belgianwaffle

Dublin

Bitter, Bitter, Bitter is the Lemon to the Fritter


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

It was my birthday on March 10 and on March 9, Mr. Waffle took me to a nice restaurant for dinner. It was filled with tables of older women and we and 4 or 5 other couples were in an alcove away from the main restaurant. I asked our waiter who the women were (IFUW was my initial thought). “They are,” he announced proudly, “the mothers of the rugby players.” Scotland were to play Ireland the following day. We looked dubious, this seemed unlikely. Seeing our expressions he added, “Possibly also the grandmothers.” It was later explained that these were the wives or rugby officials. Clearly an older cohort. And that was all fine and dandy until they got our their guitars (I kid you not) and started belting out 70s numbers (“Torn Between Two Lovers, “Leaving on a Jet Plane”) as well as, of course, “Flower of Scotland” and the ever unappealing “Ireland’s Call”.

Alas, fair maiden.

Activities


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

We went to visit the President’s House. The children threw pebbles in his fountain.

005

We went to the zoo. We saw some animals but we spent most of our time in the playground. The African grasslands closed at 4.30 so we missed the lions. Alas. At €45 to get in, that’s the most expensive playground I’ve been to in a while.

IMG_0396

Oh dear.

Heartwarming


Posted in: Dublin

At my tennis coaching, a new Polish coach turned up. As we chatted before training he mentioned that he had been playing in a match at the weekend but had lost. “Oh dear,” we said sympathetically. “Well, I had not played for 16 years,” he said in the frank manner of Poles of my acquaintance. Seeing that his new class looked less than entirely entranced with this piece of information, he explained his remark:

I was in Ireland working in construction but then my job disappeared [like so many others, alas] but I was stuck here [again, the Polish frankness], I have an Irish wife and baby, what was I to do? I went to FÁS [the employment and training agency] and they asked me what I could do. They had nothing for me. “Are you any good at sport?” I said no and they said, “Pity, because we need tennis coaches.” Then, I said, actually, I played in Silesia from 6 to 14 when I started playing adult leagues because I was too good for the kids leagues [Poles are not big believers in false modesty either in my experience] and I got sick of it. So, they said great, I re-trained as a tennis coach and here I am. And, I have to say, he was absolutely terrific. I really admire people who turn around and find a new career and I am so glad that he didn’t head back to Poland with his wife and baby because, God knows, we need the coaching.

This Week’s Theme is… Leprosy


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Princess

I got a book about madness out of the library last weekend. The first chapter deals with leper houses and I was talking to herself about this. Don’t tell me you don’t torture your children in similar ways. A lengthy discussion followed about the symptoms of leprosy. Then about leper colonies and how there is a Dublin suburb called “Leopardstown” because the land was used to fund a lepers’ hospital. The following day we visited Dublinia [we had tickets saved from a promotion on milk bottles – are you getting a picture of our home life?] In the, always popular, death and diseases bit there was a wax figure of a leper.

Then today at mass, the readings and the gospel featured -oh yes- leprosy. Herself was listening closely because she was up on the altar doing a try out for altar girl (successful). And the priest was fresh back from his visit to a leper colony in Africa so we covered that in the sermon.

There may be a lesson here somewhere but you’ll have to work it out for yourself.

We’re Alive!


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

During dinner this evening, the carbon monoxide alarm went off for the first time ever. It’s very loud. My ears are still ringing. As Mr. Waffle wrestled with it, Michael kept posing questions through the ringing and things became a little tetchy. The alarm instructions (which, yes, we had to hand, OCD and its many uses) advised that we go outside and leave all the windows and doors open while we called the emergency services. We might well have done that had it been summer and not quite so rainy. Instead we stayed indoors, put the children to bed and later consulted the internet.

You will be relieved to hear that we’ve turned off all gas appliances (last serviced in October for heaven’s sake) and are sitting in the cold. Having re-checked with our original alarm and the spare (your point? it was sitting waiting in its packaging for this moment), all seems to be well now. However, a man will have to be summoned before we can put on the gas fired central heating, the cooker or the gas fire. Alas. I will be retiring to bed early with a hot water bottle.

Mr. Waffle (installer of the carbon monoxide alarms) is mildly triumphant. But he doesn’t feel the cold. Still, if you have gas appliances, I should, I suppose, take this opportunity to suggest that you invest in a carbon monoxide alarm.

This is What Living in Ireland is Like


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Ireland

Me: I see there’s a reference to you in that new book by [mildly famous person].
Friend M: I am so mortified.
Me: I didn’t even know you knew her, how do you know her?
Friend M: Through Anna.*
Me: Who’s Anna now?
Friend M: She’s the woman who was married to J before Mr. Waffle’s friend C.
Me (to my mother who was listening): Oh you know C, Mum, she’s the younger daughter of Mrs. H who taught me in Senior Infants.

*Names changed to protect the innocent.