The other night we were awoken by frantic knocking at 1.30. It was the security men who patrol the institution nearby, someone had broken our car window and the neighbour’s camper van. They had got away with a set of jump leads and Mr. Waffle’s glasses. So, a great haul then. The poor gardai came at 2.30 am. Mr. Waffle took the car to be repaired the following day. It was covered by insurance and done in an hour. Hurrah, finally a return on the approximately 20,000€, I have spent on insurance over the years.
Dublin
A-r-t-i-c-u-l-a-t-e
Daniel speaks exceptionally clearly and quite loudly. Grown-ups always understand him. This has its drawbacks.
The other day Mr. Waffle met a little old lady who chucked Daniel under the chin. To his father’s mortification, he said to her clearly and reproachfully, “You hurted me.”
Shortly afterwards I was cycling with Daniel in our edgy/urban/ rough (delete as appropriate) neighbourhood and saw two small children (maybe 3 and 18 months) playing on the main road. A quiet main road but certainly a main road. As I toiled up the hill , they fell over together and lay spread out and bawling. I stopped the bike, took Daniel off, went over, took them off the road, dusted them down, made comforting noises and asked, “Where are your Mummy and Daddy?” No very coherent answer was made but shortly a large man came around the corner and grabbed them roughly. I made bleating “no harm done they seem to be fine” type noises. He was joined by his partner. Both of them seemed slightly out of it and they yelled at the children (who ignored them – a constant across socio-economic groups, apparently). At no point did either of them address me. I mounted my trusty steed and peddled slowly off (it was hilly). Daniel, speaking loudly and, of course, clearly said from his perch behind “Mummy those people were very rude, they didn’t answer you when you spoke to them.” I pedalled more quickly.
Gasping consumer
According to the Irish Times and RTE news, Tesco are squeezing out Irish suppliers. Barry’s Tea will no longer be readily
available on the shelves. It will be replaced by Tetley and Typhoo. Excellent brands in their way, I am sure, but not for me.
We decided to explore other options for our shopping. At the weekend, Mr. Waffle went to Lidl. I now understand that their employment practices are suspect, so we will not be going back. Further, while Tesco may be cutting back on Irish products, apparently Lidl has none at all. Mr. Waffle said it was like shopping abroad. There was a whole range of alien products and he didn’t know the layout of the supermarket. This impression was enhanced by the fact that the weather was fine and everyone had shed all outer layers in favour of flip flops
and beach wear. Lidl is therefore out.
Other than Tesco and Lidl, we live a fairish way from a supermarket. Should I ignore my principles and starting drinking Typhoo tea? Is that like taking the soup?
Dismal Weekend Summary
Friday: Was able to observe the democratic process up close in Cork (where my mother was allowed to vote despite failing to produce polling card or identification on the basis that Mr. O’Rourke, who was responsible for ticking her name off the list knew her – didn’t he live aound the corner and didn’t his wife play bridge with my aunt on Tuesdays and where had I been, he hadn’t seen me around in a long time) and Dublin (polling card and ID please).
Saturday: GAA rained off (bizarre and practically unprecedented, the point of the GAA is that you should be wet and miserable). Quick tea with other rained out parents. Princess hysterical at sight of school friend. V. mortifying. Rain continued belting down all day. Deeply unsatisfactory trip to the Chester Beatty museum where the Princess sulked and refused to look at any of the beautiful books. She did, however, watch with interest a DVD on making paper and insist that Mr. Waffle take notes for her to use later. Hired a baby sitter to come to the house that evening (still lashing). Went to a pub to hear comedy only to discover wrong evening. Went to nearby hotel for restorative cup of tea where Slovakian waiter compared Irish weather to April in his country when the weather is always unpredictable. I think that he is missing home.
Sunday: We went to Smithfield horse fair. It’s a monthly horse market in the centre of the city and Mr. Waffle reckons that it will be gone by the time the children have grown up so they should see it. All a bit too authentic really, the horses were sad looking or vicious or both. Men from the ISPCA were roaming the square. We asked a nice young fella holding a small horse, if we could rub it and he said we should find a quieter one. The horse was four years old and it hadn’t got a name. The children were terrified of hooves and I saw one horse foaming at the mouth (hot, rabid, scared of the trap behind? who knows?). We took ourselves off to the quieter environs of Collins Barracks. Much quieter, since the museum didn’t open until 2 and it was now only 12. More cutbacks, I suppose. Home for lunch and afterwards wrestled with the wretched creeper thing which is taking over the garden. Sigh. At least it stopped raining.
The Cunning of the Law
Nice (slightly elderly) Garda: You can’t put your bicycle there. Put it across the road instead.
Me: OK.
Him: That’s a lovely bike.
Me: Thank you. I’m really enjoying cycling in the fine weather. Usually, I’m very unlucky and my bike is stolen at the start of the spring and I don’t get around to buying a new one until autumn.
Him: I have the same bike for 32 years.
Me: Really?
Him: Yes.
Me: How come it was never stolen? What’s your secret?
Him: It’s 32 years old.
Bring on the oil crisis
The weather was spectacular this weekend. It was undoubtedly the finest June bank holiday weekend I can remember. It’s going to be a heatwave summer again. Like 1977! I certainly hope so as we will be holidaying in Ireland this year and Ireland in the rain is glum though sadly typical.
This weekend, things went our way. We went to the Dublin docklands festival. We arrived at the right time and we didn’t have to queue for anything, even ice cream. We investigated the Jeanie Johnston, the world’s most expensive replica ship for which every man, woman and child in the country will have to make a contribution ad infinitem. We also looked over the Loth Lorien (no sniggering, the owner’s other ship is called the J.R.R. Tolkien) from Amsterdam where I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in 20 years (“the man with three children and the strong Cork accent” guessed Mr. Waffle).
Me: Bernard, how are you, it’s Anne.
Princess: Can we go up here?
B: Anne, how lovely to see you.
One of his small children legs it for the rigging.
Me: Are these all your children?
Princess: Can we go up here NOW?
B: Rescues small child from rigging, admonishes another says yes.
Me: What are you doing now?
Princess: I AM climbing up here.
Him: In the bank. And you?
Me: Get down and wait one minute.
Him: Flails after small children.
Me: Well, nice to see you.
Him: Yes, lovely to see you too.
I suppose having small children does fill in those gaps in conversation that inevitably arise when you meet old acquaintances.
Following my mother’s slightly puritanical but ultimately rewarding rule, we left when we were enjoying ourselves most and were able to look back on a very successful outing.
Then on Monday, we took ourselves off to Brittas Bay for the day. The last time I went to an Irish beach, it was all Irish people. The migrant population has certainly made us look less like a nation of milk bottles. It was extraordinary. Firstly, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I don’t think I have ever seen this in Ireland before. In fact, when I went on holidays with my parents, my mother used to drive my father insane by pining for cloudy skies “Don’t you get tired of these endless blue skies,” she would lament. Secondly, the beach was heaving. You had to step around people. I have never seen an Irish beach so crowded in my life. Thirdly, everyone in Ireland seems to boast a tattoo. Fourthly, almost everyone in Ireland is overweight. All very pleasant all the same. We bought ice cream in the car park and the man in the ice cream van told me that they had run out 5 times the day before and that the following day, he would be buying himself a porsche (people need fuel to keep up their bulk, you know).
The children enjoyed themselves as did we though, despite the hot sand and cloudless blue skies, the water was absolutely perishing (some things never change).