belgianwaffle

Dublin

Surprised by June


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

Every year, I am astounded by June.

It’s bright almost 24 hours a day and the weather is lovely. All the roses come out. The garden becomes out of control.

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Disclaimer: This is not my garden but look at the verdant foliage. It’s on the way to school in the morning.

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Further disclaimer: This is manifestly not my garden and is, in fact, in Cork. But it makes the verdant foliage point strongly.

Meanwhile, at work, I realise that I am taking leave over the summer and throw myself into all the things that must be completed by end June. The bitter discovery when I return in September that they are no further advanced is not foremost in my mind in June. This June is worse than usual as I am supposed to be moving to a new role in September. Then we have a cyclical high profile event in June which requires constant vigilance and somehow, no matter how well prepared for (and, trust me here, it is really well prepared for), June itself always throws up a couple of crises.

Locally, the church garden party and the street party always happen in June. We had the church garden party at the weekend. I manned the sumo wrestling stand. No joke I can tell you.

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The street party is yet to come but I see a starring role for the Waffles as Mr. Waffle is chair of the residents’ committee.

Sort of related, herself has been baking like a demon. She made pretzels and brownies for the church garden party (the cream of the latter reserved for her London aunt who was in town for the weekend).

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Recently she has also made grissini, brioche and, only this evening, crumpets. What are we to make of this?

Meanwhile, at school, there is frenetic activity: school tours, school sports day, graduation (from primary school!) and obligations like finding pillowslips (for the sack race) and funding in coins of small denominations at short notice. In fact, herself had an overnight school tour last week. They went to an adventure centre in Wicklow and had an amazing time: swimming, canoeing, midnight hiking; and just running around. Unfortunately, I forgot to tell the childminder that she wouldn’t be coming home on Thursday and he and the boys waited patiently outside the school for her until he got hold of Mr. Waffle who was able to clarify. For the amusement of non-Irish readers, see items 1 and 2 on the list of what she had to bring.

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Also associated with the end of the school year are various presents which must be purchased and offered to teachers as appropriate.

The GAA goes into overdrive with a summer mini-tournament almost all the time. Poor Daniel is practically always running out the door with a hurley in his hand or returning pink faced and exhausted. Nor are scouts showing the slightest sign of let up. Michael went to the park this evening and returned filthy but happy.

And poor Mr. Waffle is away again, so I am keeping the home fires burning (metaphorically only, it is sweltering for Dublin, it may have been 20 degrees today).

All this to say, posting may continue to be light in June.

Oh, and happy Bloomsday, if that is your thing. Maybe, this year I will finally read “Ulysses”. If you have done so, please indicate whether you found it even slightly readable.

Ceremony of Light


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Princess

A couple of weeks ago by way of preparation for the Confirmation, we had the ceremony of light. As Mr. Waffle observed, sardonically, there was no ceremony of light when we were children but there didn’t seem to be any difficulty in confirming us in its absence.

Nevertheless, we dutifully trooped in to the church for our ceremony. The children’s teacher had them drilled to within an inch of their lives and they were absolutely brilliant. Even children who I know to have been consummate messers for the past seven years, totally delivered the goods. This is also a tribute to their ruthless but effective teacher.

Normally all religious ceremonies for the school are carried out by the same priest who is a saint and speaks excellent Irish. Unfortunately, he had to withdraw and another Irish speaking priest had to be found which is no joke at short notice. A priest was found (he was a Capuchin and to the delight of younger members of the congregation, he remarked that he was in his Jedi robes) and he confessed that his Irish was ropey. He wasn’t joking and it was very decent of him to step into the breach but it served to further underline how really excellent the children were at their lines and how comfortable they were with their Irish.

All very gratifying.

In the mildly amusing, secular Ireland goes to mass category, I offer you the following:

Herself baffled her classmates by genuflecting in the church. They had never seen anyone do this before (really, really?)

I overheard one of the other children describe the priest as the Pope. I think not.

Palm Sunday


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Twins, Youngest Child

Today is Palm Sunday. A fact I had forgotten until I entered the church this morning and Michael began loudly complaining when he saw the size of the missalette. “It’s three times longer than normal,” he hissed. “That means mass will last three hours.”

While it didn’t last three hours, it certainly was grand and long. The priest read the first gospel (which I think is not compulsory), he read the longer version of the long gospel (you know the one, it’s the miniature passion play) and then, crowning indignity, he gave a sermon which is normally unheard of on Passion Sunday. The elderly lady in the pew in front fainted. A group of older mentally handicapped people who were behind us made noise throughout the mass much of it mournful. One could hardly blame them. At communion, one of them ran up to the altar scattering pensioners in her wake; it was a difficult Sunday for the pensioners.

