belgianwaffle

Ireland

Letting Go – A Bit


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess

The Princess got the bus home from school alone the other day. She managed it without difficulty. And she was absolutely delighted with herself.

When I was her age, I was frankly not delighted to get the bus home from school as it was a dreary part of my routine [not so much the bus ride really but waiting forever for it to arrive]. But when I was her age there were a gang of unaccompanied children getting the bus home every day. Furthermore, on my bus route the chances of meeting alcoholics or strung out junkies was close to nil. Her bus route on the other hand does offer these options from time to time. On the other hand, people are kind and she is sensible. I asked whether anyone spoke to her. “Yes,” she said, “the bus driver asked me whether I was on my own and a nice woman talked to me when I sat down upstairs.” What you might expect really.

This daring action was inspired by Mr. Waffle who felt (correctly) that she was well able for it and I was sustained by thoughts of this woman who described her child as being “ecstatic with independence” after riding the New York subway. Well, that’s how my girl felt too though I don’t think that she’s ready to tackle the NY subway just yet.

Healthy Exercise


Posted in: Family, Ireland

The weekend before last we climbed the Sugar Loaf again. The children ran up and down. I struggled behind them as best I could. I was still stiff on Wednesday. Views from the top are still lovely though.

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Miscellaneous Cork News


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

I went to Cork for my parents’ anniversary. I was alone. Very exciting. My mother and I went for a walk in Kinsale. The weather was beautiful.

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We had a family dinner where my aunt told us about how, as a young woman, she and a friend went to Torquay on holidays. They were desperate to see the News of the World which was not then available in Ireland. They promptly went the newsagent’s and bought the News of the World, the Observer and the Catholic Herald. As the newsagent said, that’s not a combination you see very often.

We bought my parents an iPad for their anniversary. So far they seem wary but broadly positive.

I decided to bring my Great Aunt Cecelia’s Persian rug back to Dublin with me as my parents have taken it up to stop themselves tripping over it and killing themselves. Given my reputation my mother said anxiously, “You can have it, but you’re not to throw it out.” I promised not. I imagined it transforming my room, a bit like in “The Little Princess”:

This is what she saw. In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream seemed changed into fairyland– and it was flooded with warm light, for a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.

It didn’t quite meet those, admittedly stringent, criteria but I like it as does the cat:

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That is all.

Thank You for Pushing my Boundaries


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Reading etc.

That’s what my husband said to me in tones of mild bitterness earlier this evening. We went to see “The Boys of Foley Street” in the Dublin Theatre Festival. It was very hard to get tickets. This difficulty was explained when the tickets arrived with an explanatory note that there were only four audience members for each show. I was unnerved. Mr. Waffle said acidly, “I bet there’s going to be audience participation.” He was right.

Then I got this email:

Dear Anne,

Thank you for your recent booking of tickets to The Boys of Foley Street as part of Dublin Theatre Festival.

I am getting in touch with you now to let you know that since you made the booking we have learned that the production contains scenes of sexual violence. As this is a new piece and constantly evolving, we were not aware of this at the time of your booking. We want our audiences to enjoy every Festival show they attend and we felt it was important to update you so that you would have all the information available on the production.

We advise that The Boys of Foley Street is not suitable for patrons under 16 years of age, and that the production contains material that some may find disturbing.

Should you have any queries or concerns on the content of this material I would be happy to discuss these further with you.

Kind regards,

Box Office Manager
Dublin Theatre Festival

I have to say that my enthusiasm levels hit record lows. As Mr. Waffle and I trudged through the rain to the venue, I feared the worst. We were led to a car across the road and told to sit in. This documentary was playing on the radio. An alarming looking tramp with a bottle of cider under his arm came and knocked at the car window. Actor or local? Hard to tell but I suppose that this was part of the attraction. I rolled down the car window cautiously. He began to ramble but he seemed more likely to be an actor.

Then we were driven around this very depressed part of the city to a housing estate like this only not as pleasant. There were some locals drinking in a huddle in the corner (not actors) and we went into one of the flats where, alas, we were separated. The actors (lots of them) acted very dysfunctional lives just for you – all by yourself. It was really cleverly done, though intimidating. That was kind of the point, I suppose. I did find myself looking at the actors’ teeth showing fine orthodontic work and saying mentally, these people are not really alarming, violent, alcoholics. No they’re not.

I used the same technique in a back alley while a drug dealer was beaten up and I was holding the IRA man’s coat. [I subsequently found a picture of the actor on the internet drinking prosecco with his friends. My conscience is clear] Mr. Waffle was in a shed sitting in an old car while a dead body slid up and down the roof. Frankly, I wouldn’t have minded having him to hand as that would have stopped the actor playing the alarming tramp giving me a kiss (peck on the cheek, but still) because I was his girlfriend. We finished up in a meeting room where pushers were being denounced having been brought there by Macker the reassuring IRA man. When he left, we noticed that our pictures were on the walls. Possibly because we were on “the list”.

Still and all, highly recommended; there are no dull bits.

Running against the Tide


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

On Saturday I took the children to the Phoenix Park to find that it was closed to cars because there was a half marathon. We parked outside the gates and walked while carrying mountains of kit (me), cycled (Michael deploying new found skills), roller-bladed (herself) and solo-ed (Daniel) 2 kms into the playground at which point we were only fit to turn around and soldier back to the car so that we could get home for lunch.

Then, this morning we dropped Mr. Waffle to the airport (he’s in exotic Finland for work) and went on to a playground in the grounds of a big house nearby. The car park and grounds were full to overflowing. Yes, indeed, another wretched run ruining our weekend.

Some further indications of the national interest in running: the Irish Times is now doing special running articles; lots of my relatives run including ones you might safely assume were a little old for this kind of thing; my colleague who started running a couple of years ago got a bunch of people at work interested and now they’ve gone and won a race – they have a trophy, it’s unmissable; and further the stand-up comedian we went to see the other night is running. I am a little concerned that I may be the one person in Ireland who isn’t running. Look, I had shin splints in 1989 and I’m not going to risk that again.

Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

Some things grew in my garden this year. Town Mouse who is in the semi-pro category when it comes to gardening and once, if memory serves me, won a prize for her vegetables, had a spread sheet calculating how much she spent on her garden and comparing her prices to those in the supermarket. I seem to remember that the calculation was that growing your own was definitely not cheaper. If this was the case for Town Mouse, it is much more so for me. Things fail with monotonous regularity (slugs devoured this years pumpkin crop when it was two tender leaves poking above the ground). I spend hours in vain trying to weed out brambles, dandelions and bindweed. My crops are small. As Town Mouse points out, they do taste slightly nicer than things you buy in the shops but, you know, they are still, vegetables. But yet, I find it all very enjoyable. Oh middle age, thy name is gardening. This season’s triumphs are detailed below. And I haven’t even mentioned the sweet peas.

The ever-reliable gooseberries providing enough for two harvests and four pots of jam:

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The small, but successful, turnip and carrot harvest:

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Providing enough for dinner for five (if three of the five don’t eat vegetables).

The pea harvest; the Princess demonstrates using “women laughing with salad” for inspiration:

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Every year, I have loads of lettuce. I think it must be the easiest thing to grow. If you’re going to start, start here:

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Healthy head of lettuce in the sink with entire potato crop. Let us draw a veil.

Our two apple trees have not been particularly successful producing one apple between them. On the plus side, we have 11 pears on our pear tree. Yes, I have counted.