We now have 4 Ukrainian families living on our road. Herself met young Master Next Door in the course of her gallivanting and he tells her that they too have taken in what he rather sweetly called “Ukrainian guests”. Apparently they all gather gloomily in the converted shed in one of the houses up the road and listen to the news from Ukraine. It’s extremely grim. I am slightly in awe of my neighbours who spearheaded this. As well as putting up their own refugees, they are gathering up old laptops, ware, cutlery and pots and pans for Ukrainian families as well as trying to source more permanent accommodation and schools and everything else. Mr. Waffle dropped off our old bikes to a man in town who is reconditioning them for Ukrainian refugees. It is nice to feel that you are doing something, however small, but it’s only a drop in the ocean.
Ireland
Networking Lunch
I had lunch with a former colleague of mine during the week. “Look at this,” said she and hauled out a letter informing her that she is going to be made a Chevalier of the Légion d’Honneur. I was suitably impressed. I also had lunch with an old friend who has decided to abandon retirement to head up an august (though small) body. I feel the quality of my lunch dates at the moment is high.
Tempus Fugit
I remember when I was an apprentice solicitor (neither today nor yesterday, my friends) one of my other apprentice friends met her master’s children when they were brought into the office for a thrilling look at the office machinery and to see where their Mum and Dad worked.
“Imagine,” said my friend to me, “they will just grow up with the fax, it will never seem strange or new to them.” We marvelled. It did not cross our minds that by the time those children were pushing 40 the fax would be a thing of the past. I remember one of the partners in my office had a computer on his desk and was gently mocked by the other partners for his dedication to this glorified typewriter which took up so much space on his desk and was clearly pointless.
But yet, the 90s doesn’t really seem very long ago at all. Related: have you noticed that the policemen really are getting younger?
Property Ladder
A younger colleague of mine told me that she has bought a house. She is in her late 20s and has been living at home with her parents since leaving school and saving diligently. I mean I applaud her and I’m delighted for her and it is always hard to buy on your own (as opposed to with a partner), but I can’t help comparing it to my own experience. I thought it was pretty hard at the time but really it was easy for me to move out of home and rents were pretty cheap and there were lots of places where I could rent and still save up a bit (if only I had been more frugal – it was not my nature, good job I met Mr. Waffle saver by nature). I’m not sure I would really have wanted to live at home until I was 30 and I didn’t have to.
She is the only colleague I know under 30 who has bought her own house. It does not augur well, I feel. I do wonder how my children are going to find somewhere to live in due course if things keep going as they are. I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
The Cost of Living or it Could Always Be Worse
I was talking to a farmer about petrol prices (high) and food prices (rising). He said, “And the fertiliser prices aren’t helping.” Did you know that there is a fertiliser crisis? He said that his father-in-law who only does tillage spent €70,000 on fertiliser last year and €140,000 this year. I can’t see that not having an influence on food prices more generally.
I was telling this to an acquaintance and we wondered whether we could conceivably have petrol or food rationing. I reminisced about how my mother used to talk about the problem getting tea during the war (or the Emergency as it was know locally). They had plenty of food but they had to keep and re-use the tea leaves. “Perhaps we should panic buy tea,” I suggested. Her mother, who we discovered was born the same year as mine, had a slightly different experience, although they were farmers and alright for food, they couldn’t get toys . So, in a slightly bizarre twist, her grandparents told their children that Santa was dead. A neighbour came in and told them that he had had a glass of whiskey at Santa’s funeral. Notwithstanding this they hung up their stockings but on Christmas morning there was nothing in them. Honestly, would it not have been better to say that Santa was sick? That seems a particularly permanent solution to what was ultimately a temporary problem.
When it Counts
It is time for the census and I am extremely excited by this question.
What should we put in to be read by our grandchildren/historians of the future/no one at all? I can’t see much useful longitudinal data being generated; I’d say the statisticians put it in through gritted teeth. Although this year marks the 100th anniversary of the foundation of the State so maybe they got carried away?
Suggestions welcome.