As our neighbour’s teenage daughter came down from communion, Mr. Waffle asked whether I thought her top was entirely appropriate for mass. She was wearing a pink hoodie and it was only when she passed me that I saw that the legend on the back was: “Hockey is my religion.”

It was that kind of Sunday. How was your own weekend?

Rockin’ the Suburbs


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Reading etc., Work

Last week, I was having a cup of tea with a colleague and she mentioned that she was going to see Ben Folds perform at the American ambassador’s residence. Who was he? Did I have any idea?* “Oh yes,” I gushed, “I love Ben Folds!” I was slightly overstating my enthusiasm, I mean I had bought an album and I’d been to a concert but that was before my children were born. And then, I’m not really a music person (insert gasp of outrage here).

Anyhow, my colleague was adamant that I should go and went to the trouble of asking her contact in the embassy to send me a ticket. It seemed churlish to point out that the night of the concert, last Friday, really didn’t suit me. Mr. Waffle was away and I was busy at work. I arranged for a babysitter to come to the house at 5.45, intending to peel off early from work and be at home at 5.30 to see off childminder and ready at 5.45 to welcome babysitter.

Regrettably at 5.45, I was sitting in a meeting, squirming in my seat. Meanwhile the babysitter had arrived at home and finding the house in darkness (childminder and children late home from school, not part of my calculations), texted Mr. Waffle (at that point in Heathrow) and me. Mr. Waffle texted me and generally, I was feeling a bit under pressure. My boss of bosses, who is a kindly soul with young children asked whether I needed to leave. Gratefully, I said that I did and he said we could talk on Saturday which, frankly, didn’t fill either of us with joy, but was very welcome at that moment.

As I was going down to the garage, the babysitter called. She and the childminder were exchanging posts. I spoke to the childminder, “Would he pick up the timetable for his hours for mid-term on the hall table?” He would. I got home, kissed the children, ordered Domino’s pizza and ran out the door again.

So, frankly, Mr. Folds would really have to deliver the goods to make it all worthwhile. And it was so worthwhile. The Ambassador’s residence is lovely. The President and his wife turned up from their house across the road, adding to the sense of occasion. There were only about 100 of us there. It was recorded live for the radio (listen here, if you fancy) and the session was delightful. Not just the live part but the impromptu tunes in the commercial breaks and the numbers that Ben Folds did afterwards for the audience. I was enchanted. I don’t know when I have enjoyed a musical occasion more. I had to leave immediately after the performance as I was collecting Mr. Waffle from the airport so, just pausing to cram some of the ambassador’s delicious canapés in my mouth (insert your own Ferrero Rocher joke here), I ran out the door. I gave up an opportunity to chat to the great man, but Mr. Waffle was suitably grateful. And I got a signed poster which I am half thinking of framing and putting up on the wall like a teenager.

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*Obviously Ben Folds, not the American ambassador. Don’t be pedantic. Although that is what I love about you.

Cycling


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Ireland

Cork has got a city bike scheme like Dublin and it is extremely convenient for me as I can now zoom into town from my parents’ house. The bikes have cute gears too:

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But what really impresses is the effort that has been put into building up a dedicated cycling infrastructure around the city. There are lots of cycle lanes with a curb to stop cars pulling in with their hazards blinking. There are contraflow lanes. It is terrific. In Dublin, I cycle home from work 5 days a week by an admittedly busy route. It is served by a cycle lane most of the way and I have NEVER completed the journey without having to pull out into fast moving traffic to avoid several cars parked in the cycle lane. I would love to see greater enforcement and dedicated cycle lanes that you would need to take your chassis off to park in.

Did I tell you that I am half thinking of joining the Dublin Cycling Campaign?

Is There Snow in the Mountains?


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Family, Ireland

You can see the Dublin mountains from our front garden. Every morning for the past couple of weeks, I have asked the (keener sighted than me) children, “Is there snow in the mountains?” Often there is and I would so love to get up there and look at the snow but the rest of the family are less keen.

When I was growing up, my mother would often say, “I love natural phenomena.” I can remember, as a small child standing by the window in the dark after the electricity had been cut in a storm. We had lit candles and I was watching the lightening with my parents and my mother was delighted. It’s funny how you turn into your parents, isn’t it?

Last weekend I was in Cork and when I came back, herself said to me, rather heartlessly, “You should have seen the mountains, it was like the Alps up there.”

In related news, the children and I walked in to school in the snow last week. It was horrible, cold, sleety snow that didn’t stick but they twirled around in it, crowing in delight.

And it was definitely very cold:

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