belgianwaffle

Ireland

Like a Trap in a Trap*


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

As I was walking home from mass last Sunday I was somewhat behind the main posse as the boys had cycled ahead with their father and my sister and herself were walking ahead together. This man I knew vaguely from mass came up to me and introduced himself. I felt like a little antelope cut off from the herd. My instincts were not at fault.

“We’re having a summer party in the church,” he said. “Mmm,” I said non-committally. “Would you like to organise entertainment for the children?” he asked. Oh no, I would not. “I’ll be doing the barbecue,” he said. Of course, I’m on the wretched organising committee, of course I am. He got me in a weak moment as I had just emerged from mass with Fr. Boston who made different bits of the church shout out different things. Those in the transept had to shout “Be Ready” and my sister who lived in Chicago for years alarmed many of the congregation by shouting out with enthusiasm rather than the usual apathy which greets Fr. Boston’s efforts.

I suppose this will make me a better person.

*As Dorothy Parker would say; though not in this context.

Holly Bough


Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

Every year my father reads the Holly Bough from cover to cover on Christmas Day. It’s a Cork publication and the content is, perhaps, not at the cutting edge of journalism. On the cover it describes itself as “A Cork Institution since 1897”. Its articles are full of quirkiness (the girl who was called Tanora – apparently only Cork people know what Tanora is, imagine) and nostalgia. It has several pages of pictures of Cork people in foreign parts holding aloft copies of last year’s Holly Bough. Are you getting a picture here? Nevertheless, I was really very pleased to come home and see that my loving husband had picked me up a copy. My ambition is now to get a picture in it for next year.

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Not a Complete Loss


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland

We went for a walk in the Dublin mountains at the weekend. It was too cold and the children were cranky. Michael managed to give himself a heavy nosebleed by hitting himself hard on the head with a long stick (also ruining the photograph below).

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On the way home, Mr. Waffle dropped me and the boys in town to pick up new shoes for them. By complete co-incidence on the way home we passed the lighting ceremony for a Christmas tree. Attractions included the count down to lighting the tree (mercifully brief), the Lord Mayor, a choir, free hot chocolate and a free merry-go-round. This was populated in part by bused in middle class children wearing mustard hats and pink tights and swaddled in red coats and their anxious parents and in part by entirely unaccompanied local children in track suits having a terrific time on the merry-go-round and milling through the hot chocolate like there was no tomorrow. All surprisingly pleasant though bitterly cold. I think that we may say that the Christmas season has begun.

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New Perspectives


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

An old friend from Brussels came to visit last week. We offered him tea but having spent two days at meetings in Dublin, he uttered words to the effect of “God, no, please, no more tea.”

He is a very kind, gentle English man and as we took him around our neighbourhood he became visibly concerned for us. I pointed out the house nearby where there was a particularly nasty murder some years ago (now part of a derelict terrace). Earlier Mr. Waffle had taken him to a famous public building where he was able to enjoy those special lights in the toilets which stop people being able to see their veins (think about that for a minute there). We talked him through the history of nearby former penal institutions. He remained determinedly upbeat and said how these fine old Georgian structures could be very successfully re-developed citing an old prison in Oxford which is now a chic hotel. We took him to a local pub which is very, ahem, traditional. I think, however, something may have snapped when he nearly stepped on a surprisingly large dead rat which was frozen on its back in rigor mortis (or perhaps cold) with its little paws still in the air.

It’s lovely here really. Very urban.

Again!


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Princess, Work

Could I be losing my mind? Really?

The Princess and I have joined the church choir. Rehearsals are at 7.15 on Thursday. Last Thursday, I hared home from work. I stopped off at home and picked up herself and we ran up to the church. The choir is composed of two elements. The first element consists of those who were auditioned and joined many years ago when the catholic church was a force to be reckoned with and the choir director was a successful professional singer who was never ever addressed by her first name. They can all sing and read music and are quite elderly. The second element consists of more recent additions who are willing to come to rehearsals.

I scurried into the pew. The nice lady beside me said, “You know, I think you’re an alto; the altos sit over there”. I went to the next pew where three rather frail but charming ladies made me welcome. “Are you sure you’re not a soprano?” they asked. “No,” I said with quiet confidence. I buried myself among them and tried to sing along. In case you don’t know this either, let me tell you now; the sopranos sing the tune and the altos make them sound nice by singing something completely different. I was all at sea and the lady beside pointed helpfully to the alto line in the music. I was forced to whisper, “I’m afraid I can’t read music.” She was visibly startled but said kindly, “I’m sure you’re doing the best with what God has given you, dear.” She had to run off at 8.00 to go home to her husband who had a carer until then. I was then doomed as she had a nice strong voice I could row in behind. The director had me come and sing near the piano. Never a good sign, I think you’ll agree.

The Princess meanwhile was doing fine by dint of standing beside her friend who has a really lovely voice and, like me, rowing in behind but with considerably more success. She was quite pleased with herself.

We got home about 9. Mr. Waffle said to me, “Did you remember the car?” “No,” I said, “we actually walked up.” “No, remember you drove to work?” he said. Oh woe. And I had had to fly home on a Dublin bike in the wet and would have loved to take the car which was waiting patiently in the office car park. I had to get the tram back in and rescue it. Can you believe that this is the second time I have done this in six weeks?

By the time I came home with the car, the Princess had been sick. She proceeded to get sick repeatedly until 4 in the morning when she dozed off. The poor child was actually green. I have never seen that before in real life. I stayed at home with her the next morning and she was almost recovered and by that evening she was fine. But really it made for a somewhat stressful 24 hours.

Is it any wonder I’m losing my mind?

Cultural Differences


Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Twins, Youngest Child

It is the end of GAA training until after Christmas. The young men from the under 8s are invited to a Christmas party. Last Saturday was the deadline for paying for the party. I brought my money dutifully. Another mother whom I know from our time soldiering together on the side of the pitch arrived rather late and handed over her money and appeared to be scurrying away again. “Are you off already?” I asked in surprise. “Yes,” she said, “[the GAA under 8 boy] and his sister are both sick in bed.” And off she went, looking quite harassed. When I related this to Mr. Waffle we both marvelled at the trouble that she had gone to and as one said, “Of course, she’s English.” Later in the week the inevitable email arrived: 57 boys have been signed up for the party but only 36 have paid, can the others bring their money on the day?