New acquaintance: And where did your husband go to school?
Me: Jesuit School X.
New acquaintance: Oh lovely, clever, sensitive boys.
I understand that Mr. Waffle’s school produced many chess champions but that they failed to star in rugby.
New acquaintance: And where did your husband go to school?
Me: Jesuit School X.
New acquaintance: Oh lovely, clever, sensitive boys.
I understand that Mr. Waffle’s school produced many chess champions but that they failed to star in rugby.
Our cleaner, A, is from Latvia. The other day he commented on how well herself spoke French. “We used to live in Belgium,” I explained. “How many languages do you speak?” I asked. “Russian and Latvian; I studied German at university but I have nearly forgotten it all now.”
The OECD economic survey of Ireland in 2008 found that “[m]ost migrants are young, well educated and work, but are often in basic jobs.” They’re not kidding.
The house is overrun with animals. Not nice ones. Despite forking out €243 to Mr. Rentokil, we seem to have an above average number of houseflies. So appealing in any property. This did, however, give my loving husband an opportunity to kill a fly in a most satisfactory manner. He was chasing a fly on the landing with our can of useless spray (this is the problem with everything being safe, it’s also useless) and the fly was lolling about in the air soaking up the aromas with no apparent ill effects. The fly was, however, scared of the folded Irish Times that Mr. Waffle was using to supplement the fly spray (“Help, help, the liberal Dublin media, the organ of record is coming to get me with its tales of traffic chaos in the capital”) and flew blindly into a spider’s web and was trapped. Mr. Waffle noted with satisfaction, the spider efficiently bundling up its prey – one fly down. Mr. Waffle had only recently been complaining that the huge number of spiders we have on the payroll had been failing to deliver in terms of fly catching figures and that, going forward, in the absence of improved catching capacity we might have to look at overall spider numbers with a view to effecting savings in the current economic conditions. The memo obviously leaked to the spiders and they are on their mettle.
Meanwhile, we are also fighting a rear-guard action on operation wasp. Despite laying down powder, spraying, putting out a glass of coke for them to drown in and blocking up access to their nest with a highly sophisticated barrier (a combination of an old baby’s bib and tinfoil, since you ask). They are still coming. They buzz around outside hopefully (“They used to live here, they’d never have moved without telling us…call the rest of the gang”) and, increasingly and distressingly, they also buzz around inside the house. Our reluctant conclusion is that there must be some other form of access to the nest from inside the house.
And last, but by no means least, my blog is beset by spammers. At least they can’t sting me, I suppose.
Some time ago we acquired the Pevsner guide to Dublin. It has, obviously, come into its own since our return to the empire’s second city. The author, Christine Casey, is a fantastic writer. She deftly, accurately and sometimes wittily describes the buildings between Dublin’s canals.
Recently we noticed a large mansion in a very run down part of Dublin.
Pevsner told us it was Aldborough House and Dr. Casey introduced it thus: “Above the portico the thoroughly misleading motto Otium cum Dignitate (Leisure with Dignity). This grandiose and yet remarkably dull house is a testament to the inveterate vanity of Edward Augustus Stratford, 2nd Earl of Aldborough.” In describing the house, she says witheringly “The main facade is a traditional Palladian composition in all but proportion.” She includes an “oft quoted but indispensable [contemporary] account by Lady Hardwicke”: “The staircase is richly adorned with paintings. Let one be in your idea a model for the rest. Imagine a large panel occupied by the “Triumph of Amphitrite”personified by Lady Aldborough in a riding habit with Minervas’s helmet, sitting on the knee of Lord Aldborough [then aged 57] in a complete suit of regimentals, Neptune having politely resingned his seat in the car to his Lordship, and contenting himself with the office of coachman to the six well fed tritons. The whole corps of sea-nymphs attend the car in the dress of Nereids! But each, instead of a vocal shell bears in hand a medallion with picture (the head and shoulders as large as life) of and admiral’s wigs, bald heads, crops etc. Think of a whole mansion decorated in theis way.”
See what I mean? Within 20 years of its completion, it was being used as a school (by a Luxemburger – extraordinary no?) and now it is, apparently, very delapidated offices having put in some considerable time as a store house. Which, for all its lack of merit, does seem rather sad.
IKEA has opened in Dublin. The first branch in the Republic of Ireland. The Irish Times ran several articles, there was a play (“Waiting for IKEA” – I am not joking) and the city is filled with those IKEA poster ads. You know the ones I mean. The nation is beside itself with excitement. It was discussed extensively at a dinner party in our house last Saturday night. I flaunted my superior knowledge of IKEA and its products (the Billy bookcase, the Expedit shelves, the Malm drawers, the inedible meatballs) until my husband glared at me and said “Yes, Anne knows all about Swedish flat packed furniture” and I was suitably quashed. I was also slightly amazed that none of our other guests had been to the establishment which supplied a depressing quantity of our furniture. They were excited and enthusiastic about IKEA and its works. Not quite as excited as the Irish Times on Saturday which observed:
Those who have not before ventured into an Ikea outlet are likely to be gobsmacked by their visit. It’s not just the scale of the store, but the sweep of its ambition. Ikea stores have more in common with attractions such as zoos or large garden centres than shops; they are destinations for a day out, where cheap and cheerful eating and putting the kids in the creche are as important as the shopping.
Still, I understand the enthusiasm from my superior perch. When I moved to Belgium for the second time in 1998, I had to buy furniture. I fell in love with IKEA. So cheap, so handy, so beautiful. As the years went by, I fell out of love, so cheaply made, so challenging to assemble and so exactly like what everyone else has. As my ultimate ambition becomes to get rid of all my IKEA furniture and replace it with slightly more unusual things I can find elsewhere, my contemporaries are desperate to hand over their hard earned cash to the Swedish giant. I am enjoying the feeling of smugness that accompanies me everywhere. I said proudly to my husband the other day, “I will never cross the threshold of IKEA in Dublin.” “Mmm,” he said, “did you say that we needed a big plastic box on wheels to store the boys’ train sets in? I wonder where we would find something like that?” “Trapped like a trap in a trap,” as Dorothy Parker would say.
The other day while I was languishing at home on my sick bed, two lovely old men from the Legion of Mary called to the door. God help them, the catholic religion is a bit of a hard sell in Dublin these days.