Trinity College Dublin is re-branding an event which the Irish Times is covering in tedious and unnecessary detail.
In other news, a man drove into the gates of Trinity. I notified Mr. Waffle.
From: Me
To: Mr. Waffle
Subject: Cor
Man (68) arrested after car smashes through TCD gates.
In response:
From: Mr. Waffle
To: Me
Subject: Man (68) arrested after car smashes through TCD gates
That’s the gates of “Trinity College, the University of Dublin” to you.
We moved into our new house on April 5, 2013.
Almost every day since, I have thought, how very lucky I am to be living in such a lovely house. As well as that, we have so much more room which has been great for all of us. We can be at home together yet apart.
This is what it was like when we went to view it for the first time:
The boys in what is now their sister’s room. Even as I look at this, I can hear her outraged voice in my head: “People in my room!”
This shot of the garden confirms that we are no good as gardeners. The garden definitely looked much better before we got our hands on it.
This is what it was like in April 2013:
Note cardboard representing utterly futile attempt to save the varnish. Top tip, let the varnish on your floorboards dry before you move in:
Note absence of curtains:
Boxes of books to be unloaded onto already full bookshelves. An issue which remains unresolved. All bookshelves are two books deep and consequently it’s impossible to find anything.
As we got used to living in the house, we found that the views of the garden were delightful. There are three apple trees in the back garden and a large spreading plum tree in the neighbours’ front garden which we get the benefit of.
The Princess and I firmly believed that after our first Christmas in the house it would really be ours. This was proved when Michael visited our old house, which he had left with the greatest reluctance and after half an hour on the premises began to ask when he was going home.
The house was built in 1895 and has all sorts of lovely details like the brass handle on the front door:
The brass stair rods on the stairs (30 euros a riser to buy the carpet fitter told me – you are looking at our retirement fund here):
Needless to say, no brass polishing of any description has taken place. See how the brass fails to glow.
The porcelain door handles:
The pattern on the side of the stairs:
The cornice on a roll and the ceiling roses which are in the main reception rooms and the hall as well as the scary but, frankly delightful light fitting which the builders nearly threw out:
The fantastic fireplaces in the reception rooms downstairs and the master bedroom:
These appear to have been used in lots of houses. To my knowledge, there are several of them on our road. I was surprised, however, to see a picture in the paper of Garret Fitzgerald apparently sitting in front of our fireplace. Obviously, these fireplaces were in use on the other side of the city also.
The quarry tiles in the kitchen which are laid directly on earth and about which, alas, something may yet have to be done.
Obviously, there are things that need to be done (downstairs bathroom, kitchen, utility room, re-varnishing – I’m looking at you for starters) but overall, I love the house and it is delightful to live there. It has increased the sum of my happiness to be in a place which is so appealing and has loads of room for all of us. If you are hoping to move, take heart, the process is quite dreadful but the results are worth it.
You ask what would I like to change? Well, last month I got this text from my husband in relation to the gas bill: “Are you sitting down, it’s €829.05 to be paid by direct debit on 4 March.” It turns out that when the company estimates your bill for a year based on what it cost to heat an empty house or a house with a sole occupant, when they check the actual reading for the year, it can be slightly terrifying. Never mind; summer is coming.
I am spending a certain amount of time in hospitals. As you go in you have to rub disinfectant into your hands. At least once, I have taken the disinfectant and started to bless myself. Is it because hospitals are now like secular cathedrals or is it because I am losing my mind? I suppose the latter is a bit more likely though less poetic.
I had Michael in Cork for the weekend recently. One evening he, my father and I sat down to dinner together. My father is quite deaf. Michael was anxious to return to the iPad. But we were sitting at the dinner table. I was sitting in my mother’s place and perhaps something of her spirit infused me as I strained my (I like to think) not inconsiderable skills as a conversationalist to breaking point.
Me: Michael, ask Granddad what it was like at school when he was a little boy?
Michael (dutiful but indifferent): What was it like at school when you were a little boy, Granddad?
My father: What?
Me (loudly and in the face of Michael’s manifest indifference): He wants to know what it was like at school when you were a little boy.
My father (testily): I can’t remember, it was years ago.
Me (loudly): Michael, you like school, don’t you.
Michael (quietly): No.
My father: What’s that?
Me (loudly): Nothing.
[Several more minutes pass in vain attempts to promote conversation on my part – the other protagonists remain largely indifferent]
Me: Will we excuse Michael?
