belgianwaffle

Dublin

It’s Been Busy


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

Well there’s been the Brexit thing and I find myself utterly rivetted by the excitement across the water.

Then, we sold our old house. We had been renting it out but when we were no longer in negative equity, we felt it would be advisable to sell up and repay some of our current mortgage [sale closed on the day of the Brexit vote which is probably good in retrospect but utterly coincidental]. Mr. Waffle did all the heavy lifting including dealing with the estate agent and the solicitor.

We decided to sell through Felicity Fox because I liked the look of their ads (I have been looking at house for sale ads since I was a small child, I’m a connoisseuse) and because I liked the idea of supporting a woman who had gone out on her own in the rather masculine-led world of Dublin estate agents*. We had no contact with Felicity herself but it all passed off peacefully and speedily. After we sold the house, the estate agent turned up with a thank you card and a bottle of prosecco which I thought was pretty good. I am easily impressed. My solicitor said, “That’s what you get, if you go with a fancy South side estate agent.” I am not entirely sure that this is true.

The day before the sale closed, I got a call from the solicitor who is a friend of mine from college. In the course of the conversation, I realised just how much of the work my loving husband had done. The conversation went as follows.

Her: This is a bit awkward, but just checking that you know that you’re due to close on the sale of your old house tomorrow.
Me: Yes, of course.
Her: It’s just that I haven’t spoken to you or had anything in writing from you throughout the transaction [we witnessed the documents at home in front of another solicitor because I couldn’t get in to her office during the day] and I wanted to check that you weren’t buried under the patio slabs.

*No favours etc were given for this endorsement. Unfortunately.

Hoist with my own Petard


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

We have a French priest in the parish. After months of missing him, I finally got to chat to him in French one Sunday after mass. Since he was French, he was utterly indifferent and unsurprised by my knowledge of the French language but I felt a (probably sinful) sense of smugness.

Then a couple of weeks afterwards, the Princess and I met him in mufti on the street just after emerging from mass (which had been said by the parish priest not him, keep up there). He started chatting away to us in French and, I suppose, understandably enough, asked how mass was. “Fine, fine,” I said vaguely. “What were the readings?” he asked. Whatever hope I might have had of dredging up vague memories of the readings in English, I had none at all in French. An awkward silence followed. “How was the sermon?” he asked filling the gap. Alas, I had no idea and no recollection of that either. There’s a moral here somewhere, I feel.

Weekends – Rounded up


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

We have had my niece’s communion. Looking at pictures of her Christening, we discovered to our horror that Mr. Waffle is her godfather. How many extra special presents has she got from her godfather to date in her young life? None as both he and I had completely forgotten that this was the case. I note that at one point in 2008 I was definitely aware of this but it seems to have slipped my mind in the interim. Well, we know now, I suppose. The following weekend, I also attended the school communion as Daniel was singing in the choir and he wanted me to stay and listen (and very good they were too). Nevertheless, I am a bit communioned out.

A couple of weeks ago, we went out to look at the bird sanctuary on Bull Island and took our binoculars and wellingtons. The children all enjoyed wading about the mudflats until, inevitably really, about half an hour after our arrival, one of them fell over and covered himself with that particularly gloopy, smelly mud which is typical of that kind of environment. As I tried to clean Michael off with a muddy sock rescued from the bottom of his mud-filled wellington, I realised that we had no option but to return home. We did.

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One weekend, we cycled for miles along the canal and saw a heron and, I think, a gannet.

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We cycled out along the seafront on Clontarf yesterday which was a moderately successful outing though slightly hair-raising in parts. It was nice on the sea front and in the park where there was segregated cycling provision. Otherwise not so much.

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Will Dublin ever get decent joined up cycling lanes? There are times when I slightly despair about how cyclist and pedestrian hostile the city is. I suppose it can only improve. Right?

The Butcher’s Dilemma


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

It is the season of the street parties, fetes, school parties and garden parties.

The local Educate Together school is having a barbecue on the same day as the church garden party.

Our local butcher who gives generously to all local causes was approached for a loan of his barbecue by the ET school before the parish council could beat a path to his door. In the absence of the butcher’s barbecue, ours was inspected and deemed a worthy substitute. At mass on Sunday, however, I was told that it was no longer needed as the butcher had sourced another barbecue for the church garden party. There’s a man with keen commercial sense.

More History Than We Can Consume Locally*


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

This year it has been all about 1916 and the decade of centenaries. Since 1916 is only just out of living memory for most families, there is still a lot of memorabilia knocking about in attics, under the stairs and under the beds and stories from that time which have been passed down a couple of generations. I recently got a load of stuff from my parents’ house which I may tell you about another day when I am feeling stronger.

My favourite story remains that of my mother-in-law. Her mother was a young girl during the revolutionary period and came home to where she lived in the flats (always a hot bed of rebellion etc.) to find the Black and Tans parked outside and the building cordoned off. She went to go in saying to the soldier on the door, “I have to go in, there are soldiers in my house.” “Aha,” said he, “how do you know it’s your house?” “Because it’s always our house,” she said wearily.

*Stolen from Saki: “The people of Crete unfortunately make more history than they can consume locally.” This is equally true of Ireland.

New House – Third Anniversary


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

I am not planning to say this every year, really, but, in April, it was three years since we moved into the new house and it continues to make me very happy. I love our house. The garden is not huge; it’s a small city garden, but it is green and pleasant, if slightly overgrown:

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The reception rooms are really beautiful and although we have an exciting curtain/sofa/rug combination which is perhaps a little jarring, we will fix it in time. Though I was quite pleased with my London sister in law today as she a) admired the rug and b) said that contrasting colours and textures are very fashionable in London. Frankly, if it is in this particular way, I will eat my hat, but I was somewhat gratified nonetheless.

Look arty Japanese branch arrangement:
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Our old house has finally come out of negative equity and we are selling it. If someone buys it, we might get that new sofa.