in the morning. Afterwards Michael came out and smiled (as we thought) at his proud parents, but some young girl flew past us and gave him a big hug. Should have gone to specsavers etc. Still, all good.

Thursday April 18

Mr. Waffle was away for work and I abandoned my children to go to see an exhibtion based on the Druid O’Casey trilogy of plays. Grand and fun to be brought in on my friend’s Druid membership. And we had dinner afterwards while my children at home dined on take away pizza. At least Daniel did, Michael was out late every night this week, returning ravenous at midnight each day.

Friday April 19

Mr. Waffle came home. Hurrah. We were all delighted but the cat was ecstatic. She was really concerned about her food security in his absence.

The run of Michael’s play finished and he arrived home exhausted but pleased, I think.

Saturday April 20

An absolutely glorious day which really highlighted that some work needed to be done in the garden. “The hedge hating peasantry,” as my father used to say. I worked until the compost heap and the brown bin were full and collapsed exhausted on the sofa where Daniel and I watched the end of Dune 2. Overrated in my view.

Mr. Waffle told me that Mr. Incredible was running in the Scottish Grand National and I was moved to put a fiver on him each way. The paper said he was well rested after the Grand National at Aintree. Indeed.

He was out of the race before the first fence. To add insult to injury, other Willie Mullins trained horses came in first, fourth, fifth and sixth. I think our relationship with Mr. Incredible and his quirky ways may be drawing to a close.

In other news, Mr. Waffle is enjoying the AI art generator functionality.

Sunday, April 21 – today, I have caught up with myself at last.

The weather was beautiful (apparently this weekend is our summer, sigh). I was delighted that we already had a plan. Is there anything more stressful than fine weather in Ireland and no plan to take full advantage of it? I was very amused when in Kamila Shmsie’s book “Best of Friends”, the narrator’s father is on holiday with her in England from Pakistan (where presumably he has plenty of sunshine) and – as he is taken out to yet again enjoy the sunshine he basically says, “Would it be possible not to take advantage of the weather some time?”

Anyway, Mr. Waffle and I had planned to go for a walk in Mullaghmeen forest in Westmeath. I had never been but he told me that his mother always tried to get there at this time of year to see the bluebells. It’s a beech forest and carpeted in bluebells. It was lovely and really quiet. We hardly saw any other people. It really made me think of the wood between the worlds in CS Lewis’s “The Magician’s Nephew” – so quiet and peaceful.

You’ll have to take my word for it that the bluebells were lovely as the pictures don’t really do them justice.

We were slightly exhausted after our longish walk in the forest but very pleased with ourselves. Would recommend (part of my continuing programme of gentle outings for the middle aged within an hour’s drive of Dublin). After our walk we were, in fact, adjacent to Tullynally castle where we had so recently disported ourselves so went back there for a restorative cup of tea after our exertions – and very nice it was too.

And how have things been with you?

I’m Back

18 December, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Hodge, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Work, Youngest Child

For the first time in years, I didn’t post every day in November. I just forgot. It’s been busy back in the world of work.

Daniel’s shoulder is still causing problems. I’m not sure that he is entirely capable of managing his own medical affairs. One evening he had to call the doctor’s surgery – land line, this is relevant – about his shoulder. The surgery closes at 5.30 and at 5.27 he rang me (whatsapp free on the home wifi) to tell me he was out of credit. It was a race against time to top up his phone and inevitably when he rang at 5.31 he got the automated, “Did you expect us to pick up? You must be joking” message. Anyway he did manage to get through eventually and has been scheduled to be seen at a sports clinic where the next available appointment is July 2024. Fantastic.

Since I last wrote we have had riots in Dublin and a school stabbing so it hasn’t been the best of times for Dublin. On the night in question, I was out in Skerries in north County Dublin (subsequently revealed to be the best place to live in the world, honestly, nice and all but not entirely convinced) having dinner with a school friend. Poor old Michael texted me to check whether I was ok but, in fact, he was far closer to the action at home than I was in my North Dublin fastness. I subsequently heard that on the night of the riots various groups were trapped in their offices (my favourite, the Department of Education quiz night participants) and Trinity students had to stay overnight on campus.