My father and Michael (in tones of considerable relief): Yes.
The children and I were in Cork this weekend. We went from Kinsale out to Summercove. We visited Charles Fort. This was greeted with reasonable levels of enthusiasm. The nice man at the entrance gave the children a cannon ball to lift and explained in some detail how to load and light a cannon which they enjoyed.
And then we went to the Bulman for lunch. All very satisfactory. Note soulful expression while herself waits for mussels.
The only fly in the ointment was the driving rain that accompanied our walk back to the car. We were passed by a couple of tourists who were readily identifiable by their all enveloping rain gear. Locals like ourselves looked damp and unprepared. [What? Rain? Here? In Cork? Who would ever bring an umbrella on a walk?]
Today was the day the clocks went forward. I wish I had realised this earlier. This morning at 10.15, the Princess and I went to visit my mother in the hospital. I breezily assured my father that we would be back for 11.40 to accompany him and the boys to mass. He looked dubious, as well he might, I realised, in retrospect, as it was 11.15 when I left. No one in my family went to mass today and it was all my fault. Alas.
I was going to bring my mother’s sewing table back to Dublin with me but lost my nerve at the prospect of bringing it and children and luggage. I had a quick look through the contents which included my brother’s report for second year in school, lots of thread, a 70s large capital letter still in its packet that had clearly been destined to be appliquéd to something and this school photo of me when I was about the same age as herself. I am always struck by how alike we look though I think I look considerably less sophisticated than she does.
Michael made me a card for Mother’s Day, herself gave me a paper rose (complex to make, I understand) and Daniel wrote me a poem which he sang aloud despite his embarrassment. Herself said bitterly, “The poem won.” Mr. Waffle said to her, “It’s not a competition; I know you and your mother think everything is a competition but it’s not.” Did you know that Mr. Waffle was brought up by hippies?
Here is the poem*:
I think you are nice even it you have head lice,**
I think you are kind, there’s not a nicer mother I can find,
I think you are calm, I won’t find a calmer person in my whole life span,
I think you’re swell, every time I hear your name it rings a bell,
I think you’re funnier than a magic racing bunny,
I think you’re superb, you’re better than Phinneas and Ferb.
That’s my song done, I hope you have fun.
Goodbye.
*Slightly idiosyncratic spelling and grammar amended.
** Not as far as I am aware but I am feeling slightly paranoid after our recent encounter with lice.
The poem was lovely but so were the rose and the card and the flowers and chocolates Mr. Waffle bought. It turns out that not everything is a competition. I hope that you had a lovely mother’s day.
The Princess is in a mixed 5th/6th class and, as a consequence is experiencing confirmation preparation a year early [she’ll get to do it again next year when she actually makes her confirmation which does not fill me with delight, but, small school: advantages and disadvantages]. For confirmation, children get to pick a confirmation name and this is all very exciting.
Me: What kind of names are the children in your class picking?
Her: Well, D, has chosen Razor.
Me: Razor as in razor blade?
Her: Yes.
Me: What did the teacher say?
Her: There is no St. Razor.
They are also doing lots of religion. Herself said to me that the she, the two atheist children and the Protestant child have been told that they are to stop answering questions put to the class. I was very indignant until she explained that they had been answering all the questions and the teacher wanted to give other children a chance. To no avail according to herself as, confirmation class or no, none of them seem to know anything about the Bible or catechism or indeed religion. Catholics, we’re not great on knowing the details of our religion; we’re more broad brush people.
When the teacher put the 10 commandments on the board and asked whether anyone knew them. No one, except for the foursome, did. Is this not a little surprising? The teacher explained them to the class [more necessary in an Irish medium school, I suppose]. “How did she get on with adultery?” I asked. “She stopped before she got there and said we’d come back to it tomorrow, but, I don’t think she will,” she said sagely. I suppose, if they can cover even 5 of the 10 commandments it will be a triumph given the low base from which they started. And to think that for my confirmation [or, possibly, even my communion – it’s all a bit of a blur now] I knew a little yellow catechism off by heart [Did anyone else have this catechism?]. We were told that if we didn’t we wouldn’t be allowed to make our confirmations. I now suspect that was a lie. We were told that the previous year a child had failed to answer the question “Who is God?*” correctly [as in word for word from the catechism] when the parish priest visited and she had not been allowed to make her confirmation. This [false, I now realise] tale was much discussed and focussed our minds on accurate memorisation.
*God is our father in heaven, the most wonderful person ever.