Non-Irish Trader in organic, right on market: These sardines come from Latvia.
Mother-in-law: From Latvia. Goodness. Tell me, how do you say ‘thank you’ in your language?
Trader: Merci.
Mother-in-law: That’s not Latvian, that’s French.
Trader: I am French.
The scene: A bunch of Pres boys stand around ad libbing about rebellion in a Ken Loach film. Including yer man Cillian Murphy who was a couple of years behind my brother in school (clang).
Me (sotto voce): God they’re dreadful, do you think that they’ll be with us for long?
Mr. Waffle: I’d say we’re stuck with this lot until 1923.
Later.
Leader of flying column, Teddy O’Donovan, ad libs on why they must support the treaty: We have to give this thing a green light.
Mr. Waffle: What’s a green light Teddy?
Alas, I know very little about Irish history and I kept having to ask Mr. Waffle for important historical information like, when did the War of Independence end and what was the name of the famous guy from North Cork? Truce was summer 1921 and Tom Barry, since you ask. He hissed at me “didn’t you do any history at all in school?” I replied with great dignity that I had given up history at 15 and stopped at the Renaissance and I could tell him all about the great Florentine painters later.
It was my choice. I wanted to see a Cork film. And there were lots of Cork accents which was entertaining. Although the socialist was from Dublin, as Mr. Waffle said, no one would believe in a Cork socialist. But Cork was burnt down by the Black and Tans, so you would think that it might feature in the flick but, as my mother would say, devil a bit. In fact, I didn’t recognise anywhere they filmed though I see it was shot on location in county Cork. And the dialogue was desperately clunky. I loved Ken Loach’s film “Raining Stones”, I think it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen. I really hated “Land and Freedom” though which was about the Spanish civil war which featured the same kind of exposition as this film. Lots of scenes with young revolutionaries sitting down and setting out their reasons for fighting. Desperately tedious stuff.
I have no idea why this film got rave reviews (in the English papers) and a palme d’or, perhaps it’s because the English feel guilty about Ireland and the French always enjoy a film that is mean to the British.
Still dire and all as it was, it did make me think. I mean we all knew that the Black and Tans were brutal and that our grandparents were all involved in the war of independence – Mr. Waffle’s grandfather’s house was burnt down by the Black and Tans and my grandmother, who worked in the telephone exchange, used to pass on to the IRA messages she heard passed between British army officers. But our grandparents, they were so law abiding, as Mr. Waffle said, the most conservative revolutionaries ever. I did hear about some old fella who fought the war of independence refusing to go to the reinstated commemoration parade for 1916 because, as he put it, the State had an army for years and why hadn’t it invaded Northern Ireland. You have to admire a man who sticks to his principles.
So, I was off with no internet in Caherdaniel. Remote, secluded west Kerry. Also wet west Kerry. I’ll come back to that. What with the remoteness and the seclusion but presumably not the wet, west Kerry appears to be attractive to the famous. I was somewhat surprised to see a statue to Charlie Chaplin in Waterville. I was even more surprised to hear from my mother-in-law that when hitching round the ring of Kerry with a friend (this is the kind of bohemian family I have married into) in her youth, she ran into the famous comic. They both pretended not to recognise him and had a chat about the weather (wet, of course). My mother-in-law had her camera in her bag but decided to leave him in peace but when they were parting her friend blew their appearance of cool indifference by saying “Well, goodbye, Mr. Chaplin”.
Meanwhile in Dingle, many years ago, a friend of mine who is something of a celebrity in his own right his father being one of Ireland’s best known literary giants was out on a walk when he came across a lost American tramping about in the rain (that rain again). When the American asked for help, my kind friend took him back to his hotel not deeming it safe to leave him alone in the wilds of Kerry. They chatted on the way back and took a mild shine to each other but it was not until perusing the Kerryman the next day that Billy realised that he had been touched by greatness because Tom Cruise in a press conference had said “I wouldn’t be here at all, if my good friend Billy had not found me and brought me to this hotel”. He was over to make that grisly flick “Far and Away“.