We were flying to England to visit herself at the weekend and I was a bit worried about the boys and asked them not to go out in town while we were gone which felt like we were giving in to the rioters but there it was. Anyway, they were fine and there was no more rioting either. We had a good time in England except for the part of it we spent on trains. It had been suggested to us that flying to Birmingham would be a good way to travel. I cannot recommend Birmingham airport which is undergoing extensive renovations. I fell over comprehensively in a damp lift (water, I think) and lay on my back like a beetle waving its little legs in the air. All of the pre-recorded announcements had a hoover in the background. Unpleasant.

Nor can I recommend the train service which in my (admittedly limited) experience cancelled trains at short notice and had everyone squeezed on like sardines with no chance of getting to your reserved seat. However, Birmingham airport was redeemed by its lovely staff. Mr. Waffle lost his wedding ring and he just gave up. I, however, went back to security and a really kind man checked all of the security belts. He didn’t find it but gave me a form to fill in in case it turned up. Mr. Waffle had no faith in the form – to the extent that he just bought a new wedding ring – but he filled it in and they found the ring and sent it back to us. Very gratifying.

We had a nice time in England overall notwithstanding our transport trauma and it was very nice to see herself.

I have returned to tennis having finally got back in to the tennis club 18 months after I applied to rejoin. I was stiff all over after my first session. Let us hope things improve.

My sister is on the mend having been pretty unwell. I went to Cork to visit her to speed her recovery. I am not sure that it really helped but I had a pretty good time. It was nice to visit Cork at Christmas (all of December now apparently) and finally get to inspect this Marina market which I’ve been hearing so much (fine but, as my sister observed, probably not notiony enough for me). While I was in Cork, Dan’s team won the Championship. He was very pleased, notwithstanding his shoulder he’s been turning out a bit for training and matches (the physio thinks it’s ok, I hope it’s ok).

The Cork-Dublin train is Ireland’s best train line and when you travel you can shove your bike in the guard’s van. If, like an amateur, you get the Cork Dublin train that is not direct you have to stand on a chilly platform in Mallow, change trains and put up with this kind of bike storage.

Some of you have doubtless been wondering what was the source of the weird smell under the stairs which appeared around the time of my mother-in-law’s funeral. It went away but then Mr. Waffle disturbed the beast in its lair and it came back with renewed vigour but this time, Mr. Waffle managed to trace it to its source. It was a (mercifully wrapped) packet of cooked chicken pieces which had been purchased some months ago. They had lain forgotten in a rucksack in the interim waiting for their moment to shine.

A former colleague’s father died and I spent the days before the funeral humming and hawing about whether I ought to go. It was in rural Kilkenny which is just far enough out of Dublin that I would have to take a day off to attend but not so far that nobody could reasonably expect you to attend. I was definitely going, then I was definitely not going but in the end, I went. Having taken the day off work to go to the funeral, you might have thought I would arrive on time, you would be wrong. As with every funeral I have ever been to, I was glad I went afterwards; there was actually a big crowd of former colleagues there and we had a grand old chat. The burial was in the church yard which in my experience is quite unusual as most funerals seem to involve a trek to some graveyard in the back end of nowhere. And then there were sandwiches and tea (of course) in the adjacent church hall. A more elaborate lunch was being served in the town afterwards but the tea and sandwiches in the hall were great as they allowed me to sympathise in the warmth, and, you know, a cup of tea, not to be sneezed at.

I went to the Kildare Village outlet shopping centre on the way home. I despise it and all it stands for (the fake American vibe, the car dependency, the absence of the diversity you get in an actual city etc) but I also really like it. A difficult time for me. I see they have bike parking. A luxurious Sheffield stand it is not, but it is something, in fairness.

In one of the shops I attempted to buy something for €20. The shop assistant refused to take my money and said that I had to buy two things. Did I leave in a huff? I did not. I, somewhat reluctantly, picked up something else. What a wheeze.

We had Saint Nicolas in Dublin. He sent chocolate to herself in England. His feeling for weights and measures is not what it might be. Herself was, on the whole, pleased to get a kilo of chocolate delivered.

I had my Ukrainian lesson on December 6 and we talked about St. Nicolas in Ukraine. They have him, he comes on December 6 and he brings satsumas. On December 6, when my teacher was growing up (she’s about the same age as me so this would have been in the 70s), the classrooms all smelled of oranges as people illicitly peeled their satsumas under the desks. When I was growing up in Cork in the 70s we used to get a tray of satsumas for Christmas. The excitement in seeing them come into the house, the joy in eating satsumas whenever you wanted. In retrospect, I am very puzzled by this. It’s not like satsumas were not available all year round and I can’t imagine that my mother (very much officer in charge of food in our house) would have objected to us eating as many as we wanted at any time of year, unlike other Christmas treats which were rationed for obvious reasons. I have verified this with people my own age; the big tray of satsumas for Christmas seems to have been a treat for everyone in Ireland in the 70s. Baffling.

I’ve been Christmas lunching with work to beat the band. Exhausting but not unpleasant. I have had not one but two book club Christmas events (two bookclubs). One in my friend’s beautiful house in the suburbs where she had a magnificently decorated 12 foot tree in her drawing room (replacing the grand piano which normally sits there – question to self, where on earth did she put the grand piano?). Her son took a picture of us all in front of the tree and everyone looked amazing except me and I’m right in the middle. Sigh. Even my children felt the need to reassure me that I don’t really look like that. Eyes closed, mouth half open. My other bookclub met in the Westbury hotel for afternoon tea yesterday. Lovely and Christmassy and I kept my mouth closed for all the photos. Sadly, I looked a bit like Rudolf as I was dying with a cold and probably shouldn’t have gone and definitely should not have cycled home in the rain. I was so miserable last night, awake all night that I stayed home from work today. My new boss is lovely and, as I said to Mr. Waffle, “Since I started only about six weeks ago, I have taken every kind of leave, bereavement leave, holiday leave, leave to go to a funeral and now sick leave. He’ll think I’m incapable of putting in a full week.” I have looked at my work email over the course of the day but only in the most desultory way. All I need now is to tell him I’m applying for adoptive leave. I am not applying for adoptive leave.

I have had my hair cut – finally – first time in about 18 months, honestly, well overdue. I am delighted but I was truly unnerved to see how like my brother I looked in the hairdresser’s mirror with my hair cut short. Herself wants to know why I look so glum in all the selfies. Look, I feel foolish photographing myself, there was a time when this was not unusual, right?

Here I am looking slightly cheerier with herself.

Crocheted Christmas tree – an idea whose time has come?

My sister-in-law sent me this very pleasing picture of Hodge, Samuel Johnson’s cat in London.

We have got the best Christmas tree ever this year. I am delighted. I held off until this weekend just gone in the face of some opposition. We had to go to a new place because our regular vendor was out of trees in the size we wanted. What a blessing in disguise; a definitely superior tree was found after some tense moments that I would prefer not to speak about.

Everyone was there to decorate it (herself back from staying in a foundation in Munich where her friend is studying and which appears to be the most amazing place the Princess has ever stayed , I have rarely seen her so enthusiastic about anything and she’s polishing up her German again on foot of the visit so pleasing). And we had Christmas music playing in the background. I was beside myself with joy. Except for dying from my cold. It doesn’t really photograph well but you will have to take my word for it that the tree is magnifico.

More news as we get it.

Travel Round Up

21 October, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Hodge, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel

I mean not super exotic travel but travel nonetheless.

Mr. Waffle was in Bruges, at a college class reunion thing; a broadly good time was had by all. Except the cat. She is fed by Mr. Waffle, inter alia, before bed. At 10.30, she takes up her position on the corner of the rug and begins looking at him imploringly. In his absence, she stared at the couch, clearly hoping he was going to materialise and having zero faith that I would feed her.

Herself, before returning to England, went to Cork where she was feted and petted by her adoring uncle and aunt.

An otherwise uneventful trip was made exciting by the travel arrangements. She needed a 19-23 id card for the student ticket for the train. It only arrived on the morning she was leaving but, sadly, after she had actually left. I had driven her to the station in the driving rain and heavy traffic and there was no way we would have time to turn back. I was resigned to buying a full fare ticket at the station but then her father – like a superhero in waterproofs – cycled to the station and gave her the ID. Honestly, quite a bit more thrilling than it sounds.

Also, in public transport news, my children keep losing their travel cards and while Mr. Waffle was in Bruges another one was lost. Looking at the account there are about 16 cards called things like Michael2018(2). Poor Mr. Waffle, the administrative duties of a father are many. Anyway thrillingly, following this latest loss, Mr. Waffle found that he was sitting on a gold mine. There was about €100 sitting on the various long lost cards waiting for him to recover (after considerable effort – order of administrative labour, first class).

Then, like the extremely saintly mother I am, sherpa-like I drove the Princess’s stuff back to England while she flew to attend a conference, the logistics were almost unbearably complex.