Finally, as you will be aware, everyone in Ireland is closely linked to Bono, so you will be unsurprised to hear that the house my parents-in-law rented for 20 odd years in Caherdaniel (though not this year, alas) was owned by Bono’s uncle. Apparently there was a lot of speculation locally that it might be left to Bono (though why this would be when the man has children and grandchildren of his own is unclear) when he died but he obviously decided that Bono had enough stuff and the pop superhero and his family were not, in fact, holidaying down the road from us. However, I know that you would like to hear that had Mr. Waffle played his cards right, he could have, as a young man, babysat for Bono’s little cousin Rupert.
Â
Rang my mother for a chat but she hung up on me to hear Bertie give a funeral oration at CJ‘s obsequies. She got back to me quickly. She felt it lacked grandeur as Bertie cannot pronounce his ths (a fatally common Irish failing – do you wonder why I had years of elocution classes? Wonder no longer). I am as shocked that he has died as I was the day I heard Margaret Thatcher was deposed. I thought that he would go on forever.
In other news, the Dutch Mama has sent me an email containing this line:
“Our Austrian friend is coming to visit on Sunday with her twin baby boys…about a month old now and (I’ve been so looking forward to telling you this) sleeping through the night!! “Mr. Waffle says that travel often upsets small children. Let us hope for the best.
I got this message the other day from a friend of mine who has just gone on maternity leave:
“Don’t respond to this email as my locum now has access to this and I was only in briefly to catch up on your blog and to do the accounts.”
In recognition of her dedication I called her this morning, I got her husband.
Me: Hello,how are things?
Him: Eh? Who?
Me: Me, Anne.
Him: Oh hi.
Me: How are you?
Him: Fine, great, tired.
Me: Has the baby arrived, then?
Him: Yes, he arrived at 2.00 am this morning.
Me: Gosh, congratulations, what are you going to call him?
Him: I don’t know.
Me: Is his big sister pleased?
Him: She doesn’t know that he’s been born yet.
Me: Um should I get off the phone while you tell the immediate relatives first?
Today is my 37th birthday. Yes, I know, I do sound a lot younger. Thank you. Less of the barracking down the back, please. I am beginning to feel my age. Yeah, I know 40 is the new 30 (or as a friend of mine said on hearing that another friend’s 80 year old father was to remarry, 80 is the new 70), but approaching 40 has come as a bit of a surprise to me. I can see my face thinning out, getting that slightly gaunt and hollow look that trying to meet the incessant demands of a toddler on zero sleep will give you, particularly, if youÂ’re an older mother and you have baby twins as well. Why oh why didn’Â’t I have my children at 22 when I had the energy for it?
I will be 20 years out of school this summer. My oldest friend attended her 20th school reunion recently, much against her better judgement. She tells me that it was dreadful, “very Cork”. “But wasnÂ’’t it fascinating to find out what everyone was doing?” “Well” she conceded “it might have been, but all anyone talked about was husbands and children”. The oldest friend has a glittering career as a diplomat (this is obviously more impressive in Cork than in Brussels, where there are more diplomats than natives) so I asked whether her former school friends had expressed suitable awe. After various modest disclaimers she said “that no, it hadn’t come up – though they did express amazement that she wasn’Â’t married with children. I would be the first to say that having children is very challenging and rewarding etc. but, you know, having a glittering career is very challenging and rewarding too (with the added bonus that it makes for more interesting conversation –- toilet training doesnÂ’’t regularly feature). One of her former school mates summed it up by saying to her condescendingly “ oh well, having children is very hard; itÂ’s not for everyone”.
So, clearly, this all made me feel better about my achievements: one husband, three children, one job. I’Â’m having it all; my life at 37 is perfect. However, at the moment I donÂ’’t feel like I’Â’m having it all; this lengthy maternity leave has
largely turned me into a housewife and I’Â’m not at all sure how I feel about that. I was ludicrously pleased when I was able to order a dustbuster and a blender based on my supermarket points. I spent days admiring our new fridge.
The other day I said to Mr. Waffle, ““Great news, I have solved a mystery”.” I think he felt that I had oversold my discovery when I explained that it was how our cleaning lady manages to wipe down the kitchen counters without leaving a water swipe mark (if you want to know – itÂ’s by using window cleaning spray, I hope it wonÂ’t kill us all, but they are delightfully sparkly). The final blow came when I was watching an old episode of “Friends” on the telly in which MonicaÂ’’s cleaner said to her, ““Mrs. Bing, this tile cleaner is terrific” and Monica said “Really? I made it myself itÂ’s one part amonia, one part lemon juice and a secret ingredient.”” The cleaner asked, ““What’Â’s the secret ingredient?”” I leant forward listening closely, only to have Monica dash my hopes: “”What you think IÂ’’m going to tell you my secret ingredient?”” Yup, I guess I’Â’m a housewife now, alright.
A housewife and out of touch with “the young people” as I understand they are known. Let me give you an example. A friend of mine who is a competition lawyer said of a small town in England, ““I went to a rave there.””
Me: What a rave, a rave??
Her: No, a raid, you know, where we turn up at a company’Â’s office and go through their stuff looking for incriminating papers.
Me: Oh right. Do you go to raves?
Her: No.
Mr Waffle: I donÂ’’t think that they have raves any more.
Me: Really?
Him: No, I haven’Â’t read about them in the paper in ages.
Roll on 40. And has anyone seen my glasses?
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 10:34
Oops! Hippo birdies!
Knobber
on 10 March 2006 at 10:46
bon anniversaire waffleroo
jackdalton
on 10 March 2006 at 14:14
Hap’birty, ‘waf… you Oldie you 🙂
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 14:17
You got the Doc to come out of hiding!!
Beth (Homepage)
on 10 March 2006 at 14:35
Happy Birthday! You don’t look a day over 28. You know, I assume.
groupie
on 10 March 2006 at 14:51
Happy Birfday. I love the idea that the career diplomat might be taking the easy route out.
kristin (Homepage)
on 10 March 2006 at 15:17
happy happy birthday! you ought to go enjoy yourself and take in a rave. or a raid. either sounds preferable to getting the little men to sleep.
happy b’day!!
xo
Friar Tuck
on 10 March 2006 at 16:24
Or as I once heard someone say, why didn’t you have children when your parents were young enough to take care of them?
Minkleberry
on 10 March 2006 at 19:49
Happy birthday. And gaunt and hollow is in, don’t you know- just look at Terri Hatcher xxx
Lilo
on 10 March 2006 at 20:32
Many happy returns Ms Waffle. You’re not the only person born in 1969 wondering how it is that 40 seems to be galloping up so fast.
bobble (Homepage)
on 11 March 2006 at 00:16
I think it’s only natural to feel ten year younger than you actually are and surprise yourself when you realise you aren’t. I do it constantly. My last rave was 1990 by golly.
disgruntled
on 11 March 2006 at 12:53
>Happy Birthday … I’m younger (by a couple of weeks but still, these things are important) but even so managed to humiliate myself at work by asking my staff what ‘crazy frog’ was. Apparently it’s some sort of popular beat combo for telephones.
Angela (Homepage)
on 11 March 2006 at 13:30
Happy happy Birthday! To celebrate, I will be throwing a huge rave in my basement. We will be serving energy drinks, and will only allow admittance to those carrying a hard boiled egg.
beachhutman
on 12 March 2006 at 00:17
Happy birthday Young Waffle.
belgianwaffle
on 12 March 2006 at 21:10
Oooh, thank you all for kind birthday wishes and sweetie bonanza. You’re all younger than me, aren’t you? And tell me, do you really need hard boiled eggs to get into raves?
Norah (Homepage)
on 13 March 2006 at 11:13
Happy birthday Waffly. Ibet the secret ingredient is bicarb of soda.
belgianwaffle
on 14 March 2006 at 09:06
Thank you, thank you Norah. Should I try it or would that just be too sad…back at work this time 3 weeks. Goodness gracious me.
dmts
on 14 March 2006 at 22:05
happy belated birthday Ms Waffle – let me tell you, as someone on the down-hill slide into the decade that is being hailed as the new 40’s that the view isn’t too bad at all. (although it’s a fairly gin-fuelled view!)
belgianwaffle
on 21 March 2006 at 20:58
Ooh gin fuelled, how lovely…