Before driving to England to my intense chagrin, a tree crept up beside me and broke the side mirror on the car. It worked ok but slightly suboptimal for my long drive. And 500 of your earth euros to repair it. I’ve decided not to fix the scrape I gave it going in the gate in Cork, there’s only so much I can afford.

The offending tree with its victim:

My trip to England was grand. I ensconced herself in her, frankly, palatial student accommodation and then turned around to get the ferry home. I spent two nights with my friends in Shrewsbury. It is such a lovely town. Look at it.

I am unclear whether the best shopping in England is to be had in Shrewsbury or my friend really knows what is likely to attract a fellow middle aged woman. They have a lovely indoor market there and I spent like there was no tomorrow.

On the way back to the ferry , I stopped in Conwy in Wales. So lovely, so utterly unknown by me until the ferry to Wales became such a big part of my life.

I am back to work on Halloween (not ominous at all). Expect less gallivanting thereafter.

Great News

24 April, 2023
Posted in: Dublin, Hodge, Ireland

We have ants in the utility room. I blame the cat. We have scattered ant powder. Let’s see how that works out for us.

Belated Easter Round Up

30 April, 2022
Posted in: Family, Hodge, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Twins, Youngest Child

The boys got Foil Arms and Hogg tickets for Christmas. They went with their father and their sister just before Easter and pronounced it satisfactory.

For Easter Sunday we had extended family round and it was lovely. Sadly my nephew was off in Germany with a friend (I mean not sadly for him but sadly for us as it would have been nice to have had all the cousins together) but otherwise we were all there. As the 11 of us sat down to lunch, herself said, “Have we any bubbles?” “Champagne? No,” I said. “Well even Prosecco or Moscato?” she asked. I would like to say that these are English notions but her paternal grandfather never met a celebration which he felt could not be made better by Prosecco so they are probably home grown notions. She did a great job in prepping the table. She’s quite arty; this did not come from me.

Dinner – cooked by Mr. Waffle – was reasonably successful although my four year old niece did not eat anything. “You’re not eating,” said Michael anxiously. “Michael, that you of all people should say that…” said her mother. Everyone laughed. Even Michael. He is like his grandmother who really enjoyed small children and was quite fascinated by them. Dinner was a triumph for the cat who after everyone had left the room, leapt up on the table, grabbed the remains of the leg of lamb and made off with it at speed.

There was a rather damp garden Easter egg hunt for my niece. The Easter eggs were small but many and I have never seen her more pleased than when she came in with her bucket of eggs. It was really great to have everyone together again.

The week after Easter, Mr. Waffle and I took ourselves for a walk to Portrane. We went there just as Covid was beginning and it was funny to be there now that it’s – apparently – all over.

I went to see “The Secrets of Dumbledore”. Absolutely no one in the family could face going with me, so I went on my own. At the start, Dumbledore outlines how to outwit Grindelwald: we need last minute plans, overlapping plans, confusing plans. My heart sank a bit as JK Rowling is a woman who likes a convoluted plot without making it an essential part of the plot if you see what I mean. It was alright actually but I do think the whole thing may be beginning to run out of steam.

Over the holidays I took herself to the dentist and then we bought her a ball dress. It took a lot out of both of us (far more than the dental visit which was benign by comparison). Part of the problem was that with her sylph like figure most things looked good on her and she tried on a lot of things. We bought this dress in the end. She is pleased. I hope she continues to be as she will have to get a lot of wear out of it.

I have discovered that she has become a coffee drinker. I suppose as addictive habits you pick up in college go, it could be worse. It’s always really sad when she goes back to England. Usually she’s quite perky but she was glum on this occasion – which made it worse – as she had upcoming exams and she had to unpack all her stuff from storage. Both of these weighed pretty heavily on her mind. She has on campus accommodation which I thought was terrific but it comes with the not inconsiderable downside that she has to pack up all her stuff in three large boxes for every holiday. She says third years have it down pat and only bring a t-shirt to college. For English students their parents can drive them up and down and help them with the packing but she has to do it by herself. Last time she grabbed some unfortunate random young man to help with her boxes. “Where are your parents?” he asked. “They’re not here,” she said (with a touch of bitterness, I’d say). He thought that her parents were dead and was both mortified and sympathetic until the boxes were moved and the matter was cleared up. I am beginning to realise that from now on holidays will be bookended by happy arrivals and gloomy departures. Oh well.

I trust your own Easter was satisfactory